Kifka nodded reluctantly. ‘Yeah, it don’t sound probable,’ he admitted.
‘Maybe it was a stranger after all,’ Parker told him. ‘I’ll believe it after I’ve checked and found out for sure it wasn’t any one of us.’
‘That makes sense, I guess.’
Parker looked around. ‘You got pencil and paper?’
‘Ask Janey. There ought to be some out in the living room.’
Parker went over and opened the door and looked out. Janey was sitting in a basket chair across the room leading a paperback. Parker said, ‘We need pencil and paper. Just one sheet of paper.’
She got to her feet without a word, dropped the book on the chair, and walked across the room to where a secretary stood in the corner. She opened it and started looking for a pencil. She was still dressed the same way, and she’d been sitting in a cane chair, and her bottom now looked like a rounded pink waffle.
She came over finally with ballpoint pen and a small notepad. ‘Is it going to be much longer?’
Parker took pen and pad from her. ‘A minute or two.’ He shut the door in her face and went back to the bed. ‘You want to give me the addresses?’
‘They’re together,’ Kifka told him. ‘Arnie and Little Bob, the both of them. They’re at a place called Vimorama, out on route 12N, about two miles out of town.’
‘Vimorama.’ Parker wrote it down.
‘It’s a health-food place,’ Kifka told him. ‘They got all kinds of carrot juice there, crap like that. And like cabins in back. In the summertime they run like a diet farm there; fat people go out and spend a week and don’t eat nothing but the carrot juice.’
‘They’re in one of the cabins?’
‘Yeah. Number four. You know how to get to 12N?’
‘No.’
‘You know Ridgeworth Boulevard, that’s where the hotel is where you stayed when you first came to town.’
Parker nodded.
‘Well, you lake that out past the hotel, going so the hotel is on your right, and you just stay on it out of town and it turns into 12N. Vimorama’s about two miles beyond the city limits, on the right. There’s a City Line Diner on your left, and you go just about two miles past that.’
Parker said, ‘All right. You got a phone number here?’
‘Victor 6-2598.’
Parker wrote it down and said, ‘I’ll get in touch with you, let you know what the story is.’
‘Good.’
Parker got to his feet and started for the door, but Kifka said, ‘How much was it?’
Parker turned. ‘What?’
‘You counted it, didn’t you? The take? How much was it?’
‘A hundred thirty-four thousand.’
‘I get a seventh,’ Kifka said. ‘How much is that?’
‘About nineteen grand.’
‘Nineteen grand.’ Kifka savored the words on his tongue. ‘I could use nineteen grand,’ he said.
‘So could I.’
Kifka nodded. ‘Sure. You want your seventh, too.’
‘That’s right.’ Parker turned away again, opened the door, and went into the living room. He said to Janey, ‘He’s yours again.’
She immediately dropped the book and got to her feet. ‘Good.’
Kifka was never going to get healthy with Janey around. But then, maybe he didn’t care. Parker went on out and shut the apartment door.
He went downstairs and outside and started down the exterior steps to the sidewalk when a voice shouted from across the street, ‘Hey!’ and then there was the sound of a shot.
Parker dove the last four steps, rolled across the sidewalk, and came up against a parked car. A second shot sounded, and the side window of the car shattered, raining glass down on him.
Parker got to hands and knees and crawled hurriedly around the rear of the car. Across the way there was a narrow blacktop driveway hemmed in on both sides by the sheer walls of apartment buildings. With the third shot, Parker saw a muzzle flash in the darkness within that driveway. He dragged a gun out of his topcoat pocket, braced his arm on the bumper of the car, and fired at the muzzle flash.
Footsteps clattered, receding, somebody running away along the blacktop.
Parker ran over that way, flattened himself against a wall, and edged slowly around the corner till he could see into the driveway. At the far end the driveway split, going to left and right behind the apartment buildings. There was a wall at the far end, with a light attached to it. There was no one moving in the alley between Parker and the light. Whoever he was, he’d already made the turn, one way or the other, and was gone. Even the sound of his running footsteps was now gone.
But he’d left something behind, a bulky bundle lying against one of the side walls.
Parker approached it cautiously, but it didn’t move. He bent and rolled it over. It was a man. It was the clown in the mackinaw, the follower, the one who wanted his thirty-seven dollars from Dan Kifka.
He’d been shot in the side of the head by a gun of too large a calibre for the job. Kifka now owed thirty-seven dollars to the clown’s estate.
It had been the clown who had shouted. The voice had rung with familiarity, but at the time Parker hadn’t been concerned with wondering who it was. Now he thought back and remembered it, and it had been the voice of the clown here.
None of it made sense. The clown had been alone before, and had obviously had nothing to do with anything but his own thirty-seven bucks. But now he’d been here with somebody else, and he’d obviously been involved in a lot more than thirty-seven dollars.
Parker’s shot hadn’t killed him. He’d been shot from close range, not from across the street.
The way it looked, the two of them had been waiting here for Parker to come out. When he did, the second man was going to kill him. But the clown here shouted a warning, and the second man shot him instead and then tried to get Parker anyway and missed.
That told what happened, by an educated guess, but not why.
Why was the clown here? Why did he shout? Why was he killed? And who was the second man?
Maybe it was an outsider after all. There was too much that made no sense; maybe it would start making sense if the guy who now had the cash wasn’t one of the seven who’d worked the heist after all.
One thing was sure. This changed the plans.
Parker recrossed the street and went back upstairs to Kifka’s apartment and knocked on the door. When the girl opened it this time she was wearing just the sweatshirt again and she looked a little flushed. Also irritated.
Parker went in and shut the door. ‘Tell Dan I’m sleeping on the sofa,’ he said. ‘If you heard the shots out there, that’s why. I’ll talk to Dan again in the morning.’
She said, ‘Sure you don’t want to come in and watch?’
‘I already know how.’
Parker sat down on the sofa and ignored her. He hadn’t bothered to take his topcoat off yet because he was thinking. If the hijacker wasn’t one of the original group, then where did he connect? There had only been seven of them in on the operation from the beginning, on equal shares …
Four
The job had been set up within the last month. Parker had come north on the run, leaving years of careful work in ruins behind him. He’d needed a fresh stake, and when a slot in this operation was offered him he’d grabbed at it.
Parker was a heister by profession, an institutional robber who stole from banks or jewellery stores or armored cars. He worked only as a member of a team, never as a single-o, and he’d been at this profession nineteen years. For most of that time he’d had a false name and a cover identity within which he lived while spending the profits of his work and out of which he moved once or twice a year to replenish the kitty. But all of that had gone to hell now. As a result of trouble on a piece of work over a year ago his fingerprints had gone on file with the law for the first time, and more trouble just two months ago had connected those fingerprints with the cover identity. Parker had had to leave fast, abandoning bank accounts, abandoning a way of life, everything.