“Yes. But what—?”
“Give me the names back.”
“Is it important?”
“Yes. Those are the names to use.”
“Wilmington Hotel. Edward— I’m sorry.”
“Latham. Edward Latham.”
She repeated the name. “Is that all?”
“Don’t antagonize them. They’re very mean people.”
“I know how to be a little mouse,” she said.
“That’s good. I’ll get back there as soon as I can.”
“I know you will.”
“Clean my stuff out of there right away.”
“I will.”
He broke the connection, put in a dime, dialed 2125551212, got the Wilmington Hotel’s phone number from New York City Information, dialed it, pumped more change in the box, and got the desk clerk.
“I want to make a reservation for three days starting Thursday.”
“Name, sir?”
“Latham. Edward Latham.”
“Home address?”
“Newcastle Business Machines, Minneapolis, Minnesota.”
“That’s a single, sir?”
“Yes.”
“For three nights.”
“Yes.”
“We will hold the reservation until three p.m. on Thursday.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Thank you for calling the Wilmington, sir.”
Parker broke the connection again and dialed a number in Chicago. It rang six times, and then a heavy male voice came on, saying, “I hope to hell this isn’t a wrong number. You know what time it is?”
“I’m looking for a fellow named Briley. He and I just did some musical work together.”
“You the guy called the day before yesterday?”
“No. That was Keegan.”
“He called at a better time of day, my friend, but I’ll tell you just what I told him. Our friend is partying in Detroit. No fixed abode.”
“No contact? You’re supposed to be his contact.” As Handy was Parker’s.
“I know what I’m supposed to be. You know a girl in Detroit named Evelyn?”
“No.”
“Evelyn Keane. You’ll find her.” There was a click.
Parker hung up, and a tractor trailer roared by, down-shifting as it went through the little town. It was the only traffic that had passed here since Parker had stopped the car. He stood in the phone-booth doorway now, and watched the truck taillights recede, the red lights outlining the trailer body. He frowned at the departing lights, thinking.
He had no way to get to Morris. No matter what means of transportation Keegan’s killers were using, it made sense for them to work in a straight line, which would mean Detroit before the East Coast, starting from Minnesota. So there should be safe time for Claire in that. Maybe.
Parker went over and got into the Dodge and drove it back to the slot he’d stolen it from in the Minneapolis airport parking lot.
There were no girls in the booths at this time of day, and no customers at the bar. When Parker walked in, the only person present was the bartender, writing on a sheet of paper beside the open cash register. Parker went over and sat down on a stool, and the bartender looked sideways at him and said, “I can’t serve you a drink this early. Against the law.”
“I don’t want a drink. I want a girl named Evelyn Keane.”
“Mrs. Keane? She isn’t one of the girls here.”
“I don’t want her for that. I want her because she knows how I can get in touch with a friend of mine.”
The bartender tapped the eraser of his pencil against his front teeth. “I don’t know her personally,” he said thoughtfully. “I think I may have heard the name. I could ask around.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll just make a couple phone calls. I can sell you a soda.”
“I don’t need one.”
“Up to you. It just makes me nervous to have a John at the bar with no glass, in front of him. I’ll be right . back.”
Parker read the bottle labels on the back bar for three minutes, and then the bartender came back with a folded piece of paper. “I was told this was the place you ought to go.”
. “Thanks.” Parker reached for his wallet.
“On the house,” the bartender said. “Come back when you can buy me a drink.”
“Right.”
Parker went out and got a cab and took it to the address he’d been given, a brick apartment building constructed between the wars in a neighborhood that hadn’t gotten better. There was no name in the slot next to the button for 5-F. Parker pushed it, waited to identify himself, and didn’t have to; the buzzer sounded right away, unlocking the door.
There was no elevator, and 5-F was on the top floor. He went up, hearing nothing from the top of the stairwell, and walked along the carpeted corridor to the apartment door. Light bulbs imitating candle flames were in wall sconces imitating candles, but only three of them were lit, leaving the hall in semi-darkness.
Parker rang the bell, and the man who opened the door had a gun in his hand. “Come in,” he said.
Parker held his hands out from his body, and went in.
There were four of them in the living room, but only one counted: the middle-aged fat man sitting on the sofa, rolling a cigar in his fingers. The other three, including the one who’d opened the door, were just hoods, extensions of the fat man’s will.
The fat man said, “Search him.”
Parker said, “I have an automatic under my left arm and a knife under my collar in back.”
The fat man frowned at him, and said nothing, while one of the hoods frisked him. He came up with the automatic and the knife, and put them on the console television set. Then he shook his head at the fat man, and stepped back out of the way.
The fat man said, “What you got a knife down your back for?”
“In case somebody tells me to put my hands up.”
“You can draw and throw from back there?”
“Sometimes.”
“That’s nice. What you want with Mrs. Keane?” He had a very slight accent, which made him sound thick-tongued.
“I’m looking for a friend of mine. I was told she knew where he was.”
“Who’s the friend?”
“His name is Briley.”
The fat man looked at his hoods, then back at Parker. “Briley? Who the hell is Briley?”
“Somebody I know, that I’m looking for. Another friend of his said I should ask Mrs. Keane.”
“Another friend. What other friend?”
“A man named Armwood, in Chicago.”
“Armwood?” The fat man was beginning to get angry, because he didn’t understand what was going on and he felt frustrated. “What the hell are all these names? Briley. Armwood. Who are you?”
“Tom Lynch.” That was the name on the documents in his wallet.
“Tom Lynch. Okay, Tom Lynch, she’s right in there.” He nodded his head toward a closed door.
Parker went over and opened the door and she was lying on the bed in there. There were no lights on and the shade was drawn, but the window faced east and morning sunlight radiated through the shade, making an amber light. There was no question she was dead.
Parker shut the door again and turned to look at the fat man. “I see.”
“Last night somebody did that. This morning you come looking.”
“Did they nail her to the wall?”
The fat man frowned. “How do you mean, nail her to the wall?”
“With nails.”
“You mean for real? Like crucify? Why would anybody do a thing like that?”
“They got to another friend of mine two days ago. They nailed him to the wall.”
The fat man looked thoughtful, and then said, “You connected with one of the families back East?”
“No, I’m on my own.”
“But you got friends.”
“Some.”
“And enemies. And they’re killing your friends.”
“Yes.”
“Who are they?”
“I don’t know. I’m behind them, and I’m trying to catch up.”
The fat man chewed the end of his cigar. It wasn’t lit, but the end he was chewing gave off an odor. He took it from his mouth at last, gestured toward the closed door with it, and said, “Mrs. Keane was a very important lady. You know what she did?”