The Man with the Getaway Face: A Parker Novel (Parker Novels)

by Richard Stark

  “You talk about him like he was your dog.”

  “He's a pain in the ass,” Parker said.

  They got into the car, made a U-turn at a break in the mall, and headed back to New Jersey.

  3

  After breakfast, Parker stopped at an outdoor phone booth next to a gas station. The Saturday morning traffic streaming by on 9 headed south for the shore. Parker dialed Skimm's number, and waited seven rings till there was a click and Skimm's voice said, “What?”

  “It's ten o'clock,” Parker said. Since Skimm had a woman, he'd been sleeping.

  “What's that? Parker?”

  “Yes.”

  “Listen, that guy called, that Lawson. He wants you to call him at his office, he'll be there till noon.”

  “All right. Walk Stubbs for me this afternoon, will you?”

  “I was goin' to the shore with Alma.” When Parker didn't say anything, Skimm said, “All right, I'll do it. That guy gives me a pain.”

  “I know,” Parker said. “Hang around there while I talk to Lawson.”

  “Yeah, sure. I'll make some coffee. Alma's gone to work. She's gonna be mad when we can't go to the shore today.”

  “Yeah.” Parker hung up, disgusted, and dropped another dime in the slot. He called Lawson's office, and an operator had him put in another fifteen. When he told the secretary it was Mr. Flynn to talk to Mr. Lawson she put him right through.

  “I've got some of your goods, Mr. Flynn. Those three cases you wanted, in good condition, and one truck.”

  “Good,” Parker said.

  “The only thing is the truck right now is in North Carolina. It's the one I told you about. It needs some work on it, but it'll run. They'll take eight hundred for delivery right there in North Carolina, no extras.”

  “How old is it?”

  “Nine years.”

  Parker grimaced. “Will it make it up here?”

  “According to what I've been told,” Lawson said carefully, “it should make the trip, yes.”

  “All right. Where is it?”

  “Goldsboro. I believe that's not too far from Raleigh.”

  “I'll find it. Who's the party?'

  “The Double Ace Garage.”

  “All right.”

  “About the other matter, the three cases—”

  “I'll pick them up Tuesday.”

  “Well,” said Lawson, “I don't have them, but I can put you in touch with the man who does.”

  “Tell him Tuesday.”

  “I don't think he'll like that, Mr. Flynn. They're what you might call a perishable commodity. He doesn't like to keep them in the store too long, if you know what I mean.”

  “Tuesday's the earliest I can make it.”

  “Well, I tell you what. I'll give you his name and phone number. You can straighten it out with him.”

  “You straighten it out,” Parker said. “I'll call you Tuesday.”

  He hung up and left the phone booth and joined the rest of the traffic on 9. Handy was sitting in Alma's green Dodge in the furniture store parking lot, across the road from the diner. Parker turned the Ford in next to him, and Handy came over, sliding in next to Parker in the Ford. He had a pencil and a notebook with him.

  “What's the good word?” he said.

  “I got to go to North Carolina to pick up a truck. I'll try to be back Monday. Walk Stubbs for me tomorrow, will you?”

  “Sure. Skimm taking it today?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He's supposed to take over here for me tomorrow morning.”

  “I know.”

  “What kind of truck you—There he goes!” He pointed the pencil at the road. “See him? The light green Merc with the white top. He's either law or on a case.”

  Parker squinted at the Mercury as it faded away down the road, southward. “Law, I guess. Shows up when the traffic's heavy?”

  “Right. The same two guys in it every time.” Handy made a mark in the notebook. “I don't think he'll be working Monday, but just the same.” He looked out at the road again. “What kind of truck you got?”

  “I don't know. A bomb, I think.”

  “Just so it's big.”

  “You can use the Ford while I'm gone. I'll leave it with Skimm.”

  Handy nodded. “I'll see you Monday.”

  “If the truck doesn't break down.”

  “If you don't show, I'll take care of Stubbs.”

  “Right.”

  Handy went back to his own car and Parker drove north into Irvington and stopped at Skimm's house. Skimm was dressed but he hadn't shaved. His beard grew in straggly and gray, making him look more like a wino on the bum. “Come on in, I'm making coffee,” he said.

  Skimm went back to the kitchen and Parker called Newark Airport. He could get a plane at two-fifty, change over in Washington and go from there to Raleigh. After that he'd take a bus to Goldsboro. He made the reservation, and then went out to the kitchen.

  Skimm was standing by the stove, watching a battered tin coffee pot. He'd spent so much of his life jungled up he didn't know how to make coffee any other way but in an old beat-up pot. There were two heavy china mugs on the table, and steel spoons, but no saucers. A pint of Old Mr. Boston stood next to one mug.

