The Hunter: A Parker Novel (Parker Novels)

by Richard Stark

  No other woman could have. There had never been a woman anywhere in the world to trouble him, till her. There never would be again.

  And now she had left him a body to dispose of. He couldn't leave her here, he had a messenger to meet. He couldn't keep her here, he wouldn't be able to stand that. He couldn't call for the law to come take her away, like a solid citizen, because one hard look would tell them he wasn't a solid citizen.

  He hated her. He hated her and he loved her, and he'd never felt either emotion for anyone before. Never love, never hate, never for anyone. Mal, now. Mal he would kill, but that wasn't hate. There was a score to settle; there were accounts to balance. That was rage, that was fury and pride, but it wasn't hate.

  The level lowered in the whiskey bottle, and the prime-time panel shows and westerns came on the television set. He sat and watched, the blue-white light gleaming on his face, outlining the ridges of his cheekbones. Prime time went by, and the old movies started, and he watched them. The movies finished, and a minister said a prayer, and a choir sang the “Star-Spangled Banner” while a flag fluttered on the screen, and then the station went off the air. The speaker emitted only a heavy hissing; the screen was full of a trembling of black and white spots.

  He roused himself, switched the set off, turned on lights. The bottle was empty. He felt a little high, and that was bad. That was something else she'd done, made him drink himself a little high when he shouldn't.

  He went out to the kitchen and made a sandwich, and washed it down with half a quart of milk. He was tired then, so he made coffee and drank three cups black, and doused his face at the kitchen sink.

  The bedroom was dark. Light spilled in from the living room, across her shod feet. He switched on the ceiling light, and she had moved. Her arms and legs had twisted in toward her torso; her head was back, her eyes were open and staring at the closed drapes.

  He pushed down the eyelids, and they stayed down. Her limbs resisted when he straightened them out. He picked her up, like a groom about to carry his bride across the threshold, and bore her out of the bedroom, across the living room to the front door.

  The hall was empty. He pushed the button and the elevator came up from the first floor. He took it down to the basement, carrying her, and found the back way out of the building.

  An alley took him to the street a block from the front of her building. He turned right and walked down the half-block to Fifth Avenue and Central Park. On the way, a man passed him, hurrying by, giving him scarcely a look. At the corner, a cruising cab sidled close, the driver leaning over to call out, “You want a cab, mister?”

  “We live just down the block.”

  The cabby grinned. “Got a load on, huh?”

  “She isn't used to vodka,” he said.

  The cab cruised on. There were no pedestrians. He waited for a Jaguar sedan to pass, going uptown, and the couple in it glanced at him and grinned and looked away. He crossed the street and stepped over the low stone wall into the park.

  In a blackness of shrubbery, he laid her down. Working by feel, unable to see what he was doing, he stripped off the dress and the shoes again. He took out his pen knife. Holding her jaw in his left hand to guide him in the darkness, he stroked the knife across her face. Otherwise, the law would try to have her identified by running a photo in the papers. Mal would read the papers.

  There was no blood on his hands, very little on the knife. A corpse doesn't bleed much. He wiped the knife on the dress, closed it, put it back in his pocket. He rolled the shoes in the dress, tucked the bundle under his left arm and walked out of the park and back to the apartment.

  He was very tired now, and he was moving unsteadily by the time he entered the apartment. He switched off all the lights and stretched out on the couch. He fell asleep at once.

  4

  Three days of no sound but what droned from the television set. The apartment smelled stale, as though she were still in it. He didn't wait well.

  There was a calendar on the kitchen wall, with a photograph of two cocker spaniels in front of a rose bush. He spent a lot of time looking at the dates, sitting at the kitchen table with a coffee cup in his hand.

  The third day began the new month. Parker roamed the living room, drawn constantly to the front door. He would spend five minutes at a time standing in front of the door, listening, waiting for the sound of the bell. Twice he reached out and touched the knob, but he didn't open the door.

  There were still two bottles of whiskey in the cupboard, but he didn't touch them. She wouldn't do that to him, not again. She had troubled him for the last time.

  As it turned out, he was making fresh coffee when the bell rang. He stopped, holding the spoon, head raised, and turned toward the sound. Then he finished what he was doing and went through the apartment to the front door. He opened the peep-hole and studied the face of the messenger. He had never seen it before.

  The messenger was a short butterball and a cracked fashion plate. He wore a narrow-lapeled suit of a bright garish blue that had never been in style, and only the middle button of the coat was fastened. His shirt was the harsh white of snow in sunlight and at the collar was a multi-colored bow tie. The shirt seemed to be starched; not just the collar, the whole shirt.

  The face above this elegance was chubby and cheerful. The eyes were blue and small, set wide apart in fat. An inane half-smile curved the lips. The ears were pink and large and soft. And atop the head perched a straw hat, at a jaunty angle.

