Parker

by Richard Stark

  Less. Fifteen minutes after he entered the hospital, he came to the third-floor door labeled “Parmitt,” and without breaking stride or looking around he walked right in. Never pause and look indecisive, it attracts attention.

  The target should be asleep; the knife would probably do. He crossed the dim room to the bed, starting to reach down toward his right boot, then realized the bed was empty.

  Bathroom? Not away to therapy or anything like that, not at this hour. He looked around, saw the closed bathroom door, and walked around the bed.

  He was almost to the bathroom when someone entered the room behind him, saying, “Doctor, we'd rather nobody touched anything in—what the hell, we can turn the light on.”

  He spun around as the overhead fluorescents flickered on, and saw the rangy man in tan sheriff's uniform in the doorway, and thought, I can be a doctor. Thirty seconds and I'm out of here.

  “Whatever you say, Sheriff,” he said with an easy smile, and started toward the door.

  But the sheriff was suddenly frowning. “What's that under your scrubs?”

  He wasn't prepared for in-close observation. “Just my shirt, Sheriff,” he said, already stooping toward the boot with the Beretta in it, as he casually talked on, saying, “I get chilly at night.”

  “Stop,” the sheriff said, and all at once had his side arm out and aimed, in the classic two-handed bent-kneed stance. “Straighten up with your hands empty,” he said.

  He didn't dare bend any more, but he didn't straighten either. “Sheriff? What the heck are you doing?”

  “I always hit what I aim at,” the sheriff told him. “And with you, what I'll aim at is your knee.” Then he raised his voice, shouting toward the doorway behind him: “Reese! Jackson!”

  He heard the rumble of running footsteps as he said, “Sheriff? I don't know what your problem—”

  Two uniformed deputies appeared in the doorway, trying not to look excited, one of them black, the other one white. The black, staring, said, “Sarge? Who's this?”

  “Exhibit one,” the sheriff said. His hands holding that automatic were as solid as a rock. “You two search him, see what armament he's got on him.”

  He thought: Can I go through the window? Thick plate glass, I'd either bounce off or get cut to pieces on the way out. Third floor. Three of them; what to do?

  The deputies approached him, keeping out of their sergeant's line of fire. The sergeant said, “If it happens you do have to shoot the son of a bitch, take out his legs. This one we're gonna keep alive.”

  12

  After lunch, Leslie went shopping for Daniel, using the list he'd given her of his sizes. He had nothing, so she bought two sets of everything from the skin out, plus one pair of black loafers, and a small canvas bag to put it all in. It stretched her credit card, but he had given her a bank to call in San Antonio and a PIN, and the man there had confirmed that ten thousand dollars would be shifted to the real estate agency's escrow account by noon tomorrow, where she'd be able to withdraw it without trouble.

  Be nice to have a banker in San Antonio who'd wire you ten thousand dollars whenever you felt like it. Be nice to understand Daniel Parmitt, too, but she doubted she ever would.

  Done shopping and with the canvas bag in the trunk of her car, she next showed seven condos to a couple from Branson, Missouri, who didn't like any of them, and when she got back to the office Sergeant Farley was there, the sheriff from Snake River.

  She'd been expecting this, she having been Daniel's only visitor in the hospital, but it still frightened her when she saw the man standing beside her desk in his crisp tan uniform. It made her tense up, suddenly unsure of her ability to deceive him.

  “Why, Sergeant,” she said, smiling, coming boldly forward, “what brings you here?” Then, affecting sudden concern to hide her nervousness, she said, “Has something happened? Is Daniel all right?”

  “Something happened, okay,” he said, and gestured at the client chair beside her desk. “Okay if we sit for a minute?”

  “Of course. Do.”

  She was aware of the other reps throwing little surreptitious glances in this direction, but they were the least of her worries. She'd intended to bring Daniel his new clothes after writing up this afternoon's wasted work, but did she dare, with Sergeant Farley around?

  They sat turned toward one another, and he said, “To come right out with it, Parmitt's gone.”

