Richard Stark - The Mourner

Parker said, “Good,” then straightened up and went away across the room to the nearest chair. He brought it over and sat down and kicked Wilcoxen conversationally in the ribs. “We’ll talk.”

Wilcoxen’s lips were wet. He shook his head and blinked a lot.

Parker said, “I got a partner. You had a partner. Scorbi.”

Wilcoxen looked around and didn’t see Scorbi.

“Your partner wouldn’t tell me about my partner. I threw him back out the window.”

Wilcoxen’s eyes got bigger. He stared at Parker and waited, but Parker didn’t have anything else to say. The silence got thicker, and Wilcoxen squirmed a lot. His feet jiggled, and he licked his lips and kept blinking. Parker sat looking at him, waiting, but Wilcoxen’s eyes kept darting all over the place.

Finally, he asked, “What you want from me?”

Parker shook his head and kicked him again. “Wrong answer.”

“I don’t know no partner. Honest to Christ.”

“What do you know?”

“I got a hundred bucks. Donny and me both. Go to the Wynant Hotel, first fire escape in the alley, fifth floor. If there’s nobody home, take everything there. Suitcases and like that.”

“And if there’s somebody home?”

“Don’t do nothing. Come back and report.”

“Back where?”

Wilcoxen’s blinking was getting worse. His eyes were closed more than they were open. “Listen,” he said. “It’s just a job, you know? A hundred bucks. Nobody hurt, just pick up some suitcases. Anybody woulda took it.”

Parker shook his head. He didn’t care about that. “Back where?” he asked.

“Howison Tavern. On E Street, down by Fourth Precinct.”

“Who do you see?”

Wilcoxen frowned, and the blinking settled down a little. “I don’t know,” he said. “He just told us go in there and sit down. If we got the stuff, somebody would come by, pick it up. If not, somebody would come by, get the report.”

“What time you supposed to be there?”

“By one o’clock.”

“Which E Street?”

“Huh? Oh, Southeast.”

“Who gave you the job?”

“The job? Listen, I got pins and needles in my hands.”

Parker looked at his watch. Quarter to twelve. He had an hour and fifteen minutes. “I’m in a hurry, Jimmy,” he said.

“How come you know my name?”

Parker kicked him in the ribs again, not hard, just as a reminder.

“I’m giving you the straight story. I ain’t going to lie for a hundred bucks. You didn’t have to throw Donny out no window.”

“Who gave you the job?”

“Oh, uh — a guy named Angel. He’s a heavy, he hangs out around North Capitol Street, up behind the station. Donny and me, we was in a movie on D Street, and when we come out Angel grabs onto us and gives us the offer.”

“Is Angel going to be at the Howison Tavern?”

“He says no. He says somebody will come by, don’t worry, he’ll recognize us. We should sit in a booth and drink beer. Schlitz.”

“Where do I find this Angel?”

“I don’t know. Honest to Christ. Hangin’ around someplace, up around behind the station. In around there, you know.”

It was no good. Parker thought it over, chewing his lip. The meeting couldn’t be faked, so there was no way to start a trail from there. And it would take more than an hour and a quarter to find somebody named Angel hanging around the Union Station area somewhere. If Handy was still alive, he’d be alive till one o’clock. Then, when Scorbi and Wilcoxen didn’t show up, whoever had Handy would know there was trouble. The easiest thing would be dump Handy.

So it had to be done from the other direction, through the girl.

Parker nodded to himself. “All right, Jimmy,” he said. “You can go. Roll over so I can untie you.”

“You mean it? Honest to Christ?”

“Hurry, Jimmy.”

Wilcoxen scramble away from the wall and flopped over on his stomach.

“You’re all right, honest to Christ you are. You know it wasn’t nothing personal. There wasn’t even supposed to be nobody here, just suitcases and like that. We ain’t torpedoes or nothing.”

“I know,” Parker said. He untied Wilcoxen’s hands and stepped back. “Undo your ankles yourself.”

Wilcoxen had trouble making his hands work. While he was loosening the belt from around his ankles and putting his shoelaces back in his shoes, Parker got the Terrier out of the suitcase, and held it casually where Wilcoxen could see it. He left the Beretta where it was; he didn’t like .22’s much.

When Wilcoxen got to his feet, Parker said, “Scorbi’s in the bathroom. Go untie him.”

Wilcoxen suddenly smiled, beaming from ear to ear. “I knew you didn’t throw Donny out no window,” he said. He hurried over and opened the bathroom door. “Donny! He’s lettin’ us go, Donny!”

After a while Scorbi came out, walking lame like Wilcoxen. He looked sullen, not joining in Wilcoxen’s happiness. Parker said, “Out the way you came in.”

“What about our dough?” Scorbi asked.

“Hurry,” Parker said.

“Come on, Donny,” said Wilcoxen. He tugged at Scorbi’s sleeve. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Our rods and our dough.”

Parker said, “Go on, Jimmy. Either he follows you or he don’t.”

Wilcoxen hurried over and climbed out the window onto the fire escape. Scorbi hung back a second, but then he shrugged and went out the window. The two of them started down the fire escape, making even more noise than they had coming up.

Parker stowed the Terrier away inside his coat and picked up the phone. When the operator came on, he made his voice high-pitched and nervous. “There’s somebody on the fire escape! Get the police! Hurry! They’re going down the fire escape!”

He hung up while the operator was still asking questions, switched off the light, and left the room. He took the elevator down and crossed the lobby and went outside. A prowl car was parked down to the left, with the red light flashing. Hotels get fast service.

Parker stood on the sidewalk, and a couple of minutes later two cops came out of the alley alongside the hotel, pushing Scorbi and Wilcoxen in front of them. So that was that. Because the Scorbis and Wilcoxens never talk to the law, it couldn’t get back to Parker. So, no matter how good a story they thought up, they’d miss that one-o’clock meeting, and whoever had Handy wouldn’t be warned. It was better even than keeping them tied up in the bathroom.

Parker turned and walked the other way. A block later he hailed a cab.

It was just over the Maryland line, in Silver Spring, a squat, faded apartment building called Sligo Towers. Built of dark brick aged even darker, the bricks widely separated by the plaster, it looked like an old Thirties standing set left over on the Universal back lot. Thirties-like imitations of Gay Nineties gaslights, containing twenty-five-watt bulbs, flanked the arched entrance to the courtyard.

The courtyard was just concrete, but pink coloring had been added before it set. It was bounded on three sides by the building, rising eight stories and sprouting air conditioners here and there like acne. On the fourth side was a double arch with a concrete pillar, separating courtyard from sidewalk. Beyond, dark cars slept at the curb, hoods mutely reflecting the street light from down the block. A car purred by, without pausing.

Parker turned the far corner and came striding toward the Sligo Towers. He wore a gray suit and a figured shirt, the suit coat open despite the night chill. He looked like a businessman, in a tough business. He could have been a liquor salesman in a dry state, or the automobile-company vice-president who takes away the dealerships, or maybe the business manager of one of the unions with the big buildings downtown around the Capitol. He could have been a hard, lean businessman coming home from a late night at the office.