A block away he could see a gas station, shut for the night. He’d tried two already, but neither had been any good, and the longer he walked around this town the more risk he ran. He moved quickly toward the corner.
There were two cars parked against the fence beside the station building. That was a hopeful sign, maybe. He went over to them and checked, but neither had the keys in the ignition. He could jump the wires, but that way was messy and complicated if he had to stop for gas or something to eat. He’d prefer keys if he could get them. One of the cars, the old Ford, had a jack handle on the floor in back. Parker took that and went over to the station building. The main office door was all one sheet of glass, so he went to the overhead garage door, which was smaller panes of glass, broke one pane, and reached through to unlock the door. He slid it up, stepped inside, and shut the door again.
The cash register was empty as he’d assumed it would be. On a pegboard on the side wall were hung two sets of keys. The first included a Ford key, so he put it back. The other included a Chrysler company key, and the second car parked outside was a Dodge Polara, about a year old.
Parker took the Dodge key and left the others on the chain. He went out the way he’d come in, got into the Dodge, and started the engine. It turned over right away. He had no idea what sort of work it had been left here for or if the work had been done, but the engine ran and that was all that mattered. He backed out in a tight U-turn, drove out to the street, and three minutes later was out on the highway again, headed out of town.
Twenty miles away there was an interstate road. Parker made it in sixteen minutes, seeing no traffic along the way, and went up the ramp and headed east. He drove seven hours with one side trip for gas. He crossed two state lines, and when he was over five hundred miles from the town where the hit had taken place he took an exit ramp and a blacktop road, and as the sun was coming up in his eyes he drove into a good-sized city. He left the car on a side street in a residential section and took a local bus. It carried him downtown with a lot of working people. He got off, asked directions to the railroad station, and walked there. He checked the schedules and found there was a train leaving for Cleveland at ten past nine, not quite two hours from now. He bought a ticket and then went and had breakfast, and then he had nine dollars left.
He slept on the train. Going through the station in Cleveland he picked up a suitcase that was standing there. He walked to a hotel and checked in as Thomas Lynch, saying he would be staying three days. He went up to his room and slept again and came down that evening to send a wire to his woman, Claire, in New Orleans:
DELAY. WIRE 5 C C/O ALDERBAN HOTEL, TOM LYNCH Then he went and had dinner. Afterwards he went upstairs to his room again and looked in the suitcase. He’d picked it up just to have luggage for the sake of the desk clerk, but on the other hand it would be nice to know what was in it. It wasn’t locked.
He put it on the bed and opened it.
Two suits, a dark gray and a medium brown, both meant for a short and very wide man who still believed in eighteen-inch cuffs. Three white shirts with wide collars and French cuffs. Four ties, all with diagonal stripes and muted colors. Boxer shorts. Undershirts. Black socks and dark green socks. Three sets of cuff links, one with Roman emperors, one with rabbit silhouettes, one with horses’ heads, and three matching tie clasps. A deck of cards with pornographic pictures on the back in red and blue. Various Jade East toiletries. A toothbrush and toothpaste for sensitive gums. Electric razor. A packet of business cards:
JOHN “JACK” HORGAN CATBIRD PLUMBING SUPPLIES CORP.
St. Louis, Mo. You ‘re Sitting On the Catbird Seat A pint of Ballantine Scotch. An address book full of business firms. Bottles of aspirin and Alka-Seltzer, and a tube of unidentified prescription ointment.
Parker put everything back except the scotch and stowed the suitcase in the closet. Then he watched television awhile before going back to sleep.
Late the next morning he picked up his five hundred at the Western Union office in the lobby. He went out of the hotel and walked four blocks to an antique store in a run-down side street. The inside of the place was packed and crammed and dusty. It looked to be mostly junk, antique only in the sense that it was old.
An old bell had rung the door when he’d pushed it open and after a minute a very thin, straight old woman came out of the back somewhere. She had gray hair tightly gathered in a bun at the back of her head, her dress was black and dusty, and her bifocals had thin metal frames and round lenses. Her lips were thin. She said, “May I be of service?” Briskly, not caring much.
Parker looked at her. “I wanted to talk to Dempsey,” he said.
“Mr. Dempsey passed on,” she said. “I’m in charge now.”
Parker was doubtful. He said, “I’m interested in guns.”
“Antique guns?”
“Sure.”
“Well, we do have some,” she said. She seemed somewhat doubtful herself now. “Some very nice old derringers, for instance.”
“I had something a little different in mind,” Parker said.
She looked at him through the lower part of the bifocals, then the upper part again. “Were you a customer of Mr. Dempsey’s?”
“I was recommended by a customer of his,” Parker said.
“Who would that be?”
“Fellow named Grofield.”
“Oh, the actor.” She smiled. “Yes, I remember Mr. Grofield. A charming young man.”
Parker didn’t care about that. He said, “He’s the one told me about Dempsey.”
“Of course,” she said. “Then you’ll want to see some of our special stock, won’t you?”
“That’s right.”
“Come along,” she said.
He went with her down the narrow aisle between the seatless chairs, the cracked vases, the chipped enamel basins, the scarred chifferobes. Everywhere there was frayed cloth, cracked leather, sagging upholstery, chipped veneer, and an overall aura of dust and disuse and tired old age.
The doorway at the back was low enough so Parker had to duck his head. The old woman led him through a narrow kitchen containing equipment almost as old and tired-looking as the wares in the shop, and then through another low door and down a flight of stairs into a low-ceilinged basement full of more ancient furniture. It was impossible to see how half of it had been maneuvered down the narrow stairs, or why anyone had bothered.
The old woman said, “What do you need?”
“Handguns. Two of them. Alike, if possible.”
“Well, let’s see. You wait here.”
He waited. She went away and disappeared into the dimness around a Victorian loveseat with a medallion back. Parker waited, occasionally hearing a small sound from the general area ahead of him, and then she came back carrying two shoeboxes. She set these down on a handy dusty surface and opened them up. “Both alike,” she said.
They were two Smith & Wesson Terriers, a five-shot .32 revolver with a two-inch barrel. A good gun for carrying unobtrusively, good in close quarters, but no good at any range at all and not packing a very hard wallop.
Parker said, “Nothing heavier than that?”
“Not two alike,” she said.
He picked up the guns and hefted them. They were both empty. They both looked in good shape, with their front sights, with no obvious scratches or dents. Parker clicked the triggers of both and said, “How much?”
She thought it over, frowning at the guns in his hands. Then, very doubtfully, she said, “A hundred for the two?” As though sure he’d argue with her. And before he could say anything she added hastily, “And a box of shells you get too.”
“That’s all right,” Parker said.
“It is?” She didn’t believe he wasn’t going to haggle with her.
“A hundred for the two,” he said. He put the guns back in their shoeboxes and reached for his wallet.