It took a long time to make the count; and outside, evening became night. The black curtains were put up in front of the windows and the electric lanterns were lit, and they went on counting. Their final total was $294,660.
Next, Grofield made his accounting of the $4,000 front money. He had a list of who had gotten how much and for what, and he had $730 left. He added $7,270 to it from the score to make the $8,000 that was to be paid to the doctor in New York. The $8,000 was put in an unmarked canvas sack and given to Grofield to deliver.
That left $287,390. Phillips got out pencil and paper and did the long division, and it came out $31,932.22. “Plus a fraction,” Phillips told them. “Two two two, it keeps going on.
They worked it out. If each man took $31,900 there’d be $290 left over. Salsa said, “Give it to Grofield for a wedding present.” He bowed and smiled at Grofield’s girl.
That was the way they did it. Salsa presented the girl with the $290, making a little ceremony out of it. Parker watched Grofield watching Salsa, but Salsa didn’t push it, and the tense minute passed.
When the split was finished, Phillips got ready to leave. His cut was still sitting on the card table, not yet claimed. He put on an old black-and-red check hunting jacket and a gray cap, and then he looked exactly like a dairy farmer getting ready to go out and milk the cows. He stuck a pipe in his mouth to complete the picture and went out to get the station wagon, which was dirty enough by now to add to the general picture. He drove off in the wagon, and the rest settled down to wait. Phillips was the best man to try this because he looked the least like a desperado. He was to drive around the general area but not too close to Copper Canyon and see if things had quieted down yet or not. When he came back, he’d tell them if it was safe to leave here. If he didn’t come back, that would be an answer, too.
While he was gone, Parker and Wycza took shovels over to one of the sheds with a dirt floor and dug a deep hole and buried the money sacks and trays in it. The others were gathering up the gear in the living shed, getting ready to move it out if Phillips said everything was okay.
He was gone three hours. It was a little after eleven when he came back, his headlights gleaming ahead of him. He left the wagon in front, came into the shed, and said, “As clear as water. No roadblocks or anything. I heard on the radio where they think we escaped into Canada already.”
“That’s the one direction none of us goes,” said Parker. “They’ll still be watching the border.”
Phillips got his little cardboard suitcase and shoveled his share of the score into it. They all had suitcases or bags of one kind or another for their part of the loot.
They all worked together, moving all the equipment out of the shed and loading it into the station wagon. Army cots, the card table and folding chairs, cartons of rubbish, unused food, everything went into the station wagon, filling it from front to back with just enough room for Phillips to get behind the wheel. He drove it down to put it with the truck, and Wycza took his own car and followed, to drive Phillips back up.
They got their cars out of the sheds and, using as little light as possible, arranged the sheds to look the same as when they’d come here. Sooner or later the truck and station wagon would be found, but they were at the bottom where, because of the fumes, people were less likely to go. Hunters or kids or whatnot might come around these sheds up at the top any time. It might be months before the truck and wagon were found, and even then there was nothing in either to connect them directly with the score. Unless the law had one or the other identified, maybe when they’d driven out.
They left at fifteen-minute intervals, Wycza and Phillips first. Kerwin and Grofield and Grofield’s girl left in the second car, and Wiss and Elkin in the third, and Salsa and Littlefield in the fourth.
Parker was last. He took one more look around, then loaded his luggage into the trunk of the Mercury. It was one o’clock Monday morning. Parker drove out to the highway and turned east.
5
The blonde looked past him and said, “Where’s Edgars?”
“He isn’t coming.” Parker pushed on by her and dropped his suitcase on the floor. The room was stuffy, smelling of woman and alcohol. The windows were closed, the Venetian blinds shut, the drapes pulled. The sun was shining outside, but she had the lights on in here.
She shut the door after him and said, “What happened to him?” She seemed sober, or close enough to it. She was wearing a blue robe, and she was barefoot; red nail polish was half chipped off her toenails.
Parker said, “He died. Open a window.”
“I like the windows shut. How come he died?”
“Because he was a damn fool.” Parker went over to a window, yanked the drapes aside, pulled the blinds up, and opened the window all the way. A cool breath of fresh air came in.
“You move right in, don’t you?”
“You been out of this room at all?”
“What do you care?”
Parker crossed the room and opened the other window. Now a breeze came through, clearing out the underground aura.
She said, “You killed him, huh?”
“No. He killed himself.”
“That big hooraw at Copper Canyon, that was you people, wasn’t it?”
“What big hooraw?”
She shrugged and went over to the dresser, where the bottle and glass were. She poured and said, “What do I care if he’s alive or dead?”
“He was sick in the head. He tried to blow up the whole town, and one of his grenades knocked a wall over on him.”
“What was the matter with him?”
“He had a peeve against the town. We had a nice quiet operation going, and all of a sudden he blew up. Killed one of the boys, and a lot of locals, started fires all over the place, and got himself killed by a wall.”
She shook her head, a sour grin on her face. “I pick ‘em, don’t I? Tell me, Parker, what’s wrong with you?”
“There’s nothing wrong with me.”
“There’s got to be something, Parker, or I wouldn’t pick you.”
“You didn’t pick me. Get another glass.”
“Oh, don’t act so goddam tough. Where are you going from here?”
“Drive to Chicago, take a plane to Miami. You like Miami?”
“How the hell do I know? This is the farthest I’ve ever been from New York in my life.”
Parker looked at her, and thought of Grofield’s girl. Where do you find one like that? Forget it, there’d be something wrong with her, too. He stretched and said, “Get the glass, I’m thirsty.”
“Will you treat me nice? Will you for Christ’s sake treat me nice?”
He looked at her. “What happens if I treat you nice?”
“How do I know? Nobody ever did. Maybe I turn into a butterfly.”
“Let’s find out. Come here.”
She put the glass down on the dresser and came over. There was a pensive expression on her face, and she seemed oddly shy. It was out of character.
He reached for her, and she said, “The windows are all open.”
“Will you forget the goddam windows?”
“All right. Anything you say.”
His hands removed her robe. “Butterfly. Sure.”
THE PARKER SERIES
Point Blank (1962) aka The Hunter
The Mourner (1963)
The Outfit (1963)
The Steel Hit (1963) aka The Man with the Getaway Face
The Score (1964) aka Killtown
The Black Ice Score (1965)
The Jugger (1965)
The Handle (1966) aka Run Lethal
The Seventh (1966) aka The Split
The Green Eagle Score (1967)
The Rare Coin Score (1967)
The Sour Lemon Score (1969)
Deadly Edge (1971)
Slayground (1971)
Plunder Squad (1972)
Butcher’s Moon (1974)
Comeback (1997)
Backflash (1998)
Flashfire (2000)
Firebreak (2001)
Breakout (2002)
Nobody Runs Forever (2004)
Ask the Parrot (2006)
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Document ID: fcc2b806-c65d-4355-aeba-607058e75d16
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 5.8.2011
Created using: calibre 0.8.10 software
Document authors :
Richard Stark
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The Score p-5 Page 14