The Score: A Parker Novel by Richard Stark Read Free Book Online Page B

You mean, what's my attitude?”
    “That's right.”
    “I couldn't care less, Parker. He was just a bum I picked up here in town. He was more stupid that I thought, and exceeded his orders. That's over with.”
    Parker nodded. “All right,” he said. “See you day after tomorrow.”
    “Right.”

T WO

1
    P arker pumped change into the phone box and listened to it booming. Then he waited.
    He was in a phone booth next to a gas station. June sunlight poured down everywhere. Grofield was in his car, a three-year-old black Rambler sedan, parked just down the block; they were on their way over to New York to see about financing, and Parker wanted to make the call now, early, to give Handy time to get here.
    The booming was replaced by a ringing sound, and then by a male voice. Parker said, “Arnie LaPointe, please.” You couldn't get in touch with Handy direct. Like Parker with Joe Sheer, Handy had a middleman.
    The voice said, “Speaking.”
    “This is Parker. If you see Handy McKay around, ask him to give me a call.”
    “I'm not sure I'll see him.”
    “This a pay phone, I can't hang around too long.”
    “I just don't know when I'll see him.”
    “When you do, tell him I saw the monk and he's still mourning.” That was a reference to the last job they'd worked together, so Handy would know it was him.
    “If I see him, I'll tell him. What's your number there?”
    “This is Jersey City. The number's OL 3-4599-”
    “I don't promise anything.”
    “Sure.”
    Parker hung up and waited. He pushed open the booth door to get some air, and lit a cigarette. He could see Grofield sitting in the car, relaxed and easy. Grofield was too playful sometimes, but he knew when to cut that out. The operation was shaping up to have good men in it, and with good men in a deal it was tough for the deal to go sour. Not impossible, but tough.
    A gas station attendant in blue overalls came over, wiping his hands on an orange rag. He said, “Anything wrong?”
    “They're calling me back.”
    “Okay.” He went away again.
    Parker finished his cigarette, flicked it out into the street. He leaned against the side of the booth, folded his arms, and waited some more.
    He waited fifteen minutes and then the phone rang. He picked it up and said, “Charles Willis here.”
    It was Handy McKay's voice: “What's the story?”
    “Thought you might like to come visit. I got a new place.”
    “Social call?”
    “We might work a little.”
    “Not for me, remember? I retired.”
    “You might like the weather here. And there's thousands of things to see. Maybe twenty thousand.”
    “Don't tempt me. This time I'm retired for good. I got the diner going, and I'm settling down, and everything's fine.”
    “I was looking for company. Open a can or two with me, you know?”
    “Yeah?” There was a pause, and he said, “What about Wiss? He's good company.”
    “He's already coming.”
    “Oh yeah? What do you want, a crowd?”
    “Yes.”
    “Jesus, now you got my curiosity up. But it's still no soap. Wait a second, how about Kerwin?”
    “That's an idea. You just don't want to travel, huh?”
    “Not anymore. I'm settled down.”
    “All right. I'll drop in sometime.”
    “Do that. I'll fry you an egg.”
    “Sure.”
    He hung up and left the phone booth and walked down to Grofield's car. He slid in and said, “McKay's out. He's retired.”
    “Again?”
    “This time he says it's for good. He suggested Kerwin.”
    “I don't know him.”
    “He's a good man.”
    Grofield shrugged. “I'll take your word for it. Call him.”
    “He lives in Brooklyn. I'll call him from the city, after we see your man. Who is he, by the way?”
    “Ormont. Chester Ormont.”
    “Four thousand might be steep for him.”
    “We'll see.”
    Grofield started the engine, and they drove away from there. They went through the Holland Tunnel into the city, and took the West Side Highway up to 72nd Street, and then crosstown through the park to the East Side.