He didn’t look like any Rockefeller, but he didn’t look like a bum either. He looked like a hard worker who never got out of the mailroom. Good enough. It would have to do.
He got out the driver’s license one last time and dropped it on the floor. He squatted beside it, and patted the license here and there on the floor till it was reasonably dirty. Then he crumpled it some more, brushed the excess dirt off, and put it back in his wallet. One last rinsing of his hands, and he was ready to leave.
The bartender and his customer stopped mumbling again as he went by, but he didn’t notice. He went back out into the sunlight and headed uptown and west, looking for just the right bank. He needed a bank that would have a lot of customers of the type he was faking.
When he found the one he wanted, he paused for a second and concentrated on rearranging his face. He stopped looking mean and he stopped looking mad. He kept working at it, and when he was sure he looked worried he went on into the bank.
There were four desks to his left, two of them occupied by middle-aged men in business suits. One of them was talking with an old woman in a cloth coat who was having trouble with English. Parker went straight over to the other and added a smile to the worried expression.
“Hello,” he said, making his voice softer than usual. “I got a problem, and maybe you can help me. I’ve lost my checkbook, and I can’t remember my account number.”
“No problem at all,” said the man, with a professional smile. “If you’ll just give me your name… .”
“Edward Johnson,” said Parker, giving him the name he’d put on the license. He hauled his wallet out. “I’ve got identification. Here.” He handed over the license.
The man looked at it, nodded, handed it back. “Fine,” he said. “That was a special account?”
“That’s right.”
“One minute, please.” He picked up his phone, talked into it for a minute, and waited, smiling reassurance at Parker. Then he talked a few seconds more and looked puzzled. He capped the phone mouthpiece with his hand and said to Parker, “There’s no record of your account here. Are you sure it’s a special account?
“No minimum balance?”
“Try the other kind,” said Parker.
The man continued to look puzzled. He talked into the phone a while longer, then hung up, frowning. “There’s no record of any account at all under that name.”
Parker got to his feet. He grinned and shrugged. “Easy come, easy go,” he said.
He walked out, and the man at the desk kept staring after him, frowning.
In the fourth bank he tried, Edward Johnson had a special checking account. Parker got the account number and the present balance, and a new checkbook to replace the one he’d lost. Edward Johnson only had six hundred dollars and change in his account. Parker felt sorry for him.
He left the bank, went into a men’s clothing store, and bought a suit and a shirt and a tie and socks and shoes. He paid by check. The clerk compared the signature with the one on his driver’s license, and called the bank to see if he had enough cash in his account to cover the check. He did.
He carried the packages up to the bus terminal on 40th Street, and went up to the men’s room. He didn’t have a dime to open a stall door, so he crawled under it, pushing his packages ahead of him. He changed into the new clothes, transferred his wallet and checkbook, and left all the old clothes in the stall.
He walked north till he came to a leather goods shop. He bought a hundred and fifty dollars’ worth of good luggage, a matched set of four pieces. He showed the driver’s license for identification, and they didn’t even call the bank. Two blocks he carried the luggage, and then he got thirty-five dollars for it at a pawn shop. He went crosstown, and did it twice more — luggage to pawn shop — and got another eighty dollars.
He took a cab up to 96th Street and Broadway, and worked up and down Broadway for a while, this time buying watches and pawning them. Then he went to Lexington Avenue, midtown, and did it some more. Four times all told, somebody called the bank to see if he had enough money in his account. Not once was his driver’s license questioned as valid identification.
By three o’clock, he had a little over eight hundred dollars. He used one more check, to buy a medium-sized suitcase of excellent quality, and then he spent half an hour shopping, paying cash for his purchases. He bought a razor and lather and lotion, a toothbrush and paste, socks and underwear, two white shirts, three ties, a carton of cigarettes, a pint of hundred-proof vodka, a comb and brush set, and a new wallet. Everything except the wallet went into the suitcase.
When the suitcase was full, he quit shopping and went to a good restaurant for a steak. He undertipped, and ignored the waiter’s dirty look as he went out, still carrying the suitcase. He took a cab to a medium-priced hotel, where they believed his driver’s license and didn’t make him pay in advance. He got a room and bath, and overtipped the bellboy.
He stripped out of the new clothes and took a bath. His body was hard and rangy and scarred. After the bath, he sat up naked in bed and slowly drank the pint of vodka straight from the bottle, grinning at the far wall. When the bottle was empty, he threw it at the wastebasket and fell asleep.
Chapter 2
Parker closed the door behind him, and waited for the girl to get up off the floor. She looked up at him and her face went very white, and against the whiteness flared the ugly red mark where lie had hit her.
She breathed his name and he said, “Get up. Cover yourself.” He sounded disgusted. She didn’t have anything on under the blue robe, and when she’d fallen the robe had dropped open below the waist. Her belly was white, but her legs were golden brown.
“You’ll kill me,” she said. There was no strength in her voice at all. It had the dull echoless quality of hopeless fear.
“Maybe not,” he said. “Get up. Make coffee.” He kicked her ankle gently. “Move it.”
She slid backward along the floor, then rolled half over, her blond hair falling into her face, and struggled shakily to her feet.
