Richard Stark - The Hunter

Stegman shrugged, awkwardly. “No beer,” he said. “Later maybe.”

“We’ll let you know,” said Mal.

The bartender went away, and Stegman said, “That’s all there was, Mal. I told you everything.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Nothing. What could I tell him? I didn’t know where you were, what could I tell him?”

“What about the money?”

Stegman nodded quickly. “Yeah, I told him about that. About the checking account. He wanted to know about that, how I got the money.”

Mal gnawed on his lower lip, looking across the room. “Could he trace me through that? The statements go to you. The bank wouldn’t tell him nothing.”

“That’s what I figured,” said Stegman eagerly. “It wouldn’t hurt to tell him the truth. What could he do?”

“I don’t know. He used to be dead, and now he isn’t. I don’t know what he could do. What else did you tell him?”

“Nothing, Mal.” Stegman spread his hands. “What could I tell him? I didn’t know anything else.”

“Then why didn’t he kill you?”

Stegman blinked. “He must of believed me.”

“You gave him something else. To save your own stinking skin, you gave him something else. A name, maybe — somebody who knows where to find me.”

“I swear to Christ, Mal—”

“Haskell’s name, maybe. Didn’t you?”

“On my mother, Mal—”

“Up your mother. Did you or didn’t you?” Mal waved a hand, keeping Stegman from answering. “Wait a minute. Don’t cover yourself for nothing. I’m not down on you, I know the way that bastard comes on. If you told him about Haskell, I want Haskell to be ready for him, that’s all — you got nothing to worry about.”

“I didn’t tell him about Haskell,” said Stegman. “I didn’t give him any names at all, I swear it.”

“What, then? You told him I was for sure in New York.”

The denial hung on Stegman’s lips, then fell back into his throat. He nodded. “I had to give him something, Mal,” he said. “He kept flexing those goddam hands of his.”

“All right. All right.” Mal nodded, his whole torso moving. “That was good, Art, don’t worry about it. That means he’ll stick around town. That wasn’t bad.”

“I just had to give him something, that’s all, so he wouldn’t think I was holding out on him.”

“That’s all right. Just so you don’t hold out on me either. Where did he say to contact him?”

“He didn’t, Mal. Jesus, I’m not lying. I wasn’t even going to give you the word at all, only we been friends—”

“Bushwah. You were afraid he’d get to me, and I’d find out.”

“Mal, we been friends.”

“Where are you supposed to call? If you run into me, you’re supposed to call him.”

Stegman’s head shook back and forth. “He didn’t even suggest it, Mal. He didn’t even suggest it.”

Mal pondered, chewing his lower lip, thinking it over. Finally he said, “Okay. That’s the way he’d work. He wouldn’t trust you either.”

“You can trust me, Mal. For Christ’s sake—”

“Yeah, I know — we’re friends.”

“We been friends for years, Mal.”

“You had him. And you let him go.” Mal nodded. “All right, Art. Now find him again.”

Stegman raised his hands. “What? How do I do that? I don’t know nothing about him.”

“I don’t care how you do it, just do it.”

“I wouldn’t know how to start, Mal. For Christ’s sake, give me a break.”

“I’m giving you a break, you bastard. I’m giving you a chance to make up for doing it wrong the first time.”

“Mal, there just isn’t any way—”

Mal leaned forward over the table. “Sweetie,” he said, “there’s got to be a way. You hear me? I got friends, and that means there’s got to be a way. Unless maybe you want to drive all your cabs yourself.”

Stegman opened his mouth to argue some more, but then he closed it again and looked down at the table. “I’ll try, Mal,” he said. “I don’t know how the hell I’ll do it, but I’ll try.”

“Good boy.” Mal leaned back, smiling. “There’s one of him. I got the whole Outfit on my side. What can he do?”

“Sure, Mal.”

“Get us a couple beers, Artie.”

Stegman got hurriedly to his feet. “Right away, Mal. Never mind, I’ll spring.”

Mal hadn’t reached for his wallet at all.

Mal walked down the third-floor hall of the Outfit hotel, and knocked at the door of suite 312. He waited, and when the blond girl in the red bra and the pink toreador pants opened the door, he said, “I want to talk to Phil. Tell him Mal Resnick.”

“Okay.” She closed the door again, leaving him in the hall. He lit a cigarette and then, remembering Phil’s asthma, he looked around for a place to put it out again. The floor was deep-pile carpeted, and the nearest sand urn was way down by the elevators. Mal hurried down and stubbed out the cigarette. He was halfway back when the door opened again, and the blonde stepped out to look for him. He waved and trotted, feeling like a fool.

She watched him deadpan, and turned away when he got to the door. He followed her inside, panting slightly, and over her shoulder she said, “Close the door.”

“Sure.”

“Phil says to sit down out here. He’ll be along in a minute.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

She went away, deeper into the suite, not looking back at him, and Mal settled in the white sofa, grateful for the chance to catch his breath.

He looked around at the living room, which was nearly twice as big as his own and even more opulently furnished. Phil had four rooms, and they were all like this. Phil was way up in the chain of command, the highest man Mal could go to directly. Some day, he told himself, he’d have four rooms like this, and a blonde like that piece in the red bra. That was good stuff.

He wouldn’t have any more bags like that Pearl. Nothing but good stuff, filling red bras, with tight butts in pink toreador pants, and flat bellies with that little bump at the lower part of the abdomen. That was the kind of thing he wanted, and that was the kind of thing he was due for. He was watching his step, he was doing his job, and he was proving his mettle. They had him slated for big things, and he knew it.

Phil kept him waiting ten minutes. When he finally came out, he wore nothing but a pair of gray slacks. A lipstick smudge was clearly outlined against the skin of his chest, just under the left nipple. Mal looked at him, and knew that Phil kept him waiting while he tore off a piece. With that blonde. Mal kept his face blank. He could wait.

The day was coming when they’d wait for him in his living room while he tore off a piece with something like that. He had it already, underlings, guys who waited when he said to wait, and he had broads. But he was going to have better.

What could Parker do against him? He was set, he was on the escalator, he was riding up. What could that one-man son of a bitch do?

Phil said, “How ya doing, Mal?” and turned his back to go over to the bar and make himself a drink. Coming back, he said, “You want something? The fixings are there.”

“Thanks, Phil.”

Mal made himself a quick drink, good Scotch and an ice cube and a splash of Vichy. He came back and Phil was stretched out on the sofa, so he took the leather chair instead.

Phil sipped at his drink. “You look nervous, Mal. Something wrong with the operation?”

“No, no, nothing like that. Smooth as silk, Phil. I keep everything smooth as silk, you know that.”

“Sure. You’re a good manager type, Mal.”

Mal grinned. “Thanks. What I wanted, I was wondering if you could set me up an appointment with Mr. Fairfax.”