The Score: A Parker Novel (6 page)

M
achine guns,” said the blind man. “They're expensive, machine guns.”

“I know,” said Parker.

“And hard to come by.”

“I know.”

“The government tries to keep tabs on them. It's tough to find one without a history.”

“I need three. And three rifles. And eight handguns.”

“Rifles, handguns,” said the blind man. “No problem. Machine guns, that's a problem.”

Parker shook his head in irritation, though the blind man couldn't see it. He'd come to the blind man because he was the one to talk to if you wanted machine guns. Parker would have preferred to go to Amos Klee, in Syracuse, but Klee was only good on handguns. It was the blind man, called Scofe, who should be able to supply the machine guns.

Parker said, “You don't have them? You can't get them?”

“Sit,” said the blind man. “Sit, sit. Let me think.”

Parker sat, and let him think.

They were in the filthy back room of a cluttered hobby shop on Second Avenue in Albany, New York. Scofe owned the hobby shop, and it was run by a sloppy woman with red hair who didn't trust anybody. The filth and the clutter and Scofe's blindness and the woman's surliness combined to keep customers at a minimum. Scofe didn't need much to support himself any way and he got most of his income from guns. He was good with his hands, could disassemble and reassemble a rifle faster than most men with eyes, and was even a good shot. He fired at sound targets, a small bell hung up in a breeze or—his favorite kind of target—a child's toy of the click-click type.

Scofe scratched his chin. He hadn't shaved for a few days, and his fingernails made a harsh dry sound against his beard stubble. He said, “Shotgun no good? I got good shotguns, sawed-off or what you want.”

“Machine guns. Three.”

“You know what the Germans call a machine gun?
Kugel-spritz.
Bullet squirter. All noise, no accuracy.”

“Three.”

Scofe shrugged, and made a motion as though washing his hands. “Not my affair. I got a Schmeisser, a burp gun. Old, but in good condition.”

“That's one.”

Scofe chuckled, his shoulders rising and falling. “Parker,”
he said. “Parker, Parker. I hear you got a new face, but your voice don't change, or your style. You don't like me, do you, Parker?”

“I don't give a damn about you.”

“You don't like the dirty old blind man. He smells bad. Yah. Parker?”

“Maybe I'll go to Amos Klee.”

“For machine guns? No, Parker. For machine guns, you come to Scofe. You want the burp gun?”

“Let me see it.”

Scofe pointed. “Over there you see a shelf. Long boxes on it, battleship models. Bottom box, second from the left. Bring it here.”

Parker got the box. The ones he had to move were light, but the one he wanted was heavy. He started to open it and Scofe said, “I'll open it, Parker. Bring it here.”

Parker brought it over to him. Scofe was sitting in a squeaky kitchen chair next to a table, an old scarred work-table with nothing on it. Parker handed him the box and Scofe put it on the table, half turned to be closer to the table, and took the top off the box. It was full of parts. Scofe's hands touched the parts, his long fingers moving like worms in a garden. Parker watched him as he put the parts together, feeling in the bottom of the box for screws, using a small metal screwdriver he took from his hip pocket. He put the parts together and when he was done there was a burp gun on the table. “There,” he said. “You like it?”

Parker picked it up. There was rust on it, a little, not
much. It was an old gun, but it looked to be in good shape. The places where it was rusted were where identification marks had been filed away, leaving the metal rough.

“Well?”

“How much.”

“I don't haggle, Parker, you know I never haggle.”

“How much?”

“One twenty-five.”

Parker put the gun back down on the table. “What else you got?”

Scofe chuckled again. His hands reached out and found the gun and he disassembled it again, putting everything back in the model battleship box. When he was finished, he put the top on the box again and said, “You want to put it back? You're not interested?”

“Leave it out awhile. What else you got?”

“You take the burp, I can let you have two tommys, a hundred apiece.”

“Where are they?”

“You know me, Parker, they aren't bad guns. I don't touch bad guns.”

Parker knew that, but he wanted to see them before making up his mind. He said, “You know me. I always look first.”

“I never look first, Parker. The smelly old blind man never looks at all.” He swiveled around and pointed to a corner. “Road-racer sets there,” he said. “Big square boxes. Fourth and fifth down. They're all assembled.”

Parker went over. The fourth and fifth boxes were heavier
than the first three. Parker felt the sixth box, and it was heavy, too. He carried the fourth and fifth over to the table, opened them, and looked at two Thompson .45 submachine guns, each equipped with a twenty-shot clip. They both looked all right. He put the tops back on the boxes and said, “These are good. Ill take three of these.”

