alternate red and green lengths of fluorescent tubes. Some of the mechanical beer and whisky display ads on the bar back were lighted, and there was a light over the cash register, but the rest of the place was like a tomb.
Coming in the door, the dark mahogany bar was to the left, extending back to the wall projection for the rest rooms. Booths with dark red leather seats and black formica on the tables were on the right. Parker walked down the line between the bar and the booths to the back, where there was a bigger booth across from the rest rooms. They were there, all three of them.
Skimm and Alma sat facing the front of the bar, with Alma on the outside, so she’d been to the head already. They both had beer in front of them, a glass and a thin bottle and a glass and a thin bottle, and Alma’s glass and bottle were almost empty. Handy McKay was sitting on the other side, half-turned, with his back against the wall.
He was long and thin and made of gristle, and his stiff dark hair was grey over the ears. He lipped his cigarettes so badly the brown tobacco showed through the paper for half an inch, and he used wooden matches, the little ones, not the big kitchen matches. Whenever he got cigarettes from a machine, he threw the pack of paper matches away. Between cigarettes, he poked at his teeth with the plain end of one of the wooden matches.
“Hello, Handy. Move your knee.”
Handy turned his head slowly and raided an eyebrow at Skimm. Skimm grinned, though otherwise he was acting nervous. “That’s Parker.”
“Son of a bitch,” said Handy thoughtfully. He moved his knee and watched Parker sit down. “Did a good job on you,” he said.
“Yeah.”
Alma said suddenly, “You were in the diner Saturday.” Her voice was harsh, but low.
Parker looked at her. “That’s right.”
Skimm was very nervous. “Parker, this is Alma. Alma, Parker.” He looked at them both as though he wanted to say, “Don’t fight.”
Alma turned to Skimm, “We need more beer. How come he was in the diner Saturday?”
“Looking it over,” said Skimm. “Here comes the bartender now. He had to look the set-up over first, ain’t that right, Parker?”
Parker nodded. Skimm ordered four more bottles of Bud and the bartender went away.
“It’s a good set-up,” Parker said.
“Like I told you,” Skimm answered. He sounded relieved, but still nervous.
“You figure just the four of us, Parker?”
“It’s a small pie, Handy,” Parker replied.
“I want to talk about that,” Alma said. She seemed ready for a fight about anything.
“Not here,” Parker said.
There was a cigarette in the ashtray that had been lipped very badly. Handy picked it up and said, “I haven’t seen you in a while, Parker.”
“Few years,” Parker answered.
“What do you hear from Stanton?”
“He went to jail a couple years ago. Out in Indiana.”
Handy puffed thoughtfully on his cigarette, holding it from force of habit in his cupped fingers so the light wouldn’t show. “How’d it happen?”
“They shot his gas tank as he pulled away from the bank. It didn’t blow, but it drained out before he could make the switch. He tried walking to the other car, and they picked him up.
Three of them, Stanton and Beak Weiss and one other guy.”
Handy shook his head. “Bad.”
“It wouldn’t of happened,” Parker said quietly, “but their driver ditched while they were in the bank. A kid, new at the game.” He glanced at Skimm, and back to Handy. “That held them up, having to start the car.”
“You got to be careful who you work with,” Handy said. He put his cigarette out, bending the lipped end on to the ember, making a small fizzing sound.
The bartender brought the new round and Skimm paid. He was more nervous than ever. They waited while he counted out change and added a bill. The bartender scooped it off the formica and went away, and Skimm said, bright and nervous, “This is a nice place, Parker. You picked a nice place.” Beside him, Alma was glaring, still ready for the fight.
They sat there and drank the beer, and Parker and Handy talked about people they knew. Skimm sat stiff, elbows on the table, not quite bouncing up and down, with a nervous grin on his face. He wanted to talk with them, because he knew most of the same people, but he didn’t want Alma to feel left out, so he didn’t talk, just smiled and grinned and looked nervous.
When they finished the beer, Parker said to Skimm, “You got a place in town?”
“In Irvington. It ain’t far.”
“We’ll go there.”
They went outside to the sidewalk and Parker said, “You got a car?”
Alma answered. “Over there, the green Dodge.”
