The Outfit (5 page)

This part of Brooklyn was a tight gridwork of two-storey row houses with Kings Highway gouging a broad black top diagonal down through it. The highway was flanked with diners, bars, small warehouses, and used-car lots. At the corner where The Three Kings stood, two right-angled grid streets intersected, with Kings Highway cutting through the intersection at a forty-five degree angle, leaving a big open space of black-top in the centre which was fed from six directions and capped by a swaying traffic light. The street lights were all too far away to light the middle, which was open, bare, and black.

Eleven o'clock. Tuesday night. Darkness surrounded the intersection everywhere except for the pool of light in front of The Three Kings. Up and down Kings Highway were far glimpses of other neon oases, but the grid tree-lined streets were all shut up and dark.

Parker left the Olds in a slot with plenty of room in front, so he could take off without backing and filling, and walked to the intersection. November was ending, and Brooklyn was cold with the wet bronchial cold of the harbour. Parker's breath misted around him as he walked. He was wearing a topcoat, but no hat, and he walked with his hands jammed deep into his pockets. In one of his suit pockets was the gun he'd picked up the day before in Wilmington, a short-barrelled S & W .38 Special.

He was now ten days from Florida. Forty-seven letters had been written; twelve men had been talked to personally. Four of the twelve had said they'd been looking for an excuse like this to hit the syndicate for years. Five more had said they'd think it over, and three had copped out for one reason or another. Say a third would move out of the fifty-nine – twenty jobs! Within a month, or less, the Outfit would be hit twenty times, maybe more, all over the country.

Starting tonight.

Light washed down on Parker as he pushed open the door and went into the club. Inside, amber light feebly silhouetted the furnishings and customers. Two bartenders were blobs of white behind the dark wooden bar, but tonight one of them was unnecessary. Four women and three men were spaced along the bar, and the booths on the other side of the room were all empty. In back, twenty tables or so were arranged in a semicircle around a small platform, and on the platform Ronnie Randall, twenty years older than his picture and very tired, noodled at the piano. Three of the tables back were occupied, served by a sour waitress in black dress and white apron.

Two of the women at the bar turned to look at Parker, but he ignored them and walked farther down where a batch of stools were empty. He didn't sit down, but stood leaning against the bar. One of the bartenders came down and asked him what he'd have.

"Menner of Miami Beach sent me up to see Jim," he said.

"Who?"

"Jim St Clair."

"No, no, the other one."

"Menner."

The bartender shook his head. He was a burly man gone to fat. He said, "I don't know that name."

Parker shrugged.

The bartender studied him a minute and then said, "I'll see. What'll you have?"

"Budweiser."

"Check." He turned and called to the other barkeep, "Bud, here. I'll be right back."

He walked away, with the busy walk of a bartender – bent forward slightly and working his arms as though he were shoving a beer keg along in front of him. His apron hung almost to his ankles, and it whipped around his feet as he walked. He went down to the end of the bar, raised the flap, went through, and turned right through a door next to the door marked "Pointers". Farther back, there was a door marked "Setters". Both doors had metal dog silhouettes nailed on them.

The other bartender strolled down with the bottle and glass, took Parker's dollar, and brought back a fifty-cent piece. Parker put the coin in his pocket and drank some beer.

The first bartender came back after a while, leaned on the bar in front of Parker, and said, "Okay. Right through there where I went."

"Good."

Parker walked back, pushed open the door, and found himself in a short bright hallway with plaster cream-coloured walls. At the end, where the hall made an
L
to the left, there was a door facing him marked "Office". He walked over to it, looked to the left, and saw a gleaming kitchen with an undershirted Negro sweating at the clipper. Parker pushed open the office door and went in.

It was a small, cramped room with grey walls. A desk was shoved against one wall, a filing cabinet against another, and there was a water cooler in the corner, leaving a small circle of black linoleum floor space free in the middle of the room. A short, fat, red-faced man looked up from the desk on which there was open ledgers, and asked, "Well? Hah?" He waved his hands, both covered with ink.

"Menner sent me to see you," Parker told him. He started to close the door, but the bartender had come along behind him and was standing there.

The red-faced man was saying, "Menner? Hah? Menner? Menner's dead?"

Parker nodded. "I know. But Cresetti said you didn't know him, so I should use Menner's name."

"Cresetti? Hah? Who?"

"He took over from Menner."

"And he sent you up here? Why? What the hell do I have to do with this Cresetti? What's this Cresetti to me?"

"You sent Menner that guy Stern," Parker reminded him. The bartender was just standing there behind him, leaning against the doorframe.