“Those two are all I got.”

“Then I want a road-racer set. The sixth from the top.”

“You're a bastard, Parker. You're a rotten bastard. You're a filthy rotten son of a bitch. You take advantage of a poor old blind man, you'd spit on your own mother. You're a cesspool, a walking cesspool, you're vomit, you're a cheap two-bit rotten punk.”

“Shut up, Scofe.”

Scofe shut up. He stuck his right hand up to his face and gnawed on a knuckle. He looked like an old squirrel.

Parker said, “One hundred each for three tommys.”

“Two tommys. And one twenty-five for the burp.”

“I don't want the burp.”

“Then one-fifty each for the tommys.”

“Good-bye, Scofe.”

“I don't haggle, Parker, you know me.”

Parker turned away and started for the front of the store. He opened the door and went through, leaving the door open behind him, and walked down between the display cases. The sullen woman watched him suspiciously.

Parker got halfway to the street door and then Scofe called, “Parker! Hey! Come back here!”

Parker turned around and went back. The woman kept watching him. He went into the back room again and said, “What?”

“Put these boxes away. You can't leave these boxes out.”

“I'm going to see Amos Klee.”

“You're a liar.”

“He can get me guns. I wait a few days, that's all. He'll scout around for me.”

Scofe twisted his head back and forth. “If I could
see
you!”

“It's all in my voice, Scofe.”

“I hate you like poison. Like poison.”

“I don't like to deal with you, Scofe. You smell bad. What's your price, the three tommys?”

“Three-fifty. That's it, that's the lowest.”

“Deal.”

“Tell my woman to come in here.”

Parker went to the door and motioned to the woman. “Come in here.”

She came in, and Scofe said, “Every transaction cash. This transaction, you pay the cash, then we see what else you want.”

The woman said, “How much?”

“Three-fifty. For three road racers.”

Parker took an envelope out of his jacket pocket, and counted three hundred and fifty dollars onto the table, while the woman watched. When he was done, she said, “Okay.”

“You're all right, Parker.” Scofe raised his head and smiled. He was filthy, and his eyes were covered by a white film, and
his teeth were brown. When he smiled, he looked like a parody of something unspeakable. “You're all right,” he said again. “You don't mean all those things you say to me.”

Parker went over and got the sixth heavy road-racer box. He put it with the first two, and picked up all three. He said to the woman, “Come out with me and open the car door.”

Scofe said, “What about the other stuff you wanted?”

“Never mind.”

“You're going to Klee?”

Parker ignored him. He said to the woman, “Come on,” and started for the front of the store.

“You scum! You vomit! You stinking cesspool!”

Parker walked through the store to the street, the woman coming behind him. She opened the rear door of the car, and Parker put the three boxes on the seat. He closed the door and nodded to the woman. She said, “He's getting worse.”

Parker hadn't expected her to talk. He stopped and looked at her and said, “He's stupid. There's others in the same business.”

“He don't get half the business he used to. You, too, you're going somewhere else now.”

“Tell him, not me.”

“It's because he's blind.”

“He ought to be used to it by now.”

Parker went around and got behind the wheel. It was a one-year-old Mercury, painted blue and white, a mace he'd picked up yesterday in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. He'd drive it out to North Dakota, stash it at the mine, and drive away
in it after the job. Then he'd get rid of it. The Pennsylvania plate and registration paper looked good enough if he stayed out of Pennsylvania. From the little mileage on it, he thought it had probably been taken right from a dealer. Even with planned obsolescence, it would last as long as he'd need it.

He made a U-turn on Second Avenue and went up the hill and over to the Thruway entrance. The way he'd originally figured, he'd go back to Jersey City and stay over tonight, then pick up Edgars in the morning and head west. But now, having to stop off in Syracuse to see Klee, he'd have to make better time than that, get Edgars to leave tonight. If everything worked out, they could maybe pull it next Thursday night.

He picked up the ticket at the Thruway entrance and headed south. He was impatient, but he stayed just under the speed limit. He didn't want a trooper looking into the road-racer boxes on the backseat.

T
his is Jean,” said Edgars. He seemed uncomfortable.

Jean wasn't uncomfortable at all. She was a hard-looking blonde of about thirty, short, with hard, conical breasts. She was sitting on the sofa in the living room of Edgars' apartment, her legs crossed and skirt hiked up to show her tan.

Parker looked at Jean and then at Edgars. He said, “So what?”

Edgars swallowed. “She's coming along,” he said.

“Since when?”