  The messenger's suitcoat was so tight Parker could see the outline of the money envelope in the inside pocket. Mal must be sure of himself to send a thing like this.

  Parker opened the door. The butterball blinked at him, and the half-smile faded. A delicate frown puckered the brows, and he said in a tiny high voice, “Do I have the wrong apartment? I must, I must have the wrong apartment.”

  “You want Lynn Parker?”

  “Yes. Yes.” The butterball bent at the waist, peering past Parker. “Is she here?”

  “Come on in,” said Parker.

  “No, no. I must not. Is she here?”

  Parker reached out and clutched a handful of shirtfront. He pulled, and the butterball stumbled inside, eyes and mouth wide open, hands splayed out in front of him as though he'd fall. Parker looked out into the hall, saw that it was empty, and came back inside, slamming the door.

  The butterball was recovering his balance, and Parker shoved him again, sending him reeling into the living room. One way or another he managed not to land on his face.

  Parker followed him into the living room, noticing details he hadn't been able to see through the peephole, like the shoes, which were a light russet tan with perforated curlicues over the toe. And between the top of the shoes and the cuffless bottom of the trouser legs there was at least an inch of space, occupied by canary yellow socks.

  The butterball stood all aquiver in the middle of the living room. His hands were pressed to his chest, fingers spread, either to protect himself or the envelope he was supposed to deliver.

  Parker held his hand out. “Give me the dough.”

  “I must not! I must, I must see Miss Parker.”

  “I'm her husband.”

  The fact meant nothing to the butterball, that was obvious. “I was told—they told me only to see Miss Parker.”

  “Who told you?” Parker asked.

  “Where is Miss Parker? I must, I must see Miss Parker.”

  “I've taken over the route. Give me the dough.”

  “I must, I must telephone. May I telephone?” He peeked around the room, then his eyes flickered warily to Parker.

  Parker stepped quickly over in front of him and yanked on the jacket lapel. The one button holding the jacket closed came off with a pop, and Parker took the bulky envelope out of the inside pocket. He tossed it at the armchair to his left.

  The butterball fluttered his arms, crying, “You must not! You must not!”

  Parker held his left hand rigid, fingers
together and extended, and chopped the butterball in the midsection, just above the gold monogrammed belt buckle. The butterball opened his mouth, but neither sound nor air came out. In slow motion, his hands folded across his stomach, his knees buckled, and he fell forward into Parker's right fist. Then he hit the floor cold.

  Parker emptied his pockets, searching every item. The wallet contained a driver's license, a library card, a numbers slip with 342 on it, and fourteen dollars. The license and library card agreed that the butterball was named Sidney Chalmers, and that he lived on West 92nd Street.

  Another pocket produced seventy-three cents in change and a Zippo lighter with S.C. inscribed on its side in Gothic script. A slip of paper with Lynn's name and address on it was in the side pocket of the jacket. There was nothing anywhere to tell where he'd picked up the envelope for Lynn.

  Parker left him sprawled on the carpet and went into the kitchen. A search of the drawers resulted in a roll of slender but strong twine. Going back to the living room, Parker lashed the butterball's wrists and ankles securely, then propped him up with his back against the sofa, his head lolling back on the cushion. Then Parker slapped him and pinched him till he groaned and squirmed and his eyelids fluttered open.

  Parker straightened, standing tall and ominous, gazing dead-pan down at the terrified butterball. “Tell me where Mal Resnick is.”

  The butterball licked trembling lips. “Hu-who?”

  Parker bent, slapped him backhanded across the face, straightened, and repeated his question.

  The butterball blinked like a metronome. His chin quivered. Fat tears squiggled down his cheeks. “I don't know,” he pleaded. “I don't know who you mean.”

  “The guy who gave you the envelope.”

  “Oh, I must not!”

  “Oh, you must,” Parker mimicked. He put his right foot on the butterball's crossed, tied ankles, and gradually added weight. “You sure as hell must.”

  “Help!” sobbed the butterball. “Help! Help!”

  Parker kicked him in the stomach. “Wrong words,” he said. “Don't do that again.” He waited till the butterball had air in his lungs again. “Give me his name.”

  “Please—they'll kill me.”

  “I'll kill you. Worry about me.”

  The butterball closed his eyes, and his whole face sagged in an expression of complete and comic despair. Parker waited, and at last the butterball said, without opening his eyes, “Mr. Stegman. Mr. Arthur Stegman.”

  “Where do I find him?”

  “In—in Brooklyn. The Rockaway Car Rental. Farragut Road near Rockaway Parkway.”

  “Fine. You should have saved yourself some trouble.”

  “They'll kill me,” he sobbed. “They'll kill me.”

  Parker went down on one knee, untied the twine around the butterball's ankles, straightened up and said, “Get to your feet.”