"Sure, Stern," said the red-faced man. "Sure, I sent him. He screwed up, huh? That bastard Parker killed him – how do you like that?"

Parker shrugged. "He killed Menner, too." He wasn't paying attention, he was trying to decide what to do about the bartender.

"Sure, he killed Menner. They tell me maybe he'll come here." The red-faced man squinted at him. "You think so? Nah, I don't think so. What's he got against me? Menner fingered him, yeah, and Stern tried to knock him off, yeah, but what did I do to the bastard? Nothing. I'm told send a gun to this Menner in Florida. I do it. I don't know what this gun is supposed to do, I don't have nothing to do with nothing. So I figure this bastard won't bother with me. He'll ignore me, right?"

"Maybe," said Parker.

"Maybe you're him," said the red-faced man. "Hah! That's a hot one, huh? Maybe you're him! Maybe I oughta have Johnny frisk you."

"I've got a gun on me."

The man grinned and ducked his head, multiplying his chins. He was full of fun. "Heeled? Hah?"

"Stern's gun," Parker told him. "I'm bringing it back. A .25 with a silencer. Johnny can reach in my right-hand pocket and he'll find it there." Parker waited for Johnny to come up behind him, close enough.

But the red-faced man waved his hands. "Nah, why? We enemies? We animals in a jungle? Just take off the coat, that's all. It's hot in here, who needs a coat? Gimme – I'll hang it up."

Parker shrugged. He took off his coat, handed it towards St Clair, and dropped it on the floor just before St Clair got it. Grunting, St Clair automatically stooped for it, and Parker kicked him in the face. His hand went inside his suit jacket as he turned, and when it came out it had the stubby .38 in it. Johnny was one step into the room, but he stopped when he saw the gun.

"Back to the door, Johnny," Parker told him. "Lean against the wall like before. Fold your arms. That's a good boy, Johnny."

Johnny stood there the way he was told. His face was expressionless. St Clair was lying on the floor. Parker tugged on a drawer of the filing cabinet and found it locked. He'd been a little worried when he'd seen no safe in the room, but now he felt better. St Clair kept his cash in a locked filing-cabinet. He felt real sure of himself, St Clair.

Parker went down on one knee, watching Johnny, and went through St Clair's pockets till he found a key ring. It would be easier to bring Johnny into the room, put him to sleep, and shut the door, but it might not be smart. The Negro in the kitchen might be primed – he might know that everything was all right only so long as Johnny was standing in the doorway. Parker, when he was working, liked to leave things as they were as much as possible.

Left-handed, he unlocked the filing cabinet, and then started opening and shutting drawers. In the bottom drawer, was a green metal box. Parker lifted it out. It was heavy. He put it on the desk and found the key on the ring which opened it. Rolls of coins lined the top tray. He put the tray aside; he had no use for coins. The bottom of the box was full of stached bills. Parker removed St Clair's wallet from his jacket pocket and dropped it in the box. He looked at Johnny again. "Yours, too."

Johnny moved very slowly, reaching around under the apron to his hip pocket and coming up with a worn brown leather wallet. Parker said, "Toss it on the desk."

"I got a lot of papers in there," Johnny told him. "Driver's licence and stuff."

"Good," said Parker. It would go with the papers from the poker players in Miami. Legitimate papers were always useful. He dropped the wallet in the box and closed the top. Then he switched the gun to his left hand, picked up the box in his right, and swung it against St Clair's head. It made a dull echoing sound. When St Clair woke up, he'd be in a hospital.

Parker put the box down, got into his topcoat, and picked the box up again. "Now," he said, "We're going outside. We'll go through the kitchen and out the back way, and you won't say anything to that boy working back there, not even hello. You got me?"

"Not yet, but I will."

"Don't be brave, Johnny, you just work here. Let's go."

Johnny led the way, and Parker followed, cradling the metal box. They went out to the hallway and turned right to go through the kitchen. The Negro was still sweating at the clipper, shoving dirty dishes in at one end and pulling clean dishes out at the other. The clipper made a lot of noise and he didn't even notice them going through. The kitchen was steamy from the clipper, which made the outside air seem even colder and damper than before.

After they went out, Parker closed the door. It was pitch-black, and it took Parker a few seconds for his eyes to adjust. Then he saw and heard Johnny making a run for it to the left. He smiled thinly and followed. They both went around the building, Johnny crashing and blundering ahead, Parker moving silently in his wake. Then Johnny burst out to the brightly-lit sidewalk and ducked to the left around the corner of the building towards the entrance. Parker made it to the sidewalk and walked the other way. In three steps he was in darkness, and then he was around the corner. He got into the Olds, put the metal box on the seat beside him, and drove away.

