The Outfit (12 page)

"I hate this city," Parker said.

"It's a city," Handy replied. "They're all like this."

"I hate them all, then. Except resort towns. Miami, Vegas, you don't run into this kind of thing."

"You're like me, you like a little town. You ever been to Presque Isle?"

"No."

"You should see the winters. Snow over your head."

"Sounds great."

Handy laughed. "I like it," he said. "We turn at the next corner. You make a right."

"It's one way the other way."

"Oh, yeah. Take the next right and circle around. I forgot about the one-way stuff."

The next corner was no good either. The cross street was one way, in the same direction as the block before it. Parker ran on down another block in time to get stopped by the traffic light. Women in heavy coats carrying clothing-store boxes massed around the car in a herd. It wasn't December yet, but the Christmas decorations were up. A few Thanksgiving decorations were still up, too; nobody'd remembered to take them down.

The light turned green and Parker made the right. The next cross street still was one way the wrong way. "They got any oneway streets in Presque Isle?"

"Maybe one or two. You can live there all your life and not have to worry about it."

"Maybe I'll go there some day."

"Stop in the diner, I'll fry you an egg."

"Thanks."

The next street allowed them to go in the direction they wanted.

Handy said, "I'm sorry about this. I wish I knew somebody in Buffalo, then we could of just by-passed this town."

"It'd be the same in Buffalo."

"Yeah, but we'd
be
there."

"After you make the connection, we'll get up north of town by the thruway and stop in at a motel. I don't want to drive any more after this. We can get to Buffalo tomorrow and still have plenty of time."

"Okay, good. Park anywhere."

"Sure."

There weren't any parking spaces. They passed the building they wanted, and there still weren't any parking spaces. The curb for the last half-block to South Salina Street on the right was empty of cars, but lined with
No Parking
signs. Parker would have been willing to go around the block again, but to go around the block again, he'd have to go halfway around the city, so he pulled to the curb in the forbidden zone and shut off the engine. Let them give him a ticket. The car was a mace anyway. And he wouldn't have it more than a week or two. Once the job was done, he'd unload it. So let them copy down the licence number in their little books and pile the tickets on the hood like snow.

They both got out of the car. Parker locked it, and they walked back down the block to the building they wanted, two tall men in hunting jackets and caps among the milling herd of stocky women with their arms full of packages.

It was an old building, with plaster walls, painted a bad green. There were two elevators, but only one of them was running. Because it was nearly six o'clock, the old man who ran the one elevator was sitting on his stool with his coat on, waiting for the last few tenants to come down so he could go home. He frowned when he saw Parker and Handy, because he knew they'd be keeping one of the tenants past six o'clock.

"Everybody's gone home," he said, hoping they'd believe him and go away.

Handy had called earlier today, from Binghamton. "Our man's still here. Third floor we want."

Handy's man was Amos Klee, and on the directory between the elevators it said: AMOS KLEE,
Confidential Investigations
. Klee was a licenced, bonded private detective, but if he'd tried to make a living, as a private detective in a city like this with an office in a building like this one he would have starved to death in a month. Klee had one priceless asset which paid his rent and kept him in spending money. That asset was his pistol permit. Plural. Pistol
permits
. The State of New York had given Amos Klee three pieces of paper each of which allowed him, for purposes of business, to own and to possess and to carry a pistol. Three pieces of paper, three pistols. Klee normally owned between fifty and a hundred pistols, but he never had more than three at a time where they might be noticed.

Pistols were Klee's business. Revolvers and automatics, and, occasionally, shotguns and rifles. Just twice in his career he had been asked for machine guns, and both times he'd been able to supply the order. Both times the customer had had to wait a bit, but Amos Klee had eventually supplied the order.

With an ordinary pistol it was easier. Same day service. Call him in the morning – drop in in the afternoon, and pick up the merchandise. Simple. And later on, if you wanted, Klee would buy the pistol back at half the original price. He would then rotate barrel and grip with another pistol, clean it, relube it, if necessary, and sell it again. If he was offered a pistol he hadn't had in stock before, he'd buy it at a very low price, less than a quarter what he would eventually ask for it, because with a gun new to him there was the additional work of filing the serial numbers away. As a sideline, he did a small business in fake collector's items. He had done three or four Dance Bros & Park.44 cap-and-ball revolvers that only an expert with a magnifying glass could prove false.

Because Klee's telephone had been tapped once and he had come close to losing licence, permits, and all, during the call Handy had made from Binghamton this morning he hadn't mentioned guns at all.

"Klee speaking."

"Mister Klee, you don't know me, but Dr Hall of Green Bay recommended you to me. I intend to be in Syracuse next Monday afternoon, and if you're free, I'd like to discuss a matter of some delicacy with you."