“Since always. She's always been with me.”

“Always?” Parker looked at her. She wouldn't be with anybody always, and especially not Edgars.

“She doesn't have anything to do with the business arrangement,” Edgars said. “I always had her go out to a movie or something when we had a meeting. And she can wait for us in Madison or somewhere until we're done.”

Jean smiled lazily, looking at Parker like a nightclub booker at an audition, waiting for the new act to do something interesting. She said, “I'll get along.”

Parker looked at Edgars and shook his head. “No dice. She can wait for you here.”

“Why? Shell keep out of the way, I guarantee it.”

“She'll keep out of the way better in Jersey City.”

“Parker, I give you my word—”

“I don't want your word.”

Jean said, “Who's the boss around here, anyway, honey?”

“Nobody,” Parker told her. “And that's just the kind of trouble you bring with you.” He turned to Edgars. “She stays here.”

Edgars was embarrassed and uneasy. He felt like a fool, in front of the woman. He said, “Nobody else will even
see
her. I guarantee it. We'll take her partway and leave her in Madison or somewhere. I'll never say a word to any of the others; they won't even know she exists.”

Jean laughed and said, “Just a quiet little mouse, that's me. Quiet little mouse.”

Parker said, “She'll show up in the middle of it. At the town, or the hideout.”

Edgars shook his head. “No, she won't, Parker. I'm not a professional at this kind of thing, like you, but I know better than that. She doesn't know where the job
is
, except North Dakota, and she doesn't know where the hideout is either.”

“Except North Dakota,” said Jean, and laughed again. She
looked at Parker, a challenge in her eyes, and said, “You don't have to worry about me, Parker. I know my business, too.”

“We leave her farther away than Madison,” Parker said. He didn't like giving in on this thing, but looking at Edgars he saw he would have to. The trouble the woman could cause if they took her along was less than the trouble Edgars could cause, lousing up the operation out of pique and embarrassment, if they didn't take her along. “We leave her in some town this side of the North Dakota line.”

“
I
pick the town,” she said.

Edgars nodded, grateful for the compromise. “All right,” he said. “I understand what you mean, Parker. That's why I kept her out of sight all the time.”

“Sometimes I feel like a sheep or something,” she said. “Couldn't you bastards at least lower your voices? You talk about me like I'm not even here, and I'm getting irritated.”

They both ignored her. Parker said to Edgars, “I got to make a stop in Syracuse, so we'll have to leave tonight.”

“Tonight? I'm not packed or anything.”

“So pack.”

Jean said, “What about me? Half my stuff's still over to the old place.”

Edgars wanted to hold on to her, but he knew she was a liability. He sounded irritated when he said, “So go over to the old place and get your stuff.”

“Jesus,” she said. “Its like the army. Alert! Alert! Alert! Pack your bag in the middle of the night and run your ass off.”

“I told you before about that language.”

“Up yours,” she said.

Parker said, “Argue later. Right now, pack.”

She turned to Parker, saying, “Drive me over to the old place.”

“Take a cab.”

“
You're
the one in the hurry, ugly.”

“You better take her,” Edgars said. “Otherwise, she'll be gone for hours. I'd take her, but I got to pack. And I don't have a car.” He said the last with surprise.

Parker was about ready to tell them both to go to hell, but then he thought of Edgars and his private reasons. The bitch might know something about them. He said, “All right, let's go.”

“Be right back, honey.” She twisted the last word like a knife.

They left the building and got into the Mercury, and Parker said, “Where to?”

“Just straight ahead awhile. I'll show you where to turn. Don't worry, ugly, you won't get lost with me.”

“I know.”

They rode four blocks in silence, and then she told him to turn right. It was after eleven at night, the middle of the week, and not much traffic on the streets. Parker drove along steadily, trying to think of a way to lead in to the questions he wanted to ask. Being no good at small talk was sometimes a disadvantage.

Ahead of him, a traffic light switched to red. He stopped
and waited, and no cars came along from right or left to take advantage of the green light.

She said, “What do you know about him?”

Was she going to volunteer it all herself? He said, “Edgars, you mean?”

“Who else? What kind of a bird is he?”

So that took care of that. She knew less about Edgars than Parker did. On the off chance, he said, “I thought you knew him from always.”

She laughed. “That's his story. On my side, ‘always’ looks like three weeks.”

“Since he came to town.”

“I guess.”

“You didn't sound like North Dakota.”

“Compliments yet.”

“That wasn't a compliment.”