  She acted as though she didn't understand. “Gone? You don't mean—no. I don't know what you mean.”

  “He left the hospital last night,” Farley said.

  “But how could he? He's so weak.”

  “We figure,” Farley said, “somebody gave him some help. I was wondering, would that be you?”

  “Me?” Don't overplay this, she told herself. “He never asked me,” she said, then frowned at the papers on her desk as she said, “I don't even think I would. He shouldn't be out of the hospital, he's too sick.” Then she looked at Farley again, saw him coolly watching her, and said, “He shouldn't be anywhere else. Are you looking for him?”

  “Checked all the motels round about,” he told her. “Talked to the cabbies, checked the bus terminal. Got no cars stolen. You're right, Parmitt didn't go out of there on his own, he had help.”

  “Well, it wasn't me,” she said. “Last night, was it?”

  “Sometime before one. Between eight and one, we figure.”

  “I was home,” she said, “with my mother and my sister, watching TV. I don't know if your own family is considered a good alibi, but that's where I was.”

  “Okay,” he said, then seemed to think things over for a minute. “The point is,” he said, “anybody around Parmitt is likely to be in trouble.”

  “For helping him, you mean.”

  “No, a different kind of trouble. We caught a fella in the hospital last night, came there to kill our Mr. Parmitt.”

  That did astonish her. “My God! No!”

  “Yes. Might of slipped in and out, nobody the wiser, except we were already on the scene, account of Parmitt being gone. So now we got this fella, and pretty soon he'll tell us who hired him, and then we'll learn a lot more about Daniel Parmitt than we know right now.”

  “Good,” she said.

  “But the thing is,” Farley told her, “this is the second try at him we know about, the first being the gunshot put him in the hospital. Before we catch up with the fella that's paying for all this, some other goon might catch up with Parmitt. And probably anybody standing too close to him.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” she said. “I understand what you're saying. Just in case I am involved with Daniel, I should know to watch out. But I'm not.” The laugh she offered was almost completely real. “Speeding tickets is as big a criminal as I've ever been.”

  “Good, keep it that way,” he said, and got to his feet, at last. She also rose, as he said, “If you hear from him, I'd appreciate a call.”

  “Absolutely,” she said. “And if you find out anything about him, would you let me know?”

  “Will do.” He extended a hand. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Mackenzie.”

  He's got a thing for me, she thought, as they shook hands, but he'd never show it in a million years. She said, “I guess I can cross Daniel Parmitt off my list of eligible bachelors.”

  His grin was just a little sour. “Good idea,” he said.

  She had Daniel stashed in the condo where he'd first told her about the three men who planned to rob tonight's jewelry auction. That condo had now been sold, by her, but the closing hadn't happened yet, so nobody would have any reason to go in there for a couple of weeks. She'd brought him in last night, with the help of Loretta, who was suddenly happy and perky and full of good cheer now that the scary part was over, and they'd left him with milk and candy bars and two blankets.

  Now, once she was sure Farley wasn't still around and following her, she drove back down to the condo, carried the canvas bag in with her, and found Parker seated on the bench o
n the terrace, where they'd talked the first time. He had one of the blankets wrapped around himself.

  “I have clothes for you,” she said, and showed him the canvas bag.

  He got up stiffly, but he could move better today than last night. He took the bag from her and went off to another room, and when he came back, dressed, he looked almost his normal self, but more gaunt, and still moving slowly. “I could use a razor,” he said as he sat on the terrace bench again. His voice at last was above a whisper, was now a hoarse burr, like a palm brushing corduroy.

  She sat beside him, saying, “Okay. Anything else?”

  “Can you pick me up at seven-thirty?”

  “Daniel, you still want to go after those people? Tonight?”

  “Tonight's when they're doing it.”

  “But you're—I don't suppose I could argue you out of it.”

  “If you argue me out of it,” he said, “you don't get anything.”

  “If they kill you I don't get anything either.”