"On Monday?"

"Or later today."

"Monday would be best. What's the problem?"

"Well, I'd rather discuss that in person."

"Is it divorce work?"

"Well, yes."

"I'm sorry, I don't handle divorce work."

Handy had apologized, and hung up. Mentioning Dr Hall of Green Bay had told Klee that he was a customer for a pistol. And Klee demanded that all pistol customers suggest two times when they could drop in to see him, and the one he said
no
to would be the one when they should arrive. If his phone was being tapped again, and if the law ever did catch on to the Dr Hall from Green Bay gambit, he wanted to be sure he was raided on the wrong day.

So Klee was in, and waiting for them. The old man in the elevator grumbled to himself as he took them up to the third floor, and when they were getting out he said, "I go home six o'clock. You hang around too long, you'll have to walk down."

They ignored him and went down the hall. The same green paint covered the plaster walls here. Klee's office was flanked on one side by a food broker and on the other by a novelty company. Handy led the way into Klee's office.

It was a one-room office with a wooden railing across at midpoint to create the illusion that the area behind it was a private office, the area in front, a reception-and-waiting room. Klee was alone at his cluttered desk at the rear of the office. He was very short and very fat with wire-framed spectacles and lifeless black hair. The front of his suit was littered with cigarette ashes. He had a surprisingly shy smile and a fond sensual way of handling guns.

It had often occurred to his customers that Klee was a setup to be robbed. Go in to buy a gun, buy it, turn it around and hold Klee up, then walk out. Klee would think twice before squawking to the law. But most of Klee's customers liked him, admired his merchandise, and trusted his discretion, so they chose other targets instead.

Besides, there was a story: One time, a young hotshot had decided to hold Klee up, but he'd talked about it too much and the word had got back to Klee. The kid made a call, and when he came in to get the gun Klee gave it to him. He checked it. It was loaded, so he turned it around and told Klee to get his hands up. Instead, Klee reached for another gun. The hotshot hadn't intended to kill him, but it looked as though he'd have to, so he pulled the trigger and the gun blew up in his hand, mangling it badly. Klee had laughed and asked if the hotshot wanted him to call the Police Rescue Squad? The hotshot stuffed his ruined hand into his coat pocket and ran out. Klee never heard of him again. Nobody else ever tried to hold him up.

Klee waved from the desk, calling, "Come on in! Handy, it's you! I thought I recognized the voice, but I couldn't quite place it."

"How you doing, Amos?"

"Not bad, not bad. Got a nice one for you, Handy, a real nice one." He glanced over at Parker. "I'm sorry," he said. "Do I know you?"

"It's Parker, Amos," Handy said. He was grinning. "He had his face done over."

"Well, I'll be! I'd never recognize you." His smile faded. "You wanted two guns? I'm sorry, I didn't catch it, Handy. You should have said, 'My partner and I,' or something like that."

"I've already got a gun," Parker told him. "I got it down south. I didn't know I'd be coming through here."

"Oh, that's all right. You'll buy from me again."

"Sure."

Klee struggled up from his desk now, showing himself to be even shorter and fatter than he'd looked while sitting down. He turned towards the old iron safe in the corner. "I suppose you're in a hurry."

Handy said, "The elevator operator's in a hurry."

"He's getting worse every day, that old man. One of these days, he'll refuse to run the elevator at all, and maybe
then
they'll fire him. Maybe."

Klee smiled over his shoulder at them, then crouched down in front of the safe to work the combination. His chubby fingers spun the dial back and forth, he pushed the handle down, and the safe opened. He removed a flat wooden box, of the kind jewellers keep particularly precious necklaces in, and brought it over to the desk.

"A real nice piece," he said, opening the box. "Iver Johnson, model 66, snub. She'll take .38 S & W or Colt New Police, five shots. The rear sight has been removed, and she's got new plastic grips."

He took the revolver from the box – the box was lined with green velvet – and held it tenderly in his hands. His hands and the gun were short and stubby. His hands fondled the gun as he walked about it. "You see the rounded front sight? Won't catch in your pocket like the Cadet. They call this one the Trailsman. Nice and small, handy for pocket or purse, like they say." He giggled, and reluctantly handed the gun over to Handy.

Handy looked it over. "This the best you got?"

"For the price, for the size, yes. In a revolver. Now, if you want an automatic, I've got a nice Starfire .380, seven shots. She's not quite as small as this, but, of course, thinner."

"What do you want for this one?"

"Seventy."

"And the automatic?"

"Eighty."

"This one's okay."

"She's a very nice little revolver, she really is." Klee closed the safe, leaving the box out. "I've sold her twice before, and never any complaints."

