“Forget it,” said the killer.
“You can’t go to the law either,” Parker told him. He looked past the killer, over at the woman. “I’ve got to force the names out of him,” he said. “I don’t like that kind of job. You want to try it? I’ll tie him. And gag his mouth so he can’t holler.”
She smiled again, leaned far over the edge of the bed, and looked down at the killer.
“Yes,” she said. “I’ve never done anything like that. I’d like to try.” Her tongue peeked out past her lips. She moistened her lips, and looked down, and smiled.
Parker was pleased. He’d figured her right, every step of the way. He hadn’t figured the unloading yet, but that would come when necessary. When it was time to get rid of her, split with her, he’d find the way. Not kill her, just unload her.
He looked down to see if he’d figured the killer right, too. He had. The killer was staring up at the smiling face of the woman, balloon-like, in the air above him. His pale eyes seemed larger, and the sweat had started on his face again. His fingers were clenching and unclenching and his cheeks seemed hollower, thinner.
Parker said, “What’s your name?”
“Go to hell,” said the killer. But his voice was higher and thinner and not completely under control.
Parker got to his feet. “We’ll use two of my ties,” he said. “You. Get into the chair.”
The killer didn’t move.
Parker stepped on his ankle. The killer gasped, and Parker stepped off the ankle again and said, “Get into the chair.”
The woman said, “Tell him to take his pants off.”
The killer closed his eyes. His whole face seemed sunken now, more pallid. He said, “Clint Stern. That’s my name, Clint Stern.”
Parker saw the woman pouting. She leaned back against the pillow again and lit a cigarette. She wouldn’t meet Parker’s eye.
Parker asked, “Who fingered me?”
“Jake Menner.”
“Who is he?”
“A collector. He collects from the books around the hotels.”
“All right. Who gives you the assignments?”
“Jim St Clair.”
“In New York?”
“Yes.”
“Where do I get in touch with him?”
Stern’s eyes flickered and his brow creased with worry lines. “You’re making me dead, man,” he said.
Parker said to the woman, “Maybe you’ll get a chance at him after all.”
Stern said, “I’ll be dead anyway. What’s the difference?” He sounded bitter, as though an injustice had been done him.
“I’m not talking about dead,” Parker told him. “She won’t let you die. Will you, Bett?”
She shrugged. She no longer seemed very interested. She knew Stern was going to give in without her doing anything. So did Parker. So did Stern. He said, “He runs a club in Brooklyn. On Kings Highway, near Utica Avenue.”
“What’s it called?”
“The Three Kings.” Stern closed his eyes again. Every time he closed them, he looked like a corpse. He said, “You’re killing me, man.” He sounded tired, that was all.
“This guy Menner,” said Parker. “You were supposed to call him when the job was done. Right?”
“Yes,” said Stern.
Parker pointed. “There’s the phone. Call him.”
Stern sat up. Then he winced and put his hand to his bruised temple. He winced again, away from the hand, and looked bleakly at the spot of blood that had come off on his palm. “Maybe I got concussion,” he said.
“Move faster,” said Parker.
Stern got to his feet, climbing up the chair. He moved as though he was dizzy. He stumbled when he moved away from the chair, and almost fell down. He made it to the writing desk where the phone was, and leaned against the wall. He picked up the receiver as though it was heavy, and started to dial. Then he looked over at Parker and said “What do I say?”
“Parker’s dead.”
Stern finished dialling, and lifted the receiver to his ear. He waited, dull-eyed. From the middle of the room Parker heard the click and the metallic chatter when the phone was answered at the other end.
Stern said, “This is Stern. Let me talk to Menner.”
There was a brief metallic chatter again, then silence. Stern leaned against the wall. Perspiration was streaming down his face, and his eyes looked heavier and heavier.
Finally, the phone chattered again, rousing him. He said, “Menner?” His eyes got brighter, feverish. He licked his lips. A kind of sick nervousness seemed to be pumping through him.
Parker watched him, and knew he was getting ready to tell Menner the truth. He whispered, “Remember the women, Stern.”
Stern slumped. He said, “It’s done. He’s dead.” Questioning sounds. “No. No trouble.” His voice was as flat and lifeless as his eyes. “Yes. All right. Goodbye.”
But he remained leaning against the wall, head bowed, phone to his ear. Parker went over and took the phone away from him and hung it up. He said, “Where did you just call?”
“Floral Court. Rampon Boulevard.”
“What number?”
“Twelve. Twelve Floral Court.”
“How many others there?”
“Five or six. It’s a poker game.”
“All right. You got any money? Stern! You got any money?”
“Not on me.”
“Where you can get it.”
“Yes.” He was acting now as though he’d been doped.,
“You better get it and take off. South out of the country.”
“Yes.”
“It won’t do any good to try again. It won’t work. And it wouldn’t mean anything to the Outfit anyway. They’re going to know you missed the first time, so they’ll know they can’t count on you.”
“Yes.”
“Take off,” Parker told him.
Stern stepped away from the wall, and stopped. His eyes swivelled up in their sockets and he fell over on his face, loose and limp.
Parker shook his head, irritated. He said to Bett, “Wait here.” He pulled a pair of pants on, grabbed Stern under the shoulders, and dragged him to the door. He pulled the door open and looked outside. It was a quarter to four in the morning, and the hall was empty. Parker dragged Stern down to the hall and opened the door to the interior fire stairs. He pulled Stern through and shut the door again. A dim bulb faintly illuminated each metal landing up and down the stair well.
Parker propped Stern up in the corner and checked his pulse. He was still alive, but not by much. When he’d fallen he’d hit the bruised place on his temple. It was bleeding a little bit again.
“Die some place else,” Parker told him. He pinched him, and jabbed him in the ribs, then snapped his finger sharply against the underpart of Stern’s nose. Stern came out of it groggily. His eyes were unfocused, and if Parker had asked him his name he wouldn’t have known the answer. Or what the date was, or what city he was in, or where he’d been born. But he could understand simple orders, and he could make his body move.
Keeping his voice low, Parker said, “Get on your feet.”
Stern tried, but he couldn’t do it alone. Parker helped him get upright. When he was up he could stay up, one hand pressed against the wall. His head was down, chin sunk in his chest, but his eyes were half-opened. He could still hear.
Parker said, “When I go out this door, go down those steps there. Do you hear me? When I go out this door, go down those steps there.”
Stern nodded minutely.
Satisfied, Parker stepped back and opened the door. He stood in the doorway and watched Stern take the first step towards the descending metal stairs. He turned away, closed the door behind him, and walked back down the hall. Behind him, he could hear the muffled thumping as Stern fell.
He went back to the door and it was empty. He frowned, looked around, and saw the .32 was gone but the .25 was still there. He stood looking at the place where the .32 had been and wondered what she wanted from him that would require blackmail.
But he didn’t have time to waste on her now. When she came back he’d decide what to do.