Bronson smiled grimly. “They’d tear your heart out,” he said, enjoying the image.
“Of course. And why? Because they’re crooks. They’re outlaws, crooks. They don’t think of themselves as part of society, they think of themselves as individuals, alone in a jungle. Therefore, they are always on the defensive, always ready to protect their own. They’ll never call for the police, never put in a claim on their fire and theft insurance, never look to societyto protect them or repay them or avenge them. Shouldn’t people who work for the syndicate think the same way? But they don’t. The people at Club Cockatoo don’t think of themselves as crooks at all, they think of themselves as average working stiffs. Therefore, they let two robbers come in and walk all over them. Whereas, if they thought of themselves as do our hypothetical crapshooters in the park, they would have torn those robbers’ hearts out.”
“You mean the Outfit’s getting soft?”
Quill smiled, pleased with himself. “I mean the Outfit is being civilized, is being absorbed into the culture. The organization is getting too highly organized.”
“Is that right?” Bronson was no longer certain whether he should be angry at Quill or agree with him. “What do we do about it? You got any ideas?”
“I don’t think anything canbe done about it. If you managed to convince the employees of the Club Cockatoo that they are crooks after all, nine out of ten of them would quit on the spot and go get jobs some place else. They don’t wantto be divorced from society.” Quill smiled and spread his hands. “A result of prosperity, I suppose. During the Depression, there was no such problem.”
Bronson was tempted to ask How would you know? But he kept his mouth shut, asking instead, “What else, then? Don’t you have any ideas at all?”
“Yes, I do.” The lecture finished, Quill became brisk. “You may have noticed, as I did, the one glaring weakness in the Club Cockatoo’s defence. That door from the men’s room to the cashiers’ space.”
“If they gotta go, they gotta go.”
“Of course. In pairs. And there should always be an armed man at that door, on the cashiers’ side.”
Bronson glanced down at the blueprint. “Sure, why in hell didn’t theythink of that?”
“They did. Fifteen or twenty years ago, that was the rule. Cashiers went to the men’s room in pairs. There was an armed man constantly on duty in the cashiers’ space. But nothing ever happened, and over the years they grew lax. It slowed down the action to have two cashiers away at once so the armed man took to sitting in the office, where the safe was, and where he could chat with the manager.”
“The god damn fools!”
“Of course. Because a robbery had never been attempted they no longer considered one a possibility.” Quill shrugged. “Well, I think we may have learned from this.”
“And the others?”
“I’d heard there’d been some more.”
“Eleven more! I want you to check them out, just like you did this one.”
“I imagine I’ll find the same problems.”
“You got any answers?”
“Suggestions only, Mr Bronson. First, every organization operation which normally or occasionally has custody of large sums of money should be informed of these robberies, so they’ll be reminded a hit canhappen. Second, every such operation should know whom to call so trained armed men can get on the job immediately in case a robbery doestake place. Third, if a robbery occurs and is successful because of sloppiness among organization employees, such employees should be punished, perhaps by taking a cut in pay to help make up the loss.”
“A cut in pay! What the hell do you think this is, a kindergarten?”
Quill smiled sadly. “Yes, Mr Bronson, I’m afraid that’s exactly what it is. If what I saw at the Club Cockatoo is an accurate sampling, most organization employees are simply average workers, as apathetic and uncommitted on questions of law and order as any of their neighbours. If General Electric threatened to kill any employee who did badly in his work, the workers would think somebody had gone crazy. They wouldn’t believe it. A garnishee on their wages, they would believe. I’m not thinking now in terms of proper punishments or sufficient punishments, but effectivepunishments.”
Bronson rubbed a hand across his face, feeling lost and confused. He was too far up the ladder; it had never occurred to him that the rank and file had turned into a bunch of nine-to-fivers. What the hell kind of world was this? Next thing, they’d be wanting a union. Or a guild. They probably thought of themselves as white-collar workers. Sweet Jesus!
“All right,” he said. “All right, Quill, that’s good. You did a good job.”
“There’s more, Mr Bronson.”
“Yeah, I bet there is. Save it. Tomorrow morning. We’ll go over it some more in the morning, and I’ll give you the list of the other places that got hit.”
“Yes, sir, Mr Bronson.”
“Yeah. Have one of the boys downstairs show you your room.”
“Yes, sir. Good night, Mr Bronson.”
“Yeah, good night.”
Left alone, Bronson sat at his desk, brooding. What the hell had happened? He could remember the twenties, and it was nothing like this. Did anybody in the Outfit go around then with a briefcase full of statements?
“Wewere the Parkers then.” He said it aloud, surprising and angering himself. He got up from the desk, went to the window, and looked out at the park, thinking of Quill’s crapshooters. Were there any Outfit people in that game? A few, maybe, but just a few.
That bastard Parker belonged in that game. Bronson could see him now, getting out of that blue Olds over there and going into the park, not giving a damn about anybody. Hell, half the Outfit people wouldn’t go intothat park at night.
He wondered where Parker was, right this minute. He wondered if those four bodyguards were any damn good they’d never had to show their stuff. He felt a slight chill in his spine.
When he turned away from the window, the hall door was open. There was a man standing there. Bronson had never seen him before in his life, but he knew right away it was Parker.
He wasn’t even surprised.
PART FOUR
1
TWO DAYS AFTER knocking over The Three Kings, Parker sat in his darkened room in the Green Glen Motel just north of Scranton and looked out the window at Route 6.
It was eight-thirty, Thursday night; Handy was due in half an hour.
He heard footsteps coming along the cement walk and leaned back, waiting for whoever it was to pass his window. But the footsteps stopped and there was a rapping at his door. Madge’s voice called, “Parker? It’s me.” Parker shook his head and got to his feet. He’d have to talk to her.
Madge ran the Green Glen Motel. She was in her sixties now, one of the rare hookers who’d retired with money in the bank. Running this motel brought her a modest living, gave her something to do, and, indirectly, kept her connected with her original profession, for most of the units were rented by the hour. Because she could be trusted, her motel was also used sometimes as a meeting place by people in Parker’s line of work. The only thing wrong with her was that she talked too much.
Parker opened the door and she came in carrying a bottle and two glasses. “Turn the light on, Parker. What the hell are you, a mole?”
Parker shut the door and switched on the ceiling light. “Sit down,” he said, knowing she would anyway.
Madge was bone-thin, with sharp elbows and shrivelled throat. Her hair was coarse white, cut very short in the Italian style. It was cold outside and she hadn’t bothered to put on a coat for the walk from the office. She was wearing brand-new black wool slacks with the shadow-sharp creases and a white blouse with large black buttons down the front. Triangular turquoise Indian earrings dangled from her ears, and black thonged sandles revealed her pale feet and scarlet toenails. Her eyebrows had been completely plucked, and redrawn in satanic, black lines. Her fingernails were long, curved, and blood red. But she wore no lipstick; her mouth was a pale scar in a thin deeply lined face.