"That's good. You've got ammunition?"

"Of course." Klee went back to his desk, sat down, and opened the bottom right-hand drawer. He took a small box of cartridges out and set it on the desk.

Handy didn't bother to load the revolver. He stowed it away inside his hunting jacket, put the box of cartridges in his pants pocket, and started to pay Klee for the gun.

But Parker objected. "No. I'm financing this one, remember?"

"Oh. Sure."

Parker counted the money out on to Klee's desk.

Klee watched, smiling, and then said, "Remember now, I'll buy her back when you're done with her. Half-price. Thirty-five dollars, if you want to bring her back."

"If we get the chance," Handy promised.

"That's good, that's good. And you, too, Parker. I'll take yours off your hands when you're finished with it. What is it?"

"Smith & Wesson, .38, short barrel."

"Model 10?"

"I think so."

Klee considered. "If it's in good condition I can give you twenty for it."

"All right," said Parker. "If we pass through on the way back."

"Of course. I'll be seeing you."

"So long."

Parker looked at the house where Bronson lived and nodded. He pulled the Olds over to the curb and stopped, then gazed across the mass of stone.

It was Saturday night. A thousand miles away, the Club Cockatoo was being robbed, but Parker didn't know that yet. Neither did Bronson who would get a call about it later that night.

Parker shut off the engines. "Let's go for a walk."

"Right."

They got out of the car. The park was beside them; they walked along it, not crossing till they were opposite the next cross street. They went down the cross street, and turned right, and walked along towards the rear of Bronson's house. They walked slowly, casually, two big men in hunting jackets and caps, their hands in their pockets, not speaking to each other. They weren't going in after Bronson tonight, this walk was just to have a look around.

Handy murmured. "There's the garage."

"Driveway, there."

They strolled along, looking in all the parked cars they passed, studying the driveways as they went by. They continued to the next corner, then turned back towards the park again.

Handy said, "It's wide open. Does that figure?"

"Maybe Bronson's got a front around here, so it would look funny for him to have guards at the driveways."

"I guess so."

"He'll have them in there with him, though."

Parker thought about it as they walked along. This was Bronson's front. Bronson's cover. He probably had his life here completely separated from his life in the Outfit – like Handy with his diner in Presque Isle, Maine, or Parker when he was being Charles Willis. Maybe Bronson figured this Buffalo cover was enough to protect him.

So this should tie the score. Bronson breaks into Charles Willis; Parker breaks into Buffalo.

They turned right, walked past the front of Bronson's place, and on to the end of the block. Then they crossed over to the park again, walked back to the car, climbed in, and Parker drove away.

So that was Bronson's hide-out. A big pile of stones, set back from the street, the grounds surrounded by high hedges. Neighbours far away on both sides. Looking at it from the park, on the right, there was a school for the blind; on the left, some fraternal organization's meeting-house. Both sides empty at night, anyway. The deserted park across the street. And nothing but his own garage in back. Bronson was isolated in there, a sitting duck. You could set off dynamite, and no one would hear a thing.

"You want days or nights?" Handy asked.

"I'll take nights. I slept this afternoon on the way in."

"Okay."

They headed north, through Kenmore and Tonawanda, and found a motel near the thruway. The woman in the office talked all the time, reminding Parker of Madge, except she was fat. She finally showed them their unit and gave them the key and went away. Parker and Handy carried their luggage inside.

Handy looked at his watch. "Ten o'clock. I'll see you at ten in the morning."

"Right."

Parker went back to the car, drove south again into Buffalo, and over to Bronson's house. He parked across the street and down the block a way so that he was facing the house. His watch told him it was ten-twenty.

He got pencil and notebook out of the glove compartment and made a rough sketch of the front of the house, numbering the windows from one to eleven. Five of the windows were lighted. He wrote:
10.20
–
1-2-3-6-7
. He had passed the rear of the house coming in, and there had been no lights on back there at all.

The notes finished, he put the pencil and notebook down on the seat beside him, lit a cigarette, and settled down to wait.

At eleven-forty, a prowl car went by, headed east. Parker jotted it down.

At eleven-fifty-five, window 3 went out. At eleven-fifty-seven, window 9 lit up. He wrote it down. At twelve-ten, window 9 went out. He noted that.

At twelve-twenty windows 6 and 7 went off. Parker waited, but no other lights went on to replace them. He started the car and drove around the block, but there still weren't any fights on in back. He returned to his parking space.

At one-fifteen the prowl car went by again, once more headed east. So it was a belt, and not a back-and-forth deal. The belt took about an hour and a half. Parker wrote it down.

