mean hell of it than anything else, as though for eighteen years he’d been storing up all the meanness, all the viciousness, and now it had to come rushing out.
He didn’t know if he was going to make it, if h* was going to hold up the syndicate and get away with it, and he didn’t really care. He was doing it, and rolling along with the momentum, and that was all that mattered.
And now, another killing. He stood leaning against a tree, in the darkness of Farragut Avenue, looking at the shack housing Stegman’s cab company, waiting for Stegman to come back out. Stegman had lied: he’d known how to get in touch with Mal. He had gotten in touch with Mal. There wasn’t any other way Mal could have gotten spooked that way.
So there was now a debt to settle with Stegman, too. That was the whole difference right there. From the easy known pattern to this new pattern, collecting on debts. Mal owed him, Lynn owed him, the syndicate owed him, Stegman owed him. He was owed; he collected. It was a new pattern, but it would be good to run at last to the end of it and get back to the old one again.
He’d have to find another Lynn. There were plenty of them, around the resort-hotel swimming pools. And this time he’d know to watch her a little closer, and not to fall in love.
It was after midnight. If Stegman didn’t show pretty soon, he’d have to wait till after the payoff. Stegman was in there now with his poker cronies. Parker had watched them troop in, had seen the light go on in back, and now they were playing poker. But the game had to end sometime.
Parker had walked a block to a luncheonette around ten o’clock for a hamburger and coffee, and when he’d come back the light was still on back there, the players’ cars were still parked on Farragut Avenue: the game was still in progress.
Parker lit another cigarette and walked around the tree. There were trees on both sides of the street out here, and private homes, one or two families. It was like a town somewhere, or the residential part of a medium-sized city. It wasn’t like New York at all.
Parker walked around the tree and looked down the block into the darkness where the teenaged couple had walked halt an hour ago. They’d gone up onto a porch and a glider had squeaked for a while, and now it was quiet. They couldn’t see him, and he couldn’t see them.
Everybody had a pattern. They had a pattern too, a quiet simple pattern, but it would change. He had a pattern, a messy complicated pattern, but it would change. Soon, now.
The door of the shack opened and the poker players came out. Parker strolled down the block, away from the shack, looking over his shoulder. Stegman stood in the doorway a minute, talking to two of them, and then went back into the shack. The rear room lights stayed on. The poker players got into their cars and drove away.
A cab pulled up, and the driver went into the shack, and then came right back out again and into his car and drove off. There was a radio operator in the front room, Stegman in the back room, and that was all.
Parker walked across the street. He went around to the back and looked through the window. Stegman sat at the table, dealing out poker hands, making imaginary bets. He must have lost tonight.
Parker went around front again. The radio operator sat at his board, reading a paperback book. Parker went in and showed the radio operator his gun, and said, “Be very quiet now.”
It was a different operator from last time.
“We don’t have any dough here,” the radioman said. “It isn’t kept here.”
“Just be quiet,” Parker told him. He went over to the other door and opened it. “Come on out, Stegman.”
Stegman jumped, the cards falling out of his hands. “Oh my
God,” he said. “Oh my God.” ^
“You’ll see Him soon,” Parker said. “Come on out here.” He motioned with the gun.
Stegman came out, trembling, unsteady on his feet. Lies quivered on his lips, but he didn’t tell any of them.
Parker stood behind him. “We’re going for a ride,” he said. “We’ll take the same car as last time.” He prodded Stegman in the small of the back with the gun.
They went out to the car. Stegman slid behind the wheel, and looked at the radio under the dashboard, licking his lips. Parker said, “Do you think he’s calling the cops? Or maybe the other drivers. Turn it on, let’s hear what he’s saying.”
Stegman switched the radio on. His fingers were damp with sweat: he had trouble turning the knob. Only static came from the radio, so the operator must have been on the phone instead, calling the police.
“We’ll go that way,” said Parker, pointing with the gun toward Rockaway Parkway.
Stegman started the car. He stalled it right away because his foot was nervous on the clutch. The second time, he got it moving. They bumped over the sidewalk to the street and drove across Rockaway Parkway into the darkness on the other side.
Parker said, “Make the first left.”
Stegman made the left, onto East 96th Street, a side street off a side street, somnolent and dark, and Parker said, “Pull over to the curb. Turn the engine off.”
Stegman did as he was told. Parker put the gun in his lap and rabbit-punched Stegman in the Adam’s apple. Stegman gasped, his head ducking forward, chin tucked against his chest, and he gurgled when he tried to breathe.
“You told me no more favors,” Parker reminded him. “You should have meant it.” He grabbed Stegman by the hair and rammed his face into the steering wheel. Then he rabbit-punched again, the side of his hand slicing up, jolting into the underpart of Stegman’s nose, snapping his head back. Hard enough, that meant blinding pain. A little harder, it meant death. This wasn’t quite hard enough to kill.
Stegman moaned, spittle bubbling at the corners of his mouth. Parker was suddenly disgusted. He didn’t want any more of this, only to get it over. He picked up the gun by the barrel, swung four times, and Stegman was dead.
