“He’s the one who reported the robbery,” Walters said, “after he got himself out of the bathroom. His description of the general build of the one thief he saw up close suggests it wasn’t the one called Parker but the other one. There was apparently, by the way, an attempt made to send a message through Snyder to you.””A message?”
“As he did with Frankie,” Walters said.
Lozini frowned at Faran. “What message?”
Faran licked his lips and adjusted himself again in the chair. “He said to tell you what he was taking was interest on the debt, and didn’t count against the principal.”
“He did, huh.” Grunting, Lozini looked again at Walters. “Same with the night watchman?”
“He didn’t get to give the message,” Walters said, “since Snyder had apparently never heard of you. He can’t remember the name of the thief used, except that he’s sure it began L-o.”
Ted Shevelly and Harold Calesian both grinned slightly. “Anonymity,” Shevelly said. “What do you think of that?”
“It’s about time,” Lozini said. Anonymity was what he wanted, though he’d had damn little of it the last ten years or so. There was always something or other in the newspapers, all hedged around with words like “alleged” and “putative” so a lawsuit could never be launched to put a stop to it, and it was hell on the family. Newspaper people had no sense of decency. Fortunately, Lozini’s six children were all daughters, all now grown and married and with other last names, but there was still his wife, and other relatives scattered around the state.
Walters was saying, “Snyder seems none the worse for his experience. After the last time, when some of our own people roughed him up a bit, he was given the job at the brewery.”
There was a comic-opera touch here that Lozini didn’t like. He wanted to get past it, get on to other things. “What do we do for him this time?” he said.
Walters shrugged. “A few weeks off with pay. He hasn’t the slightest idea what’s going on, or even that anything is going on. He’s your true innocent bystander.”
“We oughta put a plaque on him,” Lozini said. “Anybody else?”
“One man at the garage,” Walters said. “He got hit on the head, apparently by Parker. His name is Anthony Scoppo, and he was released from the hospital this morning.”
“He one of ours?”
Walters pursed his lips. “I wouldn’t know about that,” he said. He kept himself as ignorant as possible of the actual work Lozini’s people did.
Lozini looked over at Shevelly. “Anthony Scoppo. Ours?”
“I think I remember the name,” Shevelly said. “He drove a car for us a couple of times, but he gets too nervous. We haven’t used him for anything for a while.”
To Walters again, Lozini said, “Another message to me?”
“No, Parker didn’t mention you at all. Apparently he assumed you’d understand without his saying anything, since that was the third operation of the night.”
Lozini gave Harold Calesian a glum stare. “Where do you suppose the cops were?” he asked.
Calesian grinned sympathetically, undisturbed by Lozini’s implied accusation. He had the easy assurance and humorous arrogance of the long-time cop, combined with the calmness and quietness that comes from being on the inside, one of the masters. He always spoke quietly, with small expressive hand gestures, and nothing ever ruffled him. “The cops were on the street, Al,” he said. “By three o’clock this morning we were saturating the streets.”
“That goddam garage,” Lozini said, “is on London Avenue, the brightest street in the city.”
“We had a car in the area,” Calesian said. “You had two cars there yourself, Al, there was almost trouble between them and the patrolmen. What happened to your people?”
“They’re not trained cops.”
“Then why put them on patrol?”
Lozini waved it away like a buzzing fly. “That isn’t the point,” he said. “The point is this son of a bitch Parker. Where is he, and how do we stop him?”
“I don’t know where he is,” Calesian said, “any more than Ted does. Remember, Al, we came in this late. If you’d talked to me yesterday, or even the night before when he called you, I might have been able to do something by now.”
“Who knew he was going to move like that?”
Calesian shrugged. “We’ve been on it for six hours,” he said.
“Do you have a make on him yet? Who is he, where’s he from?”
“We don’t have any helpful identification, no fingerprints, just the name Parker. We’ve queried Washington, and we’ll see what happens.”
Lozini peered at him. “You don’t think much will.”
With a small smile, Calesian said, “No, I don’t.”
Ted Shevelly said, “What do we do about tonight?”
But Lozini was thinking about something else. “There may be a way I can find out who he is. Something about him, anyway.”
Shevelly said, “How’s that?”
“I’ll get in touch with you people later,” Lozini said. “I have to make a phone call.”
Shevelly said, “What about tonight?”
“I’ll call you this afternoon,” Lozini told him. To Faran, he said, “Frankie, you keep yourself available. You gonna be at the club or home?”
“Home,” Faran said. “I feel crappy, to tell you the truth. I’m gonna try to sleep a little.”
“Just stay available.”
“Oh, I will.”
Walters said, “Anything special for me to do?”
Lozini gave him an irritable look. “About what?”
Walters gestured with the sheet of paper. “These losses.”
“Unexplained robberies,” Lozini told him. “Deal with them straight. Give that driver from the garage a little something for his trouble.”
“Scoppo,” Walters said, and nodded.
Getting to his feet, Calesian said, “Let me know, Al, if you want any change in what we’re doing. Right now, we’re full out looking for them.”
“I’ll call you,” Lozini said.
The four men left the room, saying so long, Lozini giving each of them a short angry nod. When the door closed and he was alone, he sat brooding out the window for a minute, staring at the sunny morning.
He was reluctant to make the call. Doing anything the bastard wanted him to do seemed somehow like a defeat, like knuckling under. Still, it was the only move that made sense right now.
The hell with it. Lozini reached for the phone. But it wasn’t that easy. It took twenty minutes just to find out what city Walter Karns was in right now—Las Vegas—and another half-hour to track him down on a golf course there. But finally the heavy authoritative voice did come on the line, saying, “Lozini?”
“Walter Karns?”
“That’s right. You wanted to talk to me.”
“I need to ask you about somebody.”
A small hesitation, and Karns said, “Somebody I can talk about, I hope.”
“He said I should talk to you,” Lozini said. “I should ask you about him.”
“He did? What’s his name?”
“Parker. He says.”
“Parker?” There was surprise in Karns’ voice, but not displeasure. “You don’t mean anybody that works for me,” he said.
“No, I don’t.”
Karns said, “You don’t sound happy about this fellow Parker.”
“I’d like to see him in a pine box,” Lozini said.
“What’s he done to you?”
“Claims I owe him money.”
“Do you?” It sounded as though Karns were smiling.
“No, I don’t.” This conversation was making Lozini uncomfortable; he had a sense of Karns laughing at him. He said, “But what difference does it make? Who is this guy?”
“You remember Bronson from Buffalo, a few years ago?”
“You took his place,” Lozini said. He was too irritable to be anything but blunt.
“I did. But I didn’t force his—retirement.” Bronson had been shot, Lozini remembered, in his own home. “That was Parker,” Karns said.
“You mean he’s the one—” Lozini stopped, trying to figure out how to phrase the question on the phone. Had Parker killed Bronson?