  “Maybe it won't happen.”

  “Maybe,” she said, giving up. “Sergeant Farley came to see me this afternoon.”

  He watched her. “Did he worry you?”

  “A little,” she admitted. “But he had more news.”

  “What?”

  She told him about the hired killer Farley had captured. He grunted at that and said, “That's the end of it, then.”

  “But who is he? Who's after you like this?”

  “The stupid thing is,” he said, “I don't know. The guy's making trouble, and he doesn't have to.”

  “I don't understand.”

  “I got some identification from a guy,” he said.

  “Daniel Parmitt's identification?”

  He shrugged. “He's a guy who does that kind of thing. He did it for somebody else, South American or Central American I think, maybe a drug guy or a general, whoever. Turns out that guy wants to erase anybody knows about his changeover. He sent people to kill the guy did the work for him. I was there, he thinks I know his story, too, he's tracking me down. Only now the law's gonna follow the string back from the guy they just nabbed, and they're gonna find him, and his cover's blown. He must be wanted badly somewhere, and it'll come out. You'll read about it in the papers, a month or two from now, some guy everybody's after, he suddenly pops up.”

  “But you're not concerned about him,” she said. “He tries to kill you, and it doesn't matter to you. These other people, you feel they cheated you, that's all, but you won't give up.”

  “The other guy's gonna self-destruct,” he told her. “He has to, he's too stupid to last. He's somebody used to power, not brains. But these three are mechanics, we had an understanding, they broke it. They don't do that.” He shrugged. “It makes sense, or it doesn't.”

  Did anything about Daniel Parmitt make sense? Getting to her feet, she said, “I'll see you at seven-thirty. With the razor.”

  13

  At seven, the big doors were opened onto the driveway to Mrs. Fritz's house, and the police car drove in to park just off the gravel, facing out. The private security people set up their lectern on the left side of the entrance and stood around waiting, but no one was going to be unfashionably on time, and the first guests didn't arrive till seven-twelve.

  Each car stopped at the lectern, where the driver handed over to the guard the invitation the guest had received last night after making his sealed bid on one of the items up for auction. The guard checked the invitation against the list on his lectern, then politely nodded the guest through. At the main entrance, staff opened the car doors, the partygoers emerged, the driver was given a claim check, and the car was driven by a valet around to the parking area at the side.

  Just over half a mile to the south, Melander and Carlson and Ross had started to dress. Stacked on the dining room table and on the floor were their fire boots, their rubberized gloves, red fire helmets, and black turnout coats with the reflective horizontal yellow stripes and, in block yellow letters on the back, PBFD. Leaning against a wall were their three black air canisters, also with PBFD on them in block white letters. When completely dressed, their visored eyeguards and the mouthpieces from their air canisters would cover their faces entirely.

  “I love a costume party,” Ross said.

  A few miles farther south, Leslie stood in the bathroom doorway and watched Daniel shave off that ridiculous little mustache. It changed him. Without the mustache, he was a hard man, very cold. She realized with surprise that, if she'd seen him this way at first, she wouldn't have dared approach him.

  He was still battered, though, and she didn't see how he could hope to beat those three men. He'd stripped to the waist to shave, and his torso was still swathed in bandages, partly because of the bullet holes front and back but mostly because of the broken ribs. Why wouldn't they just ride right over him?

  And what happens to me? she wondered.

  Mrs. Fritz's ballroom quickly filled. All the men wore essentially what they'd worn at the Breakers last night, and all the women wore something strikingly different. Staff moved among them with canapés and champagne, and special lights gleamed on the display tables where the jewelry was arrayed. Maroon velvet ropes kept the guests from getting within reaching distance of the jewelry. Everybody was here now except the musicians, who would arrive later, and play for dancing after the auction was complete. To one side, Mrs. Fritz and the auctioneer, a professional man who'd worked any number of charity balls around here over the years, consulted together about timing.