  “Sit down,” Skimm said, “she's almost ready.”

  Parker sat down at the table and lit a cigarette. “You got an ash tray?”

  “Yeah, wait a second.” Skimm looked around and then brought a saucer over to the table. “Here you are.”

  “Thanks.” Parker dropped the match onto the saucer.

  Skimm went back over to the stove and watched the coffee pot some more. Over his shoulder, he said, “Things comin' along, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I guess you were right, Parker. We only needed three men. Even with that Stubbs to louse things up.”

  “You want to watch him this afternoon. Yesterday, he started to throw a two-by-four at me.”

  Skimm bobbed his head and grinned. “Getting stir-crazy, huh?”

  “Just another week,” Parker said. He shrugged. “I'm going south today, be back Monday. Picking up a truck. Come out to the airport with me and take the car. Use it when you go walk Stubbs and then let Handy have it.”

  “Okay.” Skimm turned the fire off under the coffee pot and poured them two cups of coffee. He set out milk and sugar for Parker, and poured a belt of Old Mr. Boston in with his coffee. Then he sat down. “You got a truck, huh?”

  Parker nodded.

  “A good one?”

  “How do I know till I see it?”

  “That's right, ain't it?” Skimm sipped at his coffee, and made a face. “You say it's down south?”

  “North Carolina.”

  “North Carolina,” repeated Skimm. “And you going to fly down, huh?”

  “Shut up a while,” Parker said.

  Skimm blinked rapidly for a few seconds, and then looked down at his coffee cup. He took another sip, and made a face again. Then he coughed, and looked slant-eyed at Parker. Parker just sat there, smoking a cigarette and drinking coffee, waiting for it to be time to go to the airport.

  After a while, Skimm coughed again. “You getting nervous about it, Parker?”

  Parker focused on him slowly. He'd been miles away. “Nervous about what?”

  “You know. The job.”

  “No.”

  “I thought—you acted jumpy.”

  “Irritated,” Parker answered. “The job isn't clean, there's too much to watch.”

  “You mean Stubbs?”

  Parker shrugged.

  “Listen,” Skimm said. “I know you don't like Alma. She's kind of bitchy sometimes, I know that. But she's okay, Parker, she really is. You got to get to know her. I wish you'd try to get to know her.”

  Parker looked at him, his mouth dragging down at the corners. “You offering her to me?”

  Skimm got confused then, and looked at his coffee cup. “No, no, I didn't mean that, nothing like that. I on
ly meant—” He ran down, not sure how to explain himself.

  “Sure,” said Parker. He finished his coffee and got to his feet. “Let's go out to the airport.”

  “What time's your plane?”

  “Two-fifty.”

  “We got time, then.”

  “I want to go now.”

  “Sure. Okay.” Skimm stood up and finished his coffee, gulping it down. He started to put the pint in his pocket, but Parker said, “Leave it. You're going to be driving.”

  “Okay. Sure.”

  They went out to the car, and Parker drove to the airport. When he got out of the car, he said, “You let Stubbs get away, I'll stomp you.”

  “Don't you worry,” said Skimm. “He won't go nowhere.” Parker walked away into the terminal.

  4

  Coldsboro is small and pinch-faced, a backwater town on the Neuse River, surrounded by tobacco fields. There's an air base nearby, and the State Hospital for Negro Insane. These, and cotton and fertilizer, are what the town lives on.

  Parker got off the bus a little after ten, Saturday night. The workers and the airmen filled the streets. He pushed through and went into a diner where he got directions to the Double Ace Garage. It was too far to walk, so he went back to the tiny bus depot and took the only cab, an old black Chevrolet.

  The Double Ace Garage was a long, low, shed-like construction of concrete blocks. It was painted a dirty white, with the name in red lettering over the wide doors at the front. Parker went inside to the office cubicle, stuck in the right hand corner up front, and found a hairy florid stout man sitting in a swivel chair at a rolltop desk. He was smoking a cigar, and he left it in his mouth when he talked.

  “I'm Flynn. Lawson sent me.”

  “Yah,” said the florid man. He turned slightly, and the swivel chair squeaked drily. “He phoned.”

  “Let's see it,” Parker said.

  “Yah. You're in a hurry, hah?”

  Parker waited.

  The florid man grunted and heaved himself out of the chair. They went around to the side of the building, where there was a gravel lot. The truck was standing there, a nine-year-old Dodge cab and a Fruehauf trailer, lit by a floodlight on the side of the building. The trailer was metal color and covered with grime, and the cab red. Some company name on the doors had been painted out with a darker red. The engine was running.

  Parker shook his head. He went over and opened the door on the driver's side and reached up and turned the ignition key. The engine stopped. The florid man watched him, chewing slowly on his cigar, but Parker ignored him. He looked at the rubber all the way around. It was all lousy but at least there were no threads showing.