Justin Fairfax. He hadn't moved. That was stupid, it really was. He should have moved.

Parker had been here once before, while trying to get his money back from the syndicate. Justin Fairfax was one of the two men in charge of the New York area of the Outfit's operations.

The door opened. A heavy set, distrustful man stood there, his right hand near his jacket lapel. He asked quietly, "What is it?"

Beyond him, Parker could see the elegant living room with its white broadloom carpet, white leather sofa, and free-form glass coffee table. The twin brothers of the heavyset man lounged there, looking out of place, like burglars resting in the middle of a heist.

"I've got a message for Mr Fairfax. From Jim St Clair," Parker said.

"What's the message?"

"I'm supposed to deliver it to him personally."

"Tough. What's the message?"

Parker shrugged. "I'll go tell Mr St Clair you wouldn't let me in," he said. He turned away and headed for the elevator.

"Hold on."

Parker looked back.

"All right. You wait there, I'll see what Mr Fairfax has to say."

"I'll wait inside. I don't want to hang around the hallway."

The heavy-set man made an angry face. "All right," he said, "get in here."

Parker went in, and the heavy-set man closed the door after him. They stepped down into the living room, and the man warned, "Watch this bird!" Then he crossed the room and went through another door which led deeper into the apartment.

The twin brothers watched him. Parker stood with his hands in his pockets, his right hand on the .38. His topcoat was unbuttoned, so he could aim the gun in any direction from within the pocket.

The heavy-set man came back, followed by Fairfax. Fairfax was tall and stately, greying at the temples, with a smartly clipped pepper-and-salt moustache. He was about fifty-five, and had obviously spent a lot of time in gymnasiums. He was wearing a silk Japanese robe and wicker sandals. He looked at Parker and frowned. "Do I know you?"

The new face came in handy sometimes. Parker said, "I work for Mr St Clair. You might of seen me around with him."

"Mmmm." Fairfax touched his moustache with the tips of his fingers. "Well, what's the message?"

Parker glanced meaningfully at the bodyguards. "Mr St Clair said I should keep it private."

"You can speak in front of these men."

"Well – it has to do with Parker."

Fairfax smiled thinly. "Parker is the reason these men are here," he said. "What about him?"

"He knocked over The Three Kings tonight."

"He what?"

"He beat up Mr St Clair and the bartender. He walked off with thirty-four hundred dollars."

"So he's in New York." Fairfax mused, stroking his moustache.

"He told Mr St Clair he was coming to see you next."

"He did, eh?" Fairfax glanced around at his three bodyguards. He smiled again, with scornful amusement. "I think we're ready for him if he does come," he said. "Don't you?"

"No."

Parker fired through his pocket, and the heavy-set man who had let him in staggered back one step and fell over a table, scattering magazines to the floor. The twin brothers jumped to their feet, but Parker pulled the gun from his pocket and they stopped, frozen in midgesture. Fairfax backed up until his shoulders brushed the far wall; his face was pale and haggard, and his fingers now covered his moustache completely.

Parker ordered the twins, "Pick him up. Fairfax, lead the way. Same bedroom as last time," The last time he had been here, they'd been bodyguards, too. They'd been locked in a bedroom while Parker said what he had to say.

The twins went over to the man on the floor. One of them looked up, saying, "He isn't dead."

"I know. I caught him in the shoulder. You can call a doctor after I leave here."

Fairfax, looking stunned, led the way. The brothers followed, carrying the wounded man, and Parker came last. They went into the bedroom and the twins put the wounded man down on the bed. Fairfax pursed his lips at that, but didn't say anything.

Parker said, "Guns on the floor. Move very slow and easy, and one at a time. You first."

They did as they were told. Then Parker had them stand a few feet back from the wall, leaning on their hands, bodies off balance. He frisked them, finding nothing more on them. He relieved the wounded man of his gun, picked up the three guns in his left hand by their trigger guards, and motioned Fairfax to precede him out of the bedroom. Parker locked the door behind him. He and Fairfax went back to the living room.

Fairfax had regained some of his composure. "I don't know what you hope to gain," he said. "You'll keep annoying us, and we'll keep hunting you. The end is inevitable."

"Wrong. You aren't hunting me, I'm hunting you. Right now, I'm hunting Bronson."

"You won't get at him as readily as you got at me."

"Let me worry about that. This is the second time I've met up with you, Fairfax, and you can live through it this time too, if you cooperate."

"Whatever you want, it's beyond my power to give it to you."