After the prowl car disappeared from his rearview mirror, he got out of the Olds and crossed the street. The street lights were widely spaced here and all of them were on the park side. He was only a shadow when he slipped through the opening in the hedge and moved at an angle across the lawn towards the lighted windows. He peered over a sill at the room inside.

An oval oak table, with a chandelier above, and five men sitting around the table. It took Parker a minute to figure out what they were doing. Playing some game.

Monopoly. For real money, one-cent to the dollar.

Parker studied them and picked out Bronson right away. He had a rich, irritated, overfed look. The other four had the stolid truculence of club fighters, strikebreakers, or bodyguards. In this case, bodyguards. As Parker watched, Bronson bought Marvin Gardens.

Parker moved away from the window, around the house, keeping close to the wall. There was an apartment over the garage, which he hadn't noticed before. There was a light on up there, and record-player music came softly from the open window. As Parker watched, a Negro in an undershirt showed in the window. The chauffeur, undoubtedly. Parker continued around the house.

There were no other lights on. Someone had gone to bed in the room behind window 9. The chauffeur was in his apartment over the garage. Bronson and four bodyguards were playing Monopoly downstairs. The one who had gone to bed, Bronson's wife? Probably. So there were six in the house, plus the chauffeur. Parker went back to the car and wrote it all down in the notebook.

Two-fifty, the prowl car again.

Three-ten, window 3 went on. A minute later it went off again, then an upstairs pair of windows, 6 and 7, went on. They stayed on.

Who would have left the game? Bronson. Window 3 would have shown the light he'd turned on to go upstairs. Windows 6 and 7 were probably his bedroom. Windows 1 and 2, where the game was, stayed on.

Three forty-five, windows 6 and 7 went off. Then window 8 came on, stayed on for five minutes, and went off. So, was 8 Bronson's bedroom? Maybe he had a den or something upstairs, and he'd spent some time there before going to bed. Parker wrote it down, then added a question mark.

He drove around the block again. The chauffeur's light was out, and there were still no lights on in the back of the house.

The bodyguard's didn't even cover the back of the house. They were still in front, playing Monopoly.

Parker didn't believe it. He parked around in front again, left the car, and went over to the house to check. And there they were, all four of them, still playing Monopoly at the oval oak table.

Parker went back to the car. He wrote it down and put an exclamation point after it.

When window 3 went on at four-fifty, and windows 1 and 2 went off, he knew they were all going to bed. None of them would stay up all night, to be sure. They would all go to bed. When window 3 went black Parker started the Olds, and drove around to the back of the house. A row of lights came on on the third floor. He waited until they went off, one by one.

Now the entire house was in darkness. There was no one awake to give an alarm. Parker went back to his parked car and settled down to wait for morning. He noted the prowl car's infrequent but regular passage, and also that the two cops in it never gave him a second glance. He'd been sitting here all night, but they hadn't bothered him.

At seven-thirty, he put pencil and notebook in his pocket, left the Olds, and walked into the park. There was a blacktop path with some benches along it. He sat on one, bundled up in the hunting jacket, and chain-smoked while he watched the house and waited for ten o'clock.

At five past nine, a black Cadillac came out through the opening in the hedge, and turned right. Squinting, Parker could see the Negro chauffeur at the wheel and one man in back. That would be Bronson. Another black Cadillac came out from the cross street to the left, turned, and fell in behind the first one. There were four men in it. The two Cadillacs drove away. So now there would be no one in the house except Bronson's wife.

At nine-thirty, a cab stopped in front of the house and a Negro woman got out, carrying a brown paper bag. She went into the house. Cook or maid or cleaning woman, her work clothes in the bag.

At five minutes to ten, another cab came along and stopped, this one pulled to the curb behind the Olds. Handy got out and paid the driver. Parker got to his feet and strolled along the path, looking over at Handy. Handy checked the Olds first, then looked around until he spied Parker. He came towards him across the grass. Parker sat down on the nearest bench.

Handy sat down next to him. "How'd it go?"

Parker got out the notebook and read off what had happened in the past twelve hours, with his own commentary and explanations. Handy listened, nodding, and said, "He's making it easy for us."

"It doesn't figure."

"Sure it does. He thinks he's safe here. The bodyguards are for just-in-case, but he doesn't really think he'll need them."

"We'll go in Thursday. That'll give us five days to double-check."

"Okay."

Parker got to his feet. "See you tonight."

"Right."

Parker looked over at the Olds. "Maybe we ought to move the car."

"I won't need it till after dark."

"I'll be right back."

Parker went over and got into the car and drove it away. He took it halfway around the park, locked it, and walked back through the park to Handy. "It's over there. You follow the path straight through."

"Okay."

Parker gave him the keys then walked out of the park. He found a cab, and went back to the motel.