Richard Stark - The Hunter

Mal was comical, a slapstick comedian, the way he got himself all tangled up in the chair and the dressing gown. His arms flailed around, searching for the pocket where the gun was. Parker came over to him and kicked the chair out of the way, and Mal came up at last with the gun in his hand, his face still slack but his movements jerkily fast, as though he were operated by strings.

Mal came up and around with the gun in his sweaty hand, but Parker reached out and took hold of the barrel and slipped the gun right out of his hand. And the metal of the butt showed darker and gleaming from his sweat.

Parker tossed the gun away into the corner with the chair, and reached down and took Mal’s neck in his hands. Mal thrashed on the floor like a fish, arms and legs pinwheeling, and Parker held his neck steady as a rock and looked over his bobbing head at the woman sitting up on the bed. “You’re a pro. Keep your mouth shut, you’ll walk out of here.”

Her mouth had been just opening, a scream welling up in her throat, but now she forced the scream back down. She willed her mouth closed again, and sat silent, watching wide-eyed as Parker held tight to Mal’s throbbing neck and Mal’s arms and legs moved with increasing heaviness. And then, all at once, Parker let him go. Mal fell backward, only half-conscious, his hands coming to his throat, the breath scraping into his lungs with a sound like two pieces of dry wood scraped together.

Parker stood over him, and it was too easy. And it wasn’t enough. He didn’t want to torture Mal, he wouldn’t have got anything from that but wasted time. Ending his life, quick and hard and with his own hands, that was the way.

But it was too easy, and it wasn’t enough. For the first time he thought about the money. Half the take was his. The others were dead. He and Mal were alive; that meant half the take was his.

He wanted the money, too. Killing Mal wasn’t enough, it left a hole in the world afterward. Once he’d killed that bastard, what then? He had less than two thousand dollars to his name. He had to go on living, he had to get back into his old groove. The resort hotels and the occasional job, the easy comfortable life he’d had till this bastard had come along in his taxicab and told him about the job on the island. And to get back to that life, he needed money. Half. Forty-five thousand dollars.

He said it aloud. “Forty-five thousand dollars, Mal, that’s what you owe me.”

Mal tried to speak, but it came out a croak. His voice wasn’t working yet; the bad color hadn’t completely faded from his face.

Parker looked at the woman. “Get out of here,” he said. “Get dressed and get out of here.”

She jumped up from the bed, clumsy with terror, and if she was normally a beautiful and graceful woman it was impossible to tell it now.

“Mal,” said Parker. “Do you want her to call the police?”

“No,” croaked Mal.

“Do you want her to call the Outfit?”

“No.”

Parker nodded, and turned to the woman, who was bent awkwardly, stepping into her panties, cumbersome in her haste. “Listen, you,” he said. “Listen to what Mal has to say.”

She stopped, staring at them, and Mal croaked, “Don’t talk to nobody, don’t tell nobody about this. The envelope’s in the living room. Take it — go home — don’t say nothing to nobody.”

“That’s good,” Parker said. He sat down on the edge of the bed, and they waited until the woman had left. Then Parker got to his feet again. “You owe me forty-five thousand dollars, Mal.”

Mal thought now that maybe he wouldn’t be killed after all. Maybe Parker didn’t want to kill him, just to get half of the money. He struggled up from the floor, still shaky, and said, “I don’t have it right now, Parker, I—”

“What did you do with it?”

“I had to pay the Outfit eighty thousand dollars. I gave it all to them.”

That would do it. That would be enough. To go to the syndicate — the Outfit, whatever they wanted to call it — to go to them and get his money back. He needed that much — he needed to act, to force, to push. Mal wasn’t enough, he was easy, he was too easy, he was the easiest thing that ever happened.

“All right,” said Parker. “It’s the same Outfit here as Chicago, right?”

Mal nodded, puzzled. “Sure. Coast to coast, Parker, it’s all the same.”

“Who runs it here? Here in New York, who’s the boss?”

“What do you want, Parker? You can’t—”

“Do you want to die, Mal?”

“What? No! For Christ’s sake, Parker—”

They stood facing each other. Parker held out his hands where Mal could see them, curved, ready to fit around Mal’s neck. “Who’s the boss in New York, Mal?”

“ They’ll kill me, Parker, they’ll —”

“Not if you’re already dead.” Parker rested his hands on Mal’s neck, just easy, not squeezing yet. His arms were straight out, and this way he was unprotected should Mal decide to kick him in the groin or punch him in the stomach, but he knew Mal wouldn’t try anything like that. He didn’t have anything to worry about from Mal. Mal was easy.

Mal’s lip quivered, and then he said, “There’s two of them, Mr. Fairfax and Mr. Carter. They run things in New York, Mr. Fairfax and Mr. Carter.”

“And where do I find them, Mal?”

“Mr. Fairfax isn’t in town right now.” Mal’s tongue came out, moistening his lips, and his eyes flickered to the corner where Parker had thrown the gun.

“Parker,” he said, pleading, “we can work something—”

“Where do I find Carter?”

“Please, Parker, it won’t do you any good. You couldn’t get in to see him anyway, and we can work—”

Parkers hands tensed and relaxed on Mal’s neck. “Where do I find Carter?”

Mal hesitated, flickered his eyes, gestured with his hands, shifted his weight back and forth from leg to leg, and capitulated. “582 Fifth Avenue,” he said. He closed his eyes, as though then it wouldn’t really be him telling. “He’s got an office there, Frederick Carter Investments. Seventh floor, I forget the number.”

Parker let his hands fall away from Mal’s neck. “Fine,” he said. “That’s fine.”

Mal wanted to plead again, started to say something again about how they could work something out, but Parker stopped him. “Tell me about the office. You say I couldn’t get in. Why not?”

Mal told him about the layout of the office, the silent man who came out, and what the silent man said when it was some-one Mr. Carter didn’t want to see.

Parker nodded, listening, and said. “You been there recently, huh, Mal? When you heard I was after you?” He looked around the room. “They threw you away, huh? They wouldn’t help you?”

“They said it was up to me. Mr. Carter said so.”

Parker laughed at him. “They should have known better, huh, Mal?”

Then he took Mal’s neck in his hands again, and this time he didn’t let go till Mal stopped breathing.

The silent man pulled open the unmarked door and looked out at Parker. He hesitated and then said, “Can I help you?” He sounded puzzled. He didn’t recognize Parker as an Outfit man, but he didn’t look like an investment customer either.

Parker said, “Tell your boss the guy who killed Mal Resnick is here.”

The puzzlement on the silent man’s face shifted subtly from real to fake. He said, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t have to,” Parker said.

He turned his back and walked over to one of the sofas. Sitting down, he reached over to the table and picked up a copy of U.S. News & World Report. He read on the cover that the automobile industry was recovering.