‘Sure. What else do we need?’
‘A peterman and somebody knows boats.’
‘Peterman. But you don’t know what kind of safe.’
‘It’s got to be upstairs,’ Parker said, ‘and I couldn’t get up there anyway.’
‘I don’t like that secret panel garbage, if you want the truth. I figure something like that’s always around for a reason, and I figure I don’t know yet what the reason is.’
‘We’ll know when we crack it,’ Parker told him. He wasn’t worried about that door himself; it couldn’t lead anywhere but upstairs, and upstairs couldn’t have too many surprises.
Grofield said, ‘What we want is an all-around safeman, somebody can handle the box no matter what it is.’
‘There aren’t many of them,’ Parker said. ‘Not any more. Dead or retired, all the old juggers.’
‘There’s a guy I worked with a couple years ago,’ Grofield said thoughtfully. ‘To look at him you wouldn’t think he had a brain in his head. He’s a wrassler, one of those TV boys with all the hair, he looks like an abominable snowman. But you should see him with a safe, he’s got the touch of a Florence Nightingale.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Gruber. Gropin’ Gruber I always called him.’
‘I’ve heard of a safeman called Gruber, but I never met him.’
‘If you heard he was good, it’s the same man.’
‘Can you get in touch with him?’
‘I think so. I’ll try tonight, when I put in the call for Salsa. And what else?’
‘Someone to run the boat.’
Grofield shook his head. ‘That’s a funny one. I’ve never been on a job where we needed a boat.’
‘Maybe Salsa knows somebody. Or your friend Gruber.’
‘What about Joe Sheer? He knows just about everybody.’
Parker shook his head. ‘He’s dead,’ he said. Joe Sheer had handled Parker’s messages for years, ever since Joe retired from his main business, opening safes. ‘He died a few months ago,’ Parker said,
‘Is that right? Old Joe? I liked him, Parker, I honest to God liked that old man. What, was it sudden?’
‘It was sudden,’ Parker said. He was leaving out a lot, that Joe Sheer’s death had caused Parker trouble and ultimately destroyed the usefulness of the safe cover identity Parker had used on his off-work time for years. It was because of that bad time that Parker now needed money badly enough to work two operations in less than two months.
Grofield said, ‘All right. I’ll ask around. We’ll want a man who can do more than just run a boat, won’t we?’
‘I figure, the way we’ll work it, we ought to leave him at the boathouses to cover our getaway route. You and Salsa and me, we get Gruber into the casino and upstairs to the safe.’
‘All right. We want a driver, in other words, except it’s a boat driver.’
Crystal came in as Grofield was talking. ‘Boats,’ she said. ‘Don’t talk about boats. I’m still not recovered.’
‘You take first-rate pictures,’ Grofield told her. ‘How are you on publicity photos? I’ve been needing new ones.’
‘Carry this bag to the kitchen,’ she said. ‘We’ll talk about it.’
The other two went into the kitchen and Parker sat on the sofa, bent over the map lying on the coffee table. He could visualize the way it was, the way it would be. There was still work to do, preparation, but they were started.
Out in the kitchen, Grofield was flirting with his woman. He didn’t hear it.
2
YANCY said, ‘It’s the red one there.’ He pointed at a red Thunderbird glinting in the sunlight, a new hardtop with a broken taillight.
Parker walked with him across the sidewalk from Crystal’s apartment house to the car. The heat was bright, heavy, oppressive, especially after the air conditioned building. They got into the car and Yancy started the engine and turned a switch on the dashboard. ‘All the comforts of home,’ he said, meaning the car was air conditioned.
They drove over Texas Avenue to the Gulf Freeway and headed north. Yancy turned on the radio and found a station playing the top forty. The radio started the second it was switched on, with no wait for warmup, and at the push of a button it moved along the dial and stopped automatically when it found a station;
The car was so full of gimmicks it was a surprise it would move at all. Tinted glass, tachometer, compass, joy knob. Large foam rubber dice hung from the rearview mirror. A stuffed toy tiger sat on the shelf by the back window. Mirrors were mounted on both fenders. Round large extra brake lights flanked the toy tiger.
It was thirty-five miles to the end of the Freeway at Dowlong Avenue in Houston. They did it in twenty-eight minutes, silently, each thinking his own thoughts. Off the Freeway, Yancy drove over to Washington Street and stopped in front of a seedy bar called Tropical Palm Lounge. ‘This is the place,’ he said, and got out of the car.
Parker followed him inside. The interior was a large square room full of round little tables with shiny black formica tops. Posts here and there were surfaced with amber-tinted mirrors. A small stage at the back contained an upright piano, a set of drums with DW in large letters on the bass drum, and a microphone. A narrow dancing area enclosed by a low wooden rail was in front of the stage, and the bar, backed by more amber-tinted mirrors, was along the left wall.
The time was early afternoon, and the place was nearly deserted. One bartender was on duty, with three customers to keep him company at the bar. The tables were all empty, and no waiter or waitress was in sight.
Yancy said, ‘This way.’ He went first to the bar, saying, ‘Hi, Eddie.’
‘Whadaya say, Yancy?’
‘Bottle in the back, boy?’
‘Sure thing, Yancy.’
‘You’re my pal.’ He turned to Parker and motioned with his head. ‘Come on.’
Yancy was enjoying himself, being the big man on the local scene showing off for the out-of-towner. It didn’t bother Parker. Just so Yancy did what he was supposed to do, he could choose any style he liked.
They walked now down the length of the bar and through a door at the back marked ‘Office’. But the door didn’t lead to an office, it led to a short hall with doors to left and right. The door on the left also said ‘Office’, but it was through the door on the right that Yancy led the way.
They were in a storeroom, piled high with cases of liquor. At a small table in a cleared space near the door sat a short stocky man with snow-white hair and the red-veined nose of an alcoholic. He had been playing solitaire. An ashtray on the table was mounded high with cigarette butts.
Yancy said, ‘Hey, there, Humboldt. How’s it going?’
Humboldt said, ‘You got a cigarette, Yancy? I run out.’ He had a nasal voice, a whiner’s voice, full of grievance and complaint. The voice went with a smaller thinner body than Humboldt’s.
Yancy said, ‘They got a whole machine up front. You run the place yourself, cop a pack.’
‘I didn’t feel like walkin’ all the way out.’
Yancy laughed and shook his head. ‘You smoke too much, Humboldt,’ he said, ‘and you walk too little. You’ll croak after all.’
‘Don’t say things like that. Gimme a cigarette.’
Yancy dropped his pack on the table. ‘This is Parker,’ he said, nodding his head towards Parker. ‘He’s here for some equipment.’
Humboldt said, ‘This the special order they told me about?’ But he was too busy getting at one of Yancy’s cigarettes to show much interest.
‘This is him,’ Yancy said. He turned to Parker. ‘Last year,’ he said, ‘the doctor told Humboldt either he cut out the sauce or he’d be dead in six months. And I mean an important doctor, a doctor that knew his business, got his own column in the newspaper and been on TV and everything.’ He looked to Humboldt. ‘Isn’t that right?’
Humboldt had the cigarette going now. ‘That doctor saved my life,’ he said.