The light changed again, and he drove on. Two blocks farther on she told him to make a left. Her voice was cold as ice. He got stopped by another traffic light, went two more blocks and she said, “Just ahead on the right.”

There was a fireplug handy. He parked next to it. She said, “You want a ticket?”

“What do you care?”

“Not a thing, ugly. Wait here, I'll be as quick as I can.”

“I'll come along.”

“Why?”

“So you'll be quicker.”

“Mister Edgars has such sweet friends.”

It was a brick apartment building, the entrance flanked by coachlamps bearing twenty-five-watt bulbs. There was a small green elevator, which took them slowly to the third floor. As they walked down the hall, she rummaged in her purse for a key and said, “If my roomie's in, try not to be any uglier than you have to.”

She unlocked a door and pushed it open. The apartment was dark. She felt along the wall and found the light switch. It was a ceiling light that came on, showing a large room full of clutter. Newspapers, magazines, paperback books, scattered all over the place. A studio couch was covered by wrinkled sheets and blankets; a pillow was on the floor next to it. There were wicker chairs and end tables and two lamps. A gray carpet was on the floor.

“My roomie's a mess. Come in, if you're coming. Shut the door. You want a drink?”

“No. Just pack.”

“I'm going to love traveling with you, ugly. You mind if I take a shower?”

“Yes.”

“Tough. That's just plain tough.”

“If you want to know how far you can push me,” he told her, “you can find out right now.”

She hesitated, and then she shrugged. “I don't care. You didn't want me to come along, you talked about me like I wasn't there, so I got sore. What do you expect?”

“I didn't expect you at all.”

“Well, I'm here. I'll keep out of the way like a good girl,
and I won't make trouble with Edgars or anybody else. All right?”

Parker shrugged. “That's all I ask.”

“So I'll take a very quick shower. Quickest ever, I promise. Okay?”

Parker looked at his watch. “We want to be out of here in twenty minutes.”

“Fifteen. Okay?”

She was making an effort, so he ought to make an effort, too. He made an effort, relaxed his face a little, and said, “Okay.”

“There's booze in the kitchen, if you want a drink. And I won't call you ugly anymore. Okay?”

Now she was overdoing it. “Just get moving,” he said.

“You're hard to get along with, you know that?”

He didn't say anything at all to that, so after a minute she went on into the other room. Parker found the kitchen, found a bottle of Philadelphia and a glass and a tray of ice cubes, and made himself a drink. He could hear the shower running.

She was available. Some other time, he'd probably do something about it, but not now. He ran to a pattern that way; right after a job he was raring, he couldn't get enough. Then it would slacken off, gradually, over months, until he didn't give a damn at all. When he was working, he was an acetic, not out of choice but just because that's the way he was built.

He stood in the kitchen doorway, looking at the messy living
room and pulling at his drink. He heard the shower stop, and then she called, “You get a drink?”

“Yes.”

“Make me one?”

He went back to the kitchen and made her one, just whisky over ice in a glass. He carried the two glasses across the living room and into a small airless bedroom with a closed Venetian blind over the one window. She was wearing a white terry-cloth robe, and a suitcase was open on the double bed. Her hair was wet, plastered to her head, and her face was scrubbed clean of makeup. That way she looked younger and less hard. Without the shrill good looks that cosmetics gave her, she had a plain and somewhat thin face.

“Just put it on the dresser,” she said. “You want to dry my back?”

“You do it.” He turned away.

“Wait a second.”

“Why?”

She was studying him with confusion. “You a good friend of Edgars, or what?”

“What,” he said.

“You always in such a goddam hurry like this?”

“I am this time.”

“I try to be friendly, and you put me down. What's the matter with you?”

They were going to be traveling halfway across the country together, and she could always louse up Edgars' effectiveness
in the operation some way if she wanted to, so he made the effort again and said, “Maybe it'll be different afterwards.”

“Afterwards what? You mean after this big secret mission you and charming Billy got on?”

“That's right.”

She shrugged. “Okay, I'll dry my own back. It wouldn't stay wet till then, anyway.”

Parker went back to the living room, tipped a wicker chair forward to dump newspapers and magazines out of it onto the floor, and sat down. He looked at his watch; six minutes had gone by.

When she came out, dressed in black skirt and white blouse and tan summer coat, carrying a suitcase in each hand, he looked at his watch again. Exactly fifteen minutes. She said, “Well? Do I get the gold star?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure. Gold-star mother. I had a boy in the service, but he died. Here, you're the gentleman, carry these things. I'll be right back.” She put the suitcases down and went into the kitchen. She came back carrying the bottle.