"No, it isn't. I want two things. I want to know where Bronson is now and where he'll be for the next week or two. And I want to know who in the Outfit is slated to take over if anything happens to Bronson."

Fairfax's smile was shaky. "It would be worth my life to tell you either of those things."

"You won't have any life left if you don't. I got your body guards out of the way so you could tell me without anybody knowing. I'm making it easy on you."

"I'm sorry. This time you'll just have to kill me." His voice had a quaver in it, but he met Parker's eyes and he kept his hand away from his moustache.

Parker considered. Then he said, "All right, we'll make it easier than that. You know who's next in line after Bronson. I want to get in touch with you."

"Why?"

"You listen, and you'll find out. What's his name?"

Fairfax thought it over. His hand came up stealthily and lingered at his moustache. He said, finally, as though to himself, "You want to make a deal. All right, there's no harm in that. It's Walter Karns."

"Can you call him now?"

"I imagine he's at his place in Los Angeles."

"Phone him."

Fairfax got on the phone. Karns wasn't at the first two places he tried. Fairfax finally got in touch with him in Seattle, and said, "Hold on a second." He hadn't identified himself.

Parker took the phone. "Karns?"

"Yes?" It was a rich voice, a brandy-and-cigar voice. "Who is it?"

"I'm Parker. Ever hear of me?"

"Parker? The Parker who's been causing all that trouble in the East?"

"That's the one."

"Well, well, well. To what do I owe the honour?"

"If anything happens to Bronson, you're in, right?"

"What? Well, now, you're going a little fast there, aren't you?"

"I'm going after Bronson. Maybe I can make a deal with him, so we'll both be satisfied."

"I really doubt that, you know."

"Maybe I can, maybe I can't. If I don't, you're next in line. What I want to know is should I spend any time talking to Bronson?"

"Well, well! So that's it!"

"Do I try to make a deal with Bronson?"

"He'll never do it, you know."

"You got any other reasons why I shouldn't try?"

"Hold on. Let me think about this."

Parker held on. After a minute, Karns said, "I think we could probably work something out, Parker."

"You people go your way, I go mine. You don't annoy me, I don't annoy you."

"That certainly sounds reasonable."

"Yeah. Give me a guarantee."

"A guarantee? Well, now. Yes, I see your position, of course, but – a guarantee. I'm not sure I know what guarantee I could give you."

"Right now, the Outfit is out to get me. If you take over, what happens?"

"After this conversation? If I take over, as you say, as a result of any activity on your part, I assure you I'll be grateful. The organization would no longer bother you in anyway. As to what
guarantee
I could give you-"

"Never mind. I'll give you a guarantee. I'll get Bronson. I got Carter – you remember him?"

"From New York? Yes, I remember that clearly."

"And I had my hands on Fairfax once. And, now, I'll get Bronson. That means, if I have to, I can find you, too."

"You seem to have found me already. Who was that on the phone before you?"

"That's not part of the deal. I just want you to understand the situation."

"I think I understand, Parker. Believe me, if you succeed in ending the career of Arthur Bronson, you will have my undying respect and admiration. I would no more cross you thereafter than I would shake hands with a scorpion.

Parker motioned for Fairfax to come close. Into the phone, he said, "Say it plain and simple. If I get Bronson, what?"

He held the phone out towards Fairfax. They both heard the faint voice say, "If you get Arthur Bronson, Mr Parker, the organization will never bother you again."

Parker brought the phone back to his mouth and said, "That's good. Good-bye, Mr Karns."

"Good-bye, Mr Parker. And, good hunting!"

Parker hung up. He turned to Fairfax. "Well?"

Fairfax stroked his moustache. "I've always admired Karns," he said. "And I never did like Bronson. You'll find him in Buffalo. He's staying at his wife's house until you're found. 798 Delaware, facing the park."

"All right, Fairfax. Now listen. What happens if you warn Bronson?"

"I won't, you can rely on that."

"But what happens if you do? You have to let him know you told me where to find him. He wouldn't take any excuse at all for that."

"I'm not going to warn him."

"What about those bodyguards of yours? Can you keep them quiet about tonight?"

"They work for me, not for Bronson."

"All right." Parker went to the hall door and opened it. "Goodbye, Fairfax."

"Good-bye."

Parker boarded the elevator and rode down. He walked out on to Fifth Avenue. Central Park was in front of him and the Olds was illegally parked around the corner. He plucked the green ticket from under the windshield wiper, ripped it in two, and dropped the pieces in the gutter. Then he got behind the wheel, First to Scranton to pick up Handy McKay, if Handy felt like coming, and then on to Buffalo.