nothing anywhere to tell where he’d picked up the envelope for Lynn.
Parker left him sprawled on the carpet and went into the kitchen. A search of the drawers resulted in a roll of slender but strong twine. Going back to the living room, Parker lashed the butterball’s wrists and ankles securely, then propped him up with his back against the sofa, his head lolling back on the cushion. Then Parker slapped him and pinched him till he groaned and squirmed and his eyelids fluttered open.
Parker straightened, standing tall and ominous, gazing deadpan down at the terrified butterball. “Tell me where Mal Resnick is.”
The butterball licked trembling lips. “Hu-who?”
Parker bent, slapped him backhanded across the face, straightened, and repeated his question.
The butterball blinked like a metronome. His chin quivered. Fat tears squiggled down his cheeks. “I don’t know,” he pleaded. “I don’t know who you mean.”
“The guy who gave you the envelope.”
“Oh, I must not!”
“Oh, you must,” Parker mimicked. He put his right foot on the butterball’s crossed, tied ankles, and gradually added weight. “You sure as hell must.”
“Help!” sobbed the butterball. “Help! Help!”
Parker kicked him in the stomach. “Wrong words,” he said. “Don’t do that again.” He waited till the butterball had air in his lungs again. “Give me his name.”
“Please — they’ll kill me.”
“I’ll kill you. Worry about me.”
The butterball closed his eyes, and his whole face sagged in an expression of complete and comic despair. Parker waited, and at last the butterball said, without opening his eyes, “Mr. Stegman. Mr. Arthur Stegman.”
“Where do I find him?”
“In — in Brooklyn. The Rockaway Car Rental. Farragut Road near Rockaway Parkway.”
“Fine. You should have saved yourself some trouble.”
“They’ll kill me,” he sobbed. “They’ll kill me.”
Parker went down on one knee, untied the twine around the butterball’s ankles, straightened up and said, “Get to your feet.”
He couldn’t do it by himself; Parker had to help him.
The butterball stood weaving, breathing like a bellows. Parker turned him around, shoved him across the living room into the bedroom, tripped him up and sent him crashing to the floor. He tied his ankles again, then went out and locked the bedroom door behind him.
He gathered up the envelope full of money, slipped it into his jacket pocket, and left the apartment.
Chapter 5
The subway line ended at Rockaway Parkway and Glenwood Road, in Canarsie. Parker asked directions of the old woman in the change booth. Farragut Road was one block to the right.
The Rockaway Car Rental was a small shack on a lot between two private houses. The lot was sandy and weed scraggled, with three elderly white-painted Checker cabs parked on it. The shack was small, of white clapboard, with a plate-glass window in front.
Inside, there was a railing around the guy at the two-way radio. A bedraggled sofa was along the other wall, and a closed door led to the room in back.
Parker leaned on the chest-high railing and said, “I’m looking for Arthur Stegman.”
The radioman put down his Daily News and said, “He ain’t here right now. Maybe I can help you.”
“You can’t. Where do I find him?”
“I’m not sure. If you’d leave your — “
“Take a guess.”
“What?”
“About where he is. Take a guess.”
The radioman frowned. “Now hold on a second, buddy. You want to — “
“Is he home?”
The radioman gnawed his cheek a few seconds, then said, “Why don’t you go ask him?”
He picked up his News again.
“I’ll be glad to,” said Parker. “Where’s he live?”
“We don’t give that information out,” said the radioman. He swiveled around in his chair and studied the News.
Parker tapped a thumbnail on the top of the railing. “You’re making a mistake, employee,” he said. “Sidney run off.”
The radioman looked up and frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
