The cabby grinned. “Got a load on, huh?”
“She isn’t used to vodka,” he said.
The cab cruised on. There were no pedestrians. He waited for ii Jaguar sedan to pass, going uptown, and the couple in it ^hmced at him and grinned and looked away. He crossed the m rret and stepped over the low stone wall into the park.
In a blackness of shrubbery, he laid her down. Working by (eel, unable to see what he was doing, he stripped off the dress ii ik I the shoes again. He took out his pen knife. Holding her jaw in his left hand to guide him in the darkness, he stroked the kmfr across her face. Otherwise, the law would try to have her identified by running a photo in the papers. Mal would read the papers.
There was no blood on his hands, very little on the knife. A corpse doesn’t bleed much. He wiped the knife on the dress, closed it, put it back in his pocket. He rolled the shoes in the dress, tucked the bundle under his left arm and walked out of the park and back to the apartment.
He was very tired now, and he was moving unsteadily by the time he entered the apartment. He switched off all the lights and stretched out on the couch? He fell asleep at once.
Chapter 4
Three days of no sound but what droned from the television set. The apartment smelled stale, as though she were still in it. He didn’t wait well.
There was a calendar on the kitchen wall, with a photograph of two cocker spaniels in front of a rose bush. He spent a lot of time looking at the dates, sitting at the kitchen table with a coffee cup in his hand.
The third day began the new month. Parker roamed the living room, drawn constantly to the front door. He would spend five minutes at a time standing in front of the door, listening, waiting for the sound of the bell. Twice he reached out and touched the knob, but he didn’t open the door.
There were still two bottles of whiskey in the cupboard, but he didn’t touch them. She wouldn’t do that to him, not again. She had troubled him for the last time.
As it turned out, he was making fresh coffee when the bell rang. He stopped, holding the spoon, head raised, and turned toward the sound. Then he finished what he was doing and went through the apartment to the front door. He opened the peephole and studied the face of the messenger. He had never seen it before.
The messenger was a short butterball and a cracked fashion plate. He wore a narrow-lapeled suit of a bright garish blue that had never been in style, and only the middle button of the coat was fastened. His shirt was the harsh white of snow in sunlight and at the collar was a multi-colored bow tie. The shirt seemed to be starched; not just the collar, the whole shirt.
The face above this elegance was chubby and cheerful. The eyes were blue and small, set wide apart in fat. An inane half-smile curved the lips. The ears were pink and large and soft. And atop the head perched a straw hat, at a jaunty angle.
The messenger’s suitcoat was so tight Parker could see the outline of the money envelope in the inside pocket. Mal must be sure of himself to send a thing like this.
Parker opened the door. The butterball blinked at him, and the half-smile faded. A delicate frown puckered the brows, and he said in a tiny high voice, “Do I have the wrong apartment? I must, I must have the wrong apartment.”
“You want Lynn Parker?”
“Yes. Yes.” The butterball bent at the waist, peering past Parker. “Is she here?”
“Come on in,” said Parker.
“No, no. I must not. Is she here?”
Parker reached out and clutched a handful of shirtfront. He pulled, and the butterball stumbled inside, eyes and mouth wide open, hands splayed out in front of him as though he’d fall. Parker looked out into the hall, saw that it was empty, and came back inside, slamming the door.
The butterball was recovering his balance, and Parker shoved him again, sending him reeling into the living room. One way or another he managed not to land on his face.
Parker followed him into the living room, noticing details he hadn’t been able to see through the peephole, like the shoes, which were a light russet tan with perforated curlicues over the toe. And between the top of the shoes and the cuffless bottom of the trouser legs there was at least an inch of space, occupied by canary yellow socks.
The butterball stood all aquiver in the middle of the living room. His hands were pressed to his chest, fingers spread, either to protect himself or the envelope he was supposed to deliver.
Parker held his hand out. “Give me the dough.”
“I must not! I must, I must see Miss Parker.”
“I’m her husband.”
The fact meant nothing to the butterball, that was obvious. “I was told — they told me only to see Miss Parker.”
“Who told you?” Parker asked.
“Where is Miss Parker? I must, I must see Miss Parker.”
“I’ve taken over the route. Give me the dough.”
“I must, I must telephone. May I telephone?” He peeked around the room, then his eyes flickered warily to Parker.
Parker stepped quickly over in front of him and yanked on the jacket lapel. The one button holding the jacket closed came off with a pop, and Parker took the bulky envelope out of the inside pocket. He tossed it at the armchair to his left.
The butterball fluttered his arms, crying, “You must not! You must not!”
Parker held his left hand rigid, fingers together and extended, and chopped the butterball in the midsection, just above the gold monogrammed belt buckle. The butterball opened his mouth, but neither sound nor air came out. In slow motion, his hands folded across his stomach, his knees buckled, and he fell forward into Parker’s right fist. Then he hit the floor cold.
Parker emptied his pockets, searching every item. The wallet contained a driver’s license, a library card, a numbers slip with 342 on it, and fourteen dollars. The license and library card agreed that the butterball was named Sidney Chalmers, and that he lived on West 92nd Street.
Another pocket produced seventy-three cents in change and a Zippo lighter with S.C. inscribed on its side in Gothic script. A slip of paper with Lynn’s name arid address on it was in the side pocket of the jacket. There was nothing anywhere to tell where he’d picked up the envelope for Lynn.
Parker left him sprawled on the carpet and went into the kitchen. A search of the drawers resulted in a roll of slender but strong twine. Going back to the living room, Parker lashed the butterball’s wrists and ankles securely, then propped him up with his back against the sofa, his head lolling back on the cushion. Then Parker slapped him and pinched him till he groaned and squirmed and his eyelids fluttered open.
Parker straightened, standing tall and ominous, gazing deadpan down at the terrified butterball. “Tell me where Mal Resnick is.”
The butterball licked trembling lips. “Hu-who?”
Parker bent, slapped him backhanded across the face, straightened, and repeated his question.
The butterball blinked like a metronome. His chin quivered. Fat tears squiggled down his cheeks. “I don’t know,” he pleaded. “I don’t know who you mean.”
“The guy who gave you the envelope.”
“Oh, I must not!”
“Oh, you must,” Parker mimicked. He put his right foot on the butterball’s crossed, tied ankles, and gradually added weight. “You sure as hell must.”
“Help!” sobbed the butterball. “Help! Help!”
Parker kicked him in the stomach. “Wrong words,” he said. “Don’t do that again.” He waited till the butterball had air in his lungs again. “Give me his name.”
“Please — they’ll kill me.”
“I’ll kill you. Worry about me.”
The butterball closed his eyes, and his whole face sagged in an expression of complete and comic despair. Parker waited, and at last the butterball said, without opening his eyes, “Mr. Stegman. Mr. Arthur Stegman.”
“Where do I find him?”
“In — in Brooklyn. The Rockaway Car Rental. Farragut Road near Rockaway Parkway.”