“Jesus, Parker–-“
“Who worked up this scheme? Alma?”
“Most of it was her idea, yeah.”
“Sure. She spent a lot of time leaning on the counter looking out there at the tin box wishing she could get her hands on the green inside and working it all out in her head, not knowing a thing about heisting or armoured cars or anything else except how to draw a lousy cup of coffee.”
“Aw, now, Parker–-“
“I need cash,” Parker said. “I’m in the job, on one condition.”
“Name it.”
“We throw that plan away and start from scratch. She gave us the set-up, and it’s a good one. Bracketing the wagon with trucks is good, too. From there on, we got to work something out from the beginning.”
Skimm twitched all over trying not to show his relief. He’d never worked an armoured car before, and he hadn’t been sure of himself. He’d probably talked himself into a bind with the woman Alma, loud-talking about what an artist he was so he couldn’t admit to her he didn’t know whether her ideas were any good or not. He’d wanted Parker because he wanted somebody else to take over the operation.
Parker lit a new cigarette. “We’ll do it with three men, not five. The pie’s too small for five. You and Handy and me, and we split it three ways even. You and Alma can share your third between you any way you want.”
“What about her ten per cent?”
“Give it to her out of your third. What the hell, she’s travelling with you.”
“Jesus, I don’t know, Parker. I’d have to check with Alma on that.”
“You two figured to take a third anyway, didn’t you? And leave the other two-thirds for a four-man split. So what’s the difference? You get the same dough as before, but with a cleaner, safer job.”
“I guess so,” Skimm said doubtfully. “I’d have to check with Alma.”
Skimm worried it over, staring anxiously at the empty pint. Finally, he said, “Okay, Parker. Three ways, even.”
“All right. Let me see that map.” Parker came over and took it from the bed. “Newark,” he said. “There’s a bar named the Green Rose. It’s on Division Street. I’ll meet you there next Monday night, ten o’clock.”
“Okay, sure.” Skimm got up from the bed, his lips twitching again. Parker knew he was anxious to go buy another pint. “Okay, Parker, I’m glad to have you in, I really am. I’ll send word to Lew and Little Bob to forget it.”
“Good.”
“What you going to do now?”
‘See about bankrolling. I know a couple of people in Baltimore. I’ll figure three grand to cover it.”
“Okay, fine. Listen, you want Handy with me? At the bar I mean.”
“Sure.”
“I’m glad to have you in, Parker.”
“The Green Rose,” Parker reminded him. “Next Monday, ten o’clock.”
Chapter 4
ACROSS THE RIVER from Cincinnati, Ohio, is Newport, Kentucky. Parker took the bus over and walked to Whore Row. Cincinnati is a clean town, so the Cincinnati citizens in search of action go across the river to Newport, which is a dirty town. Parker wandered around, walking up and down the streets, . looking. It was eleven-thirty at night when he got to Newport, and nearly two in the morning before he found what he was looking for.
Ahead of him, a weaving drunk fumbled with his car keys, trying to get into a car with Ohio plates. The car was a Ford, cream-coloured, two years old. Except for Parker and the drunk the block was empty and deserted.
Parker came along, arms swinging loose at his sides, and when he was alongside the drunk he turned and chopped him in the kidney. That made it impossible for the drunk to cry out. Parker turned him and clipped him, and caught the car keys as they fell from the drunk’s hand. The drunk hit the pavement, and Parker unlocked the car door, slid behind the wheel, and drove away.
He took the bridge back across the river to Cincinnati and parked near the railroad depot. He went into the depot and got the suitcase and typewriter case from the locker where he’d stashed them. Then he went back to the car and drove north through town and out the other side and headed northeast on 22 towards Pittsburgh. It was now three o’clock Thursday morning. He had till Monday night to get to New Jersey and look the situation over for himself. If the set-up looked as promising as Skimm had made it sound, fine. Otherwise, Skimm would have a long wait at the Green Rose.
Parker covered the three hundred miles between Cincinnati and Pittsburgh in under seven hours, crossing into Pennsylvania at Weirton a little after nine. He circled Pittsburgh, not wanting to go through town, and when he got back to 22 on the other side it was after ten. He slowed down, then, looking for a motel.
When he found one he stopped. He slept most of the day, getting up at quarter to seven. He took a shower and shaved and dressed, and then opened the typewriter case on the bed. He counted out three thousand dollars, then closed the typewriter case again. He needed money badly, so he’d decided to bankroll the job himself. So far as Skimm was concerned, the money was coming from the contacts in Baltimore.
Parker stowed the three thousand in his suitcase, then carried the typewriter case down the row of doors to the motel office. This was a secondary route now that the Pennsylvania Turnpike was in existence, and the motel was seedy and rundown. The interior walls needed a new coat of paint, and half the neon sign out by the road Wasn’t working.
The man who ran the motel was short, fat, and balding. His eyes shone behind glasses with plastic frames patched by friction tape. He sat at the counter in the motel office, dressed in a rumpled suit and a frayed white shirt and a wrinkled tie. He had sullen lines around his mouth, and he was surly whenever his customers spoke to him.
He was alone at the desk when Parker came in, staring glumly across the counter through the plate-glass window at the road. A semi passed, headed east, and then the road was empty again.
Parker put the typewriter case up on the counter and said, “Want to make half a G?”
The owner looked at him. “Why don’t you go to hell?”
Parker lit a cigarette and dropped the match on the counter, still burning. The owner made a startled sound and reached out, slapping the match. Parker said, “One of these days, somebody’s going to break your head.”
“You get the hell out of here!” the owner said angrily. “Who do you think you are?”
“Five hundred,” Parker said. “You could get the sign fixed.”
The owner got off his stool, looking back at the phone on the wall. Then he looked at Parker again. “You mean it?”
Parker waited, smoking.
The owner considered, gnawing on the inside of his cheek. He stood next to his stool, one hand flat palm down on the counter. His fingernails were ragged and dirty. He thought about it, gnawing his cheek, and then he shook his head. “You’re talking about something illegal,” he said. “I don’t want no part of it.”
Parker opened the typewriter case. “See? Five grand. And it isn’t hot money. I want to stash it some place where I know it’s safe. If I ask you to hold it for me and you look in it and see the dough you might be tempted. So I pay you five hundred. You’ve made a nice piece of change, and you don’t get tempted.”
“Five thousand.” He said it with a kind of heavy contempt. “What would I do with five thousand? Where would I go? What would it get me? I’d need a lot more than that. I’m stuck in this rat-trap for the rest of my life.”
“You want the five hundred?”
“If a state trooper comes in looking for that money, I’ll hand it right over. I don’t go to jail for no five hundred dollars. Or any five thousand, either.”
“I told you, it isn’t hot.”
The owner looked at the money. “For how long?” he asked.
Parker shrugged. “Maybe a week, maybe a year.”
“What if it gets stolen off me?”
Parker smiled thinly, and shook his head. “I wouldn’t believe it,” he said.