French said, “You got coins on you now?”
“I’ll put it away if you want me to,” Billy said. “But aren’t you all—?” He gestured vaguely, and looked around at Parker, and then at Lempke.
It was Lempke who answered him. “None of us is carrying, Billy,” he said. He spoke patiently, like a sad father explaining something obvious to the son who hasn’t worked out. “When you’re meeting friends,” he said, “there’s no need to be armed.”
“I didn’t real—I’ll put it away right away. I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.” He laughed again, nervous and sheepish, saying, “You know how it is, you get into the habit, you don’t even know you’re—” He trailed on out of the room, babbling, smiling at everybody, his white forehead gleaming in the light.
When Billy was finally out of the room, French looked over at Parker and said, “A C note it’s pearl-handled.”
“Chrome,” said Claire.
Parker looked at Claire, but she was still studying her stocking. She didn’t figure in this setup, and what didn’t figure Parker didn’t like. Unless Billy Lebatard, aside from being an amateur and a fool, was also a masochist, there just wasn’t any explanation for Claire. The weary contempt she felt for him and all his works shone out like the green on a rotten orange.
Lempke said, “Give him a chance, Jack. He’s got personality problems, but the setup’s a sweet one.”
“Maybe,” said French. He sounded as though he didn’t believe it.
Parker said to Lempke, “Does he just finger, or does he want in?”
French added, “With his chrome-handled .25.”
Claire laughed briefly, shaking her head, and Lempke said, “He’ll be in on it, he has to be. But not with the gun.”
Billy Lebatard came back in then, and he’d removed the suit jacket as well. His white shirt was soaking wet across the back and under the arms; he’d given up a lot of comfort in order to impress himself by wearing his coat and pistol. He said, “All set now,” and smiled foolishly at everybody.
Parker said, “Lempke, tell us the story.”
Lempke made an awkward gesture, saying, “Billy ought to—”
“You tell it,” Parker said.
Billy laughed brightly and said, “Maybe that’s best. I’ll just sit over here and listen.” There was a kitchen chair against a side wall, far from where Claire was sitting, and this was where Billy settled himself, sitting lumpishly with his legs apart and his hands resting on his thighs.
Lempke said, “It’s coins, Parker. Billy fingers and does the financing, and when it’s done he gives us fifty per cent on the take.”
Parker shook his head. “Bad,” he said.
“Why?”
“There’s never enough profit in those. You hit a coin dealer, he’s got goods worth maybe forty, fifty grand. That’s twenty-five for us. Split three ways, it isn’t enough.”
French said,” I did one of those once, when I was hungry. Me and a fella named Stimson. A coin dealer fingered it, same as here. We followed this other dealer away from one of those conventions they have, hijacked him on the Turnpike. We split a lousy eighteen grand between us, and Stimson got a bullet in his leg.”
“But this isn’t just one dealer,” Lempke said. “This time it’s a whole convention.” He turned to Parker, saying, “You know anything about these coin conventions?”
“No.”
“They’re not a regular convention like doctors or anything like i lint. It’s kind of like a sale. A whole lot of dealers get together, and they rent a hotel ballroom or someplace like that, and set out their stuff over a whole weekend, so the local hobby types can come in and buy.”
Billy said, “The local coin club is host. They arrange for the hotel and the banquet and displays and tours and everything.”
Lempke said, “You get a good-size coin convention, there’s sometimes three million dollars in coins there.”
Parker said, “How do we get at it?”
“Let Billy tell you that.”
Billy leaned forward eagerly, his hands pressing down on his thighs, and said, “The dealers set up Friday morning in the bourse room, and most of them come to town the night before. So there’s a special room set aside, they call it the security room, and everybody checks their stock in there on Thursday night for safekeeping. Maybe three-quarters of the dealers have their stock in the security room Thursday night.”
Lempke said, “Billy’s idea is, we break into the security room late Thursday night, clean it out. He figures close to two million dollars.”
French said, “Our piece is a million.”
“Close to it,” Lempke agreed. “That’s what Billy figures.”
“And he pays us when?”
“As I liquidate the stock,” Billy said, and laughed, saying, “If I had a million dollars, I wouldn’t need to do any of this.”
“I figured it was like that,” said French. He got to his feet. “Nothing against you, Lempke, but I don’t work on IOU’s.”
Lempke said, “Jack, this is rock solid. I know Billy, I can vouch for him.”
Parker said, “Lempke, when did you get out?”
Lempke looked at him in surprise. “Where’d you hear about that?”
“From you. You’re too hungry to be smart.”
“Parker, you got to listen to the rest of this.”
“No, I don’t.” Parker got to his feet, and said to French, “I’ll take a cab with you.”
When they left, Lempke was looking after them with a pleading expression on his face, Billy was smiling in bewilderment at Lempke, and Claire was wearily studying her fingernails.
Four
THEY WALKED six blocks before they found a bar where they could call for a cab. Along the way, they found out there were half a dozen people they knew in common. Because they didn’t know each other yet, they avoided mention of any specific jobs either of them had been on.
As they walked along, French said, “I’m sorry that wasn’t any good. I could use a job. I’m dipping into my stake. You don’t know anything else happening, do you?”
“No,” said Parker. “But I’d like to.”
“If you hear of anything—”
“Sure,” said Parker. “The way to get in touch with me is through a fella named Handy McKay in Presque Isle, Maine.”
“I think I met him once,” said French. “He’s in the business, too, isn’t he?”
“Retired a couple years ago. The two of us got shot up on something that went sour.”
“It takes a smart man to retire,” said French. “My man is Solly Hinkle, San Antonio. Tell him the Frenchman.”
“Right.”
They went into the bar, called a cab, and sat at a booth with drinks till it came. Neither of them was much of a talker, so they sat in silence, hands around their drinks. Three locals at the bar were telling each other about Willie Sutton, deciding he was a genius and they just don’t make them anymore like that these days.
The cab got there about ten minutes later. They got in and French told the driver, “Union Station.” Then, to Parker, “You’ve got to go back to your hotel, don’t you?”
“Right. The Clayborn.”
The cab started up, and Parker sat and tried to decide where to go tomorrow. There were unlikely to be any more planes out tonight, so he’d have to stay over.
If French was traveling by train, he must be really close to the edge of his cash. He’d said he was going into his stake, but he hadn’t said how long that had been going on. To be that tight, and yet to turn down a job that fast, meant a good man. Parker filed the contact’s name and address in his head for some other time.
French got out at Union Station, and from there it was a quick drive up Illinois Street to the Clayborn. There shouldn’t have been any messages at the desk, and there weren’t any, but he checked anyway. He thought about calling Handy, but he didn’t have anything to say to him yet, and if Handy had any other kind of news it could wait till morning.