  The mudguards were gone, and so were most of the safety lights. The window was broken in the righthand door, and there was some sort of jury-rigged rope arrangement keeping cab and trailer together because the original hitch was broken. The floor mats were gone in the cab, showing where part of the metal flooring had rusted through.

  Parker opened the trailer doors and saw that most of the wooden inner walls had been ripped out. He shook his head again and went around front to open the left side of the hood. The engine was a greasy mess, the wiring frayed, the radiator hoses cracked. The dip stick was gone, and so was the breather.

  Parker closed the hood again, got down, and wiped his hands on the fender. Then he crawled under the cab. There was a large oil stain on the ground, and the lube points were practically covered by caked-on dirt.

  He came out from under the cab. “She's a mess.”

  The florid man grinned around his cigar, and spread his hands. “For the price?” he said. “Come on back to the office.”

  Parker went with him back to the office. The florid man started to say, “I know she don't look—” when Parker turned around and went back out again. The florid man looked startled. “Hey! Where you goin?”

  Parker went around to the side of the building again. A kid in a greasy coverall had the hood open. There was a battery on the ground beside the cab, and he was getting set to attach the jumper cables.

  The florid man came heavily around the corner. “Now, listen here, buddy.”

  Parker turned to him. “I want a new battery,” he said. “And new plugs. And fresh oil. And a lube. And enough lights on the box so I don't get stopped by state troopers.”

  The florid man was shaking his head, chewing more rapidly on the cigar. “That wasn't the deal. As is, that was the deal, as is.”

  “No deal,” Parker said. He walked around the florid man and started toward the street.

  “Hey, wait a minute!”

  Parker turned.

  The florid man tried a smile that didn't come off. “No sense goin' off in a huff, buddy,” he said. “We can work some-thin' out. It might maybe cost you a little more, but just for the parts, not for the labor. I wouldn't charge you for the labor.”

  “Do like I said with it,” Parker answered, “and new radiator hoses, and I'll take it for seven.”

  “Seven! The deal was eight.”

  “It isn't worth eight. It'll never be worth eight.”

  “Now, buddy,” the florid man said, “you got a chip on your shoulder. Now, why don't we just talk this over? Come on back to the office.”

  “Tell your boy to put a new battery in.”

  The florid man tried another smile. This one worked better. “Not a new battery, buddy, I wouldn't try to snow you. But a better one than you got. Okay?”

  “Good.”

  “There you go. You see, we can get along.” He turned and shouted. “Hey, Willis! Never mind about that. Take that old battery out of there, and put that Delta in. You know the one.”

  “And leave the engine off,” added Parker.

  “Yeah, sure, buddy. Leave her off, Willis.”

  Willis gathered up his battery and jumper cables and went back through the side door into the garage again.

  Parker and the florid man went back to the office, and this time Parker sat down in the slat-bottomed wooden chair beside the desk. The florid man settled heavily into the swivel chair, making it squeal. “I can see you know about trucks, buddy.”

  “I thought you wouldn't snow me,” Parker said.

  “Now, there's that chip on your shoulder again.” He made a little tsk-tsk sound, and shook his head in a friendly sort of way. Then he pulled an order-blank pad and a pencil over. “Now, then. What else did you want?”

  “Lube. Oil change. New plugs. Check the points. New—”

  “Points? Now, you keep adding something every single time.”

  “Are you writing all this down?”

  “I surely am.” The florid man wrote “points,” and asked, “What else?”

  “New radiator hoses. And the legal minimum of lights.”

  The florid man wrote, laboriously, chewing on his cigar. The cigar had gone out, but he kept chewing on it anyway. When he was done writing, he said, “Now, let's see. Lube and oil change, I guess I can do that all right. And plugs, well, we can check 'em out, clean em up a little. But I don't see any way we could give you new ones.”

  “New ones,” Parker said.

  “Now, buddy.” The florid man spread his arms. “I give a little, you give a little.”

  “Tell me about that Delta,” Parker said. “The one you're giving me.”

  The florid man cocked his head and sucked on the cold cigar. Then he smiled again. “New plugs. I just might be able to do it.

  “Okay, now, let's see what else we got. The points. Well, sure, that's no problem. And those hoses.” He nodded slowly, the cigar moving around in his mouth. “I noticed them myself, but I don't think I got hoses like that in stock. I tell you what I'll do, though. I'll have Willis tape them up solid with friction tape. What do you say? You won't leak a drop.”

  “There's an oil leak, too.”

  “Now, there you go adding things again.”

  “The breather's gone.”

  “I know I don't have that in stock.”
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  “Cap it, then. I don't want to keep throwing oil away.”