  “I think it's time,” Melander said, and the three of them, encumbered in their full firefighter gear, tromped out of the house and around to the fire engine parked at the side. Carlson climbed up behind the wheel while Melander and Ross took up standing positions on the outside of the fire engine, just to increase the visual plausibility of the thing.

  Carlson said, “Ready?” and the other two agreed they were ready. Carlson picked up the two small radio transmitters from the seat beside him and pressed down on the buttons.

  In the ballroom, the incendiary rockets came thundering out of the amplifiers still in the corner. Some of the rockets flew straight up, to embed themselves in the ceiling and spray sparks and flame onto the people below. Some shot directly back into the wall, gouting flame and smoke, and the rest drilled down into the floor. None were aimed at the guests or the display tables of jewelry.

  Shocking heat and noise and smoke abruptly filled the room. No one knew what had happened, where this sudden disaster had come from. A lot of people thought rockets were being fired from outside the house. Everybody milled around in sudden fear, trying to find a way out. The display tables and the auctioneer's stand blocked the terrace doors, so the only way out was through the broad interior doorway into the rest of the house. People jammed together, making a bottleneck in the doorway, clawing to get through.

  Outside, the police and the security guards stared in amazement at the sudden fire burning on the roof, listened unbelievingly to the screams from inside the house, gaped at each other in bewilderment, not knowing what they were supposed to do. Then, almost immediately it seemed, they felt the great relief of hearing that approaching siren.

  The fire engine came rushing up from the south, red lights flashing, siren yowling. Police and guards cleared everybody out of the entranceway, and the fire engine went tearing around the curve, Melander and Ross clinging to the handholds, the fire engine rushing full tilt at the house, where the first of the fleeing guests were just now beginning to stagger out into the clear night air.

  Carlson didn't hit the brake until the very last second, the big fire engine spewing gravel as it shuddered to a stop. He switched off the motor and took the key with him, to cause a little extra trouble down the line, but left the siren on, screaming away, so communication among the other people present would be just that much more difficult.

  Leslie helped Daniel into his shirt, and the two of them gathered up everything that had been brought
into the condo. She said, “Are you sure, Daniel?”

  “Time to go,” he said.

  The three firemen ran heavy-footed through the house, pushing the panicked guests out of their way, finally helping the last of the guests and staff out of the ballroom. They slammed the double doors and slid a massive sideboard over the polished floor and up against the doors to block them.

  Alice Prester Young staggered out of the house alone, into the glare and scream of the big fire engine, with more fire engines coming now from far away, racing south. She'd lost Jack somewhere, she'd been terrified, she had to struggle through the awful crowd completely on her own.

  Where was Jack? Was he hurt, crushed by the people back there? Where was Jack?

  She stared around at the people collapsing on the lawn, and all at once she saw Jack, and he was carrying somebody, in his arms, like a groom carrying a bride. He was reeling like a drunken man, but he was carrying a woman, and as he at last put her on her feet on the lawn Alice saw she was young Kim Met-calf, Howard Metcalf's sexpot stewardess wife. And as she saw them, Jack saw her and stopped dead.

  The stupid thing is, she hadn't thought anything until Jack stopped like that, like … like a caught burglar. And Kim's look of shock and guilt when she met Alice's eyes across the reeling, weeping, stunned crowd, there was that, too.

  Movement to her left. Alice turned her suddenly heavy head, and Howard Metcalf stood there, near her on the steps, gazing out and down at his wife. With great difficulty, Alice turned her heavy head again and looked at Jack, and now he seemed to have no expression on his face at all, like a bad drawing, or a minor figure in the background of a comic strip.

  In all that racket, there was a great silence, enclosing the four of them.

  In the ballroom, Melander and Carlson and Ross quickly shimmied out of their gloves, helmets, air tanks, fire boots, and turnout coats. Beneath, they each wore a black wet suit and a large zippered bag on a belt around the waist. The bags now held nothing but divers’ face masks and headlamps, which they removed so they could load the bags with all of Miriam Hope Clendon's jewelry.