Meany went in first, then Arthur, then Parker, who stepped to his left. As the bandaged guy came in, Parker took out the Beretta, stuck it against the guy's ear, and fired. The sound was like a cough from a lion's cage.
Before the body could fall, Parker stepped in to clasp it around the chest with his left arm, while his right hand dropped the Beretta on the floor and went to that hip holster the guy had reached for earlier. He came out with a snub-nosed .32, thumb finding the safety, and stepped back, holding the body close, as the others all turned to gape at him. Meany, disbelieving, cried, "What did you do?"
Parker said, "Arthur, get their guns. Stay out of the line of fire."
Arthur, understanding he didn't have the luxury of time to be shocked right now, gave a spastic nod and said, "Right. Will do." His voice trembled, but he moved.
Parker shut the door with his shoulder and leaned against it, the body held against his chest, the .32 showing around the dead man's side. He watched Meany, knowing the other guy wouldn't move without instructions, and Meany watched him, with growing anger, his face reddening. He didn't react when Arthur patted him down, removing a pistol from beneath the well-tailored jacket, but kept staring at Parker.
Parker said, "Put the guns on the desk."
Arthur did, one pistol from each of them, and then Parker let the body fall, stepping away from it, saying, "Meany, put your hands on your head."
"Or what?" Meany's voice was strangled, his throat choked with rage.
"Or I gut-shoot you," Parker said, "and you live long enough to answer questions." He aimed the .32 just below Meany's belt buckle.
'You come in here," Meany said, furious about it, but putting his hands up, lacing his fingers atop his head, "you pull this against three of us, in the middle of our operation! How are you gonna get out of here?"
"That isn't your problem," Parker told him. "How you get out of here, that's your problem." Turning to the other one, he said, "Face down on the floor, over there, away from that chair. Clasp your hands at the back of your neck. Spread your feet apart. Farther." When the guy had obeyed orders, Parker said, "Arthur, use one of those guns. Just hold it on that guy down there. Don't shoot him unless he moves."
Arthur tried to pick up the gun as though it were something he did all the time. He moved Meany's telephone so he could rest his hand on it, pistol pointing at the man on the floor.
Parker said to Meany, "Brock and Rosenstein had a private grudge against me. You people dealt yourself in."
"You killed a valuable asset of ours," Meany said.
Parker nodded. He said, "How many assets you want to lose before you start to mind your own business?"
Meany couldn't believe it. "You're threatening us?"
"I'm nothing to do with you," Parker told him, "unless you push yourself into my face. Then I come here, and you start to lose assets."
Meany shook his head. "How long before you run out your string?"
"You think I'm here out of luck?" Parker stepped over to the man on the floor, went on one knee beside him, said, "Move your hands under your chin."
The guy did so, and Parker laid the tip of the barrel against the side of his neck toward the rear, gun parallel to the floor. Meany watched him, blinking, not knowing what was supposed to happen now.
Parker looked up at him, the gun held steady. He said, 'You got a good health plan, here at Cosmopolitan?"
"What?" Meany was too bewildered now to remember to be outraged.
Parker said, "If I shoot this guy across the back of the neck here, just here, it doesn't kill him. All it does is break his spinal cord, leave him paralyzed the rest of his life. You people gonna support him, another forty, fifty years, in that wheelchair?"
"Jesus Christ," Meany said. The man on the floor was trembling, body rattling against the wood.
Parker stood. "But why do it to him? He's just a soldier. I do it to you, that means you're alive, you can tell
your pals at Cosmopolitan how I can be rough on assets. Face down on the floor." "You can't—Jesus—" "Down. Or do I put out your knee first?" Meany stared over at Arthur, as though for help, then squinted again at Parker. "Let's talk," he said.
9
Parker said, 'There's no promise you can make me, nothing you can say. Cosmopolitan decided to come after me, Cosmopolitan has to decide to go away, so Cosmopolitan has to start hurting. On the floor."
'They can back off right now," Meany insisted. He was trying to hold his dignity together, to be urgent without showing panic. "We don't have to do anything else about you at all."
"Once I leave here," Parker told him, "if you're still an asset, you're gonna decide your pride is hurt, you'll want—"
"Not me, pal," Meany said. "You come in here like this, you shoot George in the head just, what? Just attract attention? I'm not gonna pick any fights with you, wonder when you're gonna find out where I live. Cosmopolitan is out of this, as of now."
Parker looked over at Arthur. "Can he make an offer like that?"
"I don't think so," Arthur said. "He's just a guy works here, like I used to."
"I'll carry the message," Meany said.
'Yes, you will," Parker agreed. "On the floor."
"I'll carry it now! I'll make a phone call!"
"Who to?"
Meany licked his lips. His elbows were twitching back and forth from the strain of holding his hands together on top of his head. "One of the owners," he said. "A guy that can make the offer."
"What's his name?"
Meany didn't like doing this, but knew he had no choice. 'Joseph Albert."
Parker looked at Arthur. "Do you know that name?"
"I never knew any of the owners," Arthur said.
Meany said, "There's five guys have an interest in Cosmopolitan. Albert's the one I know, the one put me here."
"We'll try it," Parker decided, and glanced toward the window, with its view of the aisle and the stacked boxes. Sooner or later, someone would walk by out there. He said, "Arthur, get up and take a lace out of one of Meany's shoes."
"Right."
'You on the floor," Parker said, "get up."
The man scrambled to his feet, looking back and forth between Parker and Meany.
Parker said, "Move your friend against the wall under the window, then sit in that chair over there."
When the body was moved where Parker wanted, it couldn't be seen from the aisle outside. Parker turned back to Arthur, who now stood with a shoelace in his hand. "Good," he said. "Meany, put your hands in front of yourself like you're praying."
"I am praying," Meany said. He put his palms together.
Parker said, "Arthur, tie his thumbs together. Tight. Meany, is that a speakerphone?"
"Sure."
"Done," Arthur said, and stepped back from Meany.
There was one other chair in the room. Parker backed to it, saying, "Arthur, put the guns in the waste-basket. Meany, sit at the desk. Arthur, stand beside him and dial the phone. Copy down the number he calls."
Meany awkwardly fitted himself into his desk chair, cumbersome without the use of his hands. "Mr. Albert isn't gonna like this," he said.
'Tell Arthur the number."
It was a Manhattan area code. Arthur wrote it on Meany's desk pad, then pressed the speakerphone button and dialed. They all listened to two rings, and then a woman's voice said, "Enterprises, good afternoon."
"Mr. Albert, please."
"Who shall I say is calling?"
"Frank Meany."
"One moment."
Enterprises' on-hold music was Vivaldi. Through it,
Meany said to Parker, "Saying things on the phone isn't easy. You know what I mean, anybody listening in."