Richard Stark - The Hunter

“He’s moved,” he said. “The bastard moved out.”

“You almost knocked me down the steps,” she said. She was wearing a pale blue silk robe now, and slippers with blue puffs. In the living room, the late movie was finishing on television.

“He’s moved out, I told you. Clothes, everything. Nobody lives in that damn room.”

She heard him that time. “Mal?”

“Who else would I be talking about? Wanda, you better come straight with me.”

“Call me Rose,” she said automatically. “I’m not used to answering to the other name any more.”

“I don’t care what you’re used to, Wanda.” Parker advanced on her, grim faced, and she backed down the steps into the living room. Her face was at the level of his chest. He reached out a hand and grabbed her by the hair, twisting his hand in it and pulling her close. “He isn’t there,” he said, “and I want you to tell me, Wanda. Was he ever there?”

“Parker, I swear to you—” She was terrified now, knowing him from old times, and she was babbling. “I swear to you, I swear—”

“He isn’t there, Wanda,” he said again, as though she hadn’t yet understood him. “The bed isn’t made, the closet is empty, there’s nothing around that belongs to anybody. He isn’t there, and I want to know if he ever was there.”

“Parker, Puh-Parker—” His hand twisted in her hair, and she stood on tiptoe, trying to stop the pain. “I wouldn’t lie to you,” she babbled. “I wouldn’t have any reason to lie to you.”

“One reason,” he said. He twisted harder, lifted her higher so her toes barely touched the floor. “If you thought maybe you had a grudge against me, Wanda, that could be a reason. Send me to the Outfit hotel, let me barge in looking for a guy who isn’t there, let the Outfit grab me and take care of me. That could be a reason.”

“No grudge, Parker!” she cried. “I don’t have any grudge — what grudge could I have against you?”

“You tell me, Wanda.”

“Parker, please!”

He let her go so suddenly she lost her balance and fell to the floor. Her red hair was a tangle around her face. She looked up at him, not knowing what he was going to do next, and he said, “For just a little while, Wanda, I’m going to believe you. For just a little while. I’m going to believe that Mal used to live in that room, and that for some reason he moved out. He got spooked or something and—”

He stopped, raising his eyes from her to look across the room at the draped window. “Spooked,” he said again. “Maybe. Found out about me maybe. Gone into a hole somewhere.”

“He lived there, Parker,” she said desperately. “The girl he underpaid, she gave me the address. That’s the honest-to-God truth, Parker — I swear it.”

“Oh, Mal,” he said. “Oh, you bastard.” Then his head came down, he stared at her again, still asprawl on the floor. “You find out where, Wanda. You find out where he’s run to.”

“How can I? Parker, for God’s sake, be reasonable. How can I?”

“I know that bastard,” he said. “He went running into his hole, thinking about me and death. And he called up for a girl, Wanda, you can bet on it. I know that little bastard; he called for a girl. You call the same place, Wanda, and you find out where.”

“How can I?” Sitting rumpled on the floor, she spread her arms in an exaggerated gesture. “What reason can I give? I can’t just call up, Parker — they’ll want to know why.”

“All right,” he said. “You loaned him twenty bucks. You met at a party or something, and you loaned him twenty bucks. He was supposed to pay it back today, so you went over to the hotel and he’d moved out. And you want to know where he is now, so you can go over tomorrow and get your dough back. You got that?”

“Parker, I don’t know—”

“You better know. Get on your feet.”

She’d shifted position, the robe falling open below the sash at the waist, and her legs were tanned while her belly was white, and it reminded him of Lynn, that last night when he’d gone to her apartment. He turned away, irritated, saying, “Fix your robe. Get to your feet.”

She got up shakily, eyeing him apprehensively, terrified of him in this mood, not knowing what else he would demand of her. “I’ll try,” she said, wanting to placate him. “I’ll try, Parker, I’ll do my best.”

“That’s good,” he said.

He followed her into the bedroom where the phone was. There was a king-sized bed with a satiny blue spread, and a cream-painted night table. The phone was on the nightstand, a blue Princess phone.

“I don’t know why I let them talk me into this thing,” she said, picking up the phone, trying to laugh and make a joke out of something — anything to break the harshness in the air. “You can’t dial it, and you can’t hang it up.” She sat on the edge of the bed, the phone in her lap, and held it with one hand while dialing with the other. She made a mistake on the third number and broke the connection, laughing uneasily, saying, “See what I mean?”

The second time she managed to dial the right number. Parker stood with his back against the wall, by the door, watching her.

She was answered on the third ring, and she asked for someone named Irma. Then there was a little pause, and she carefully didn’t look at Parker. When Irma finally came on, she gave her the story about the twenty-dollar loan.

Irma had some questions, and she answered them. Why had she waited so late to call? Because she’d been thinking about it all evening and getting madder and madder, and finally she’d decided to call. And where did she ever meet Mal Resnick, anyway? At that party thrown for that guy Bernie from Las Vegas that time — didn’t Irma remember? — when twelve of the girls were sent to the party and Mal had been there. And why had she loaned a perfect stranger twenty dollars? Because he was in the Outfit, and it seemed all right. In fact it seemed like good politics. And was her vacation over? No, not till tomorrow.

She did it well, with no hint by word or tone that anything was wrong, and at last Irma agreed to give her Mal’s new address if she promised not to go around there till morning because Linda was there tonight. She promised, and then she took the pad and pencil from the nightstand and wrote down the address.

When she’d finished thanking Irma and had hung up, having trouble making the receiver stay in the cradle, she put the phone back on the night table and got to her feet, holding out the pad. “Here,” she said. “The St. David Hotel on East 57th. Room 516.”

He took the pad from her. “You did fine,” he said.

“Go on if you’re going,” she said, suddenly weary. “I’ve got to pack.”

“Pack?”

“You’re going to kill him tonight,” she said, her voice drained. “Tomorrow, Irma is going to remember me calling, wanting to know where he was. They’ll come around, and they’ll ask questions, and then they’ll kill me. I’ve got to leave here tonight.”

“Thanks,” he said.

She looked at him sullenly. “Don’t thank me,” she said. “I didn’t do it out of any love for you. If I’d refused, you’d have killed me. This way, I’ve got a few hours’ head start.”

Parker came in through the window, seeing Mal rise up, head twisting over his shoulder, face slack with panic. He saw Mal make his lunge toward the dressing gown on the chair, and knew there must be a gun in the pocket of it. But he didn’t hurry. He had plenty of time now, all the time in the world.

He came across the room. Mal fell into the chair, he and the chair clattering together to the floor, and now the woman sat up, bewildered, not yet frightened, blinking at him. She raised one arm to cover her breasts.