  He couldn't do it by himself; Parker had to help him.

  The butterball stood weaving, breathing like a bellows. Parker turned him around, shoved him across the living room into the bedroom, tripped him up and sent him crashing to the floor. He tied his ankles again, then went out and locked the bedroom door behind him.

  He gathered up the envelope full of money, slipped it into his jacket pocket, and left the apartment.

  5

  The subway line ended at Rockaway Parkway and Glenwood Road, in Canarsie. Parker asked directions of the old woman in the change booth. Farragut Road was one block to the right.

  The Rockaway Car Rental was a small shack on a lot between two private houses. The lot was sandy and weed scraggled, with three elderly white-painted Checker cabs parked on it. The shack was small, of white clapboard, with a plate-glass window in front.

  Inside, there was a railing around the guy at the two-way radio. A bedraggled sofa was along the other wall, and a closed door led to the room in back.

  Parker leaned on the chest-high railing and said, “I'm looking for Arthur Stegman.”

  The radioman put down his Daily News and said, “He ain't here right now. Maybe I can help you.”

  “You can't. Where do I find him?”

  “I'm not sure. If you'd leave your—”

  “Take a guess.”

  “What?”

  “About where he is. Take a guess.”

  The radioman frowned. “Now hold on a second, buddy. You want to—”

  “Is he home?”

  The radioman gnawed his cheek a few seconds, then said, “Why don't you go ask him?”

  He picked up his News again.

  “I'll be glad to,” said Parker. “Where's he live?”

  “We don't give that information out,” said the radioman. He swiveled around in his chair and studied the News.

  Parker tapped a thumbnail on the top of the railing. “You're making a mistake, employee,” he said. “Sidney run off.”

  The radioman looked up and frowned. “What's that supposed to mean?”

  “To you, maybe, nothing. To Stegman, plenty.”

  The radioman frowned harder, thinking it over. Then he shook his head. “No,” he said. “If Art wanted to see you, he'd of told you where to find him.”

  “Right here,” Parker said.

  “For that, all you need is a phone book. No sale.” He went back to his News again.

  Parker shook his head angrily, and strode toward the door at the back of the room. Behind him, the radioman jumped up, shouting something, but Parker ignored him. He pushed open the door and walked in.

  Six men were sitting around a round table, playing seven-card stud. They looked up, and Parker said, “I'm looking for Stegman.”

  A florid-faced guy with his hat jammed far back on his head said, “Who the hell invited you?”

  The one in the police uniform said, “Get lost.”

  The radioman came in then, and said to the florid-faced guy, “He just won't take no for an answer.” He reached for Parker. “Come on, bum. Enough is enough.”

  Parker knocked away the reaching hand, and brought up his knee. The radioman grunted and rested his brow on Parker's shoulder. Parker sidestepped, ignoring the radioman, who sagged in a half-crouch against the wall. “I'm still looking for Stegman.”

  The one in the police uniform threw down his cards and got to his feet. “That looks to me like assault,” he said.

  The florid-faced guy said, “Willy will sign the complaint, Ben. Don't you worry.”

  Another of the players, a tall hard-faced man in a white shirt and no tie, said, “This bird looks to me like the kind resists arrest. What do you think, Ben?”

  “Maybe you ought to help me, Sal,” the cop said.

  Parker shook his head. “You don't want to play around. I got a message for Stegman.”

  “Hold it,” said the florid-faced guy. Ben and Sal stopped where they were. “What's the message?”

  “You Stegman?”

  “I'll tell him when I see him.”

  “Yeah. You're Stegman, all right. I come to tell you Sidney's run off.”

  Stegman sat forward in his chair. “What?”

  “You heard me. He run off with the thousand. He never even went to see the girl.”

  “You're crazy. Sidney wouldn't dare do—” He stopped, looked quickly at the other players, and got to his feet. “Deal me out. Come on, you, we'll talk outside.”

  “What about this assault?” the cop, Ben, said.

  Stegman made an angry gesture. “The hell with that. Go on back to the game.”

  “What if Willy wants to sign a complaint?”

  “He don't. Do you, Willy?”

  Willy, upright now, but still ashen faced, said, “No. All I want's a return bout.”

  Stegman shook his head. “On your own time, Willy,” he said. “Come on, you.”

  Parker followed him to the front office, where Stegman went behind the railing and took one of the keys from the rack on the wall. “I'm taking the Chrysler, Willy,” he called into the back room. “I'm going down
to the beach. Be gone twenty minutes.”

  “Twenty minutes. Okay.” Willy came to the door and looked at Parker. “I'm on my own time startin' six o'clock,” he said.

  Parker turned his back and walked out the shack after Stegman. Stegman pointed at a black nine-passenger Chrysler limousine. “We'll take that. We can't talk in the office. No privacy. Those guys don't know nothin' about this stuff.”