The elevator was still there, the operator patient. Parker slipped the two tens into the operator’s hand and said, “This gentleman is going all the way down to the lobby. I’m getting off at seven.”
“Yes, sir.”
They were silent on the way down. Parker got off at the seventh floor, found room 706, and unlocked the door. The suitcase was in plain sight, in the closet, the same one they’d bought to carry the money in originally. It was locked, but a suitcase lock can be picked with a piece of spaghetti. Parker opened it, saw that it was still full of bills, and closed it again. He went out, located the emergency staircase, and went down to his room on the fifth floor. He stashed the suitcase, went back up to the seventh floor, and rang for the elevator.
It was the same one that had taken him down, and the operator smiled as he got aboard. They were old friends now; twenty dollars old. On the way up, the operator asked if he had any idea about a horse at Hialeah that could make the twenty grow. Parker told him that wasn’t his sport.
He went back into suite D, this time locking the door, and returned the key to room 706 to Menlo’s pocket. Then he sat down.
Bett knocked at the door ten minutes later. He went over and opened it, and she stared at him. “Come on in, Bett,” he said.
She came in, not saying anything, just staring at him. She was wearing pink slacks and a white shirt and Japanese sandals.
“Come over here, Bett.” He took her elbow and guided her through the sitting room and out onto the terrace. He pointed.
She looked. She whispered, “Menlo.”
“How was he, Bett? In the rack, I mean?”
“You killed him,” she said in a whisper.
“Better than that. Menlo killed himself. He did a better job than he did on me.”
“He swore you were dead. He described how he did it. How could he get the statue away from you if you weren’t dead?”
Parker went back into the sitting room, and she followed him. “You want a drink, Bett?”
“Please.”
“You know where the bar is. I want bourbon.”
She hesitated, and then went over and got the drinks. She brought him his bourbon and he took a sip. She couldn’t take her eyes off him.
“You like the strong ones,” he said. “That’s the way it is, isn’t it? You don’t care what they look like, or what they smell like, or if they’re any good in the rack or not. You just want the strong ones. Menlo was going to double-cross me, so that made him strong and you took him into your bed in Washington. Then he came down here and told you how he’d really killed Parker, and that made him the strongest of all. You have a good night, last night, Bett?”
“Screw you,” she said.
He finished the bourbon and put the glass down. “I’m leaving tonight,” he said, “and after that we’re finished. You can’t be trusted. You like to watch violence too much. But we’ve got hours yet before I take off.”
“How did you do it, Parker? Chuck, how did you do it?” she whispered.
“Menlo’s dead,” he said, “and I’m alive. I’ve got the dough he tried to take off with. I delivered the mourner to your father. And I got the gun from him. Yeah, I got the gun. So who’s the strongest now, Bett?”
He could feel it coursing through him, like electricity, strong enough to blot the twinges in his side, to make him forget any stiffness or soreness in his body. The job was over, and it was always like this after a job. A satyr, inexhaustible and insatiable. He was twelve feet tall.
He walked toward the bedroom. “This way, Bett,” he said. “We’ve got five or six hours yet.”
She followed him through the doorway, and shut the door behind her.
5
Kapor himself answered the door. It was colder than ever in Washington, after having been in Florida for a few days. Parker came in, carrying the suitcase, and set it down on the parquet floor. He unbuttoned his topcoat and Kapor said, “I take it you were successful.”
“In the suitcase there. There was a hundred and twenty dollars less than a hundred grand when I got to it. There’s sixty dollars less than fifty grand in that suitcase.”
“I will accept your bookkeeping,” Kapor replied. “May I offer you a drink?”
“Just give me the address where they’ve got my partner.
“Ah, yes. I believe I have one of their business cards.”
Parker waited in the hallway while Kapor went into the living room. He came back a moment later carrying the card, and handed it to Parker. The place was called Twin Maples, and it was out in Bethesda. Written on the card in pencil was the name Robert Morris.
“Your friend had three driver’s licenses in his wallet,” Kapor explained. “I chose that one. So that’s the name he was admitted under.”
“O.K.” Parker put the card in his pocket.
“Such a shame,” Kapor said, “to be leaving this way. I am going tonight.”
“Any rumbles yet?” Parker didn’t give a damn one way or the other, but Kapor seemed to feel like talking.
“Not yet, but one never knows. I had hoped to leave in a leisurely fashion, and in style. My books and coins and statues would be packed, various personal possessions crated, and I would remove myself to a safe place surrounded by my possessions. But I must travel fast, and light. I have less than half the money I’d expected to be taking with me and I must leave everything I love behind. Still, I have my life and my health, and this portion of my money which you have returned to me. I shall have a head start on those who most certainly will be coming after me, so I cannot complain too much.”
“I’m glad it’s all worked out for you,” Parker said, reaching for the doorknob.
“I’m leaving the United States, of course, at least temporarily. But perhaps we will meet again eventually, and perhaps someday I shall be able to repay you for what you have done for me.”
“Maybe so.”
“Good-bye, whatever your name is.”
“Good-bye, Kapor.”
Parker went back out into the cold and walked down the drive to the cab. He’d had the driver wait. It was another black woman in a crazy hat. Washington cabs were full of them, driving like snowbirds looking for the Man.
Parker got in, took the card from his pocket, and read off the address. The woman driver nodded and the cab shot away from the curb.
On the way, Parker wondered what Handy was thinking about right now. It was a funny thing, but Handy had been going to quit. There were a lot of them like Handy in the racket; one more job, for a stake, and then they’d quit. Handy had been quitting after one more job for years.
But this time, it had seemed like he really meant it. He’d bought himself a diner near an Air Force base at Presque Isle, Maine, and he was planning to short-order it himself. He’d even bought a legitimate car from a legitimate dealer and got legitimate plates for it. It was as though he was off the kinky forever.
Parker had the feeling that this time maybe Handy would be going to Presque Isle, Maine, for good and all.
The rest home was a big old brick building, with more than two maples surrounding it. It looked as though it had been somebody’s estate once, but the neighborhood hadn’t retained its high tone, so they’d sold out to somebody who wanted to start a rest home. Most of the patients would be alcoholics drying out or subpoena subjects hiding out. And in the middle of them, Handy McKay.
Parker paid the cab and went inside. A professional-looking nurse was sitting at a small desk in the front hallway and Parker asked her if he could visit Robert Morris. She asked him to wait, and he sat down on the wooden bench across from the desk and idly picked up a copy of Time. In a moment an overly bluff and hearty man came out and shook Parker’s hand overly long and said he was Dr. Wellman. He asked Parker if he was a friend of Mr. Morris’s and Parker said yes. The doctor asked if he knew about Mr. Morris’s bad stomach condition, and Parker said only that he’d heard there’d been an operation to remove something. The doctor smiled and nodded and said yes, and the patient was coming along just fine, and that he would personally show Parker up to his friend’s room.