Chemy grinned bleakly. “She offered it to me, too, once or twice.”
“Lies!”
They both ignored her. Parker said, “I’ll wake him up.”
“No. You take off. It’d be better if we was alone when I told him. He’d be able to take it better.”
“You aregoing to tell him?”
“I swear it, Parker.”
“All right.” Parker put the shotgun down.
Chemy asked, “You want to give this bitch a ride into town? I figure she ought to be outa here before Kent gets the word.”
“She can walk.”
“I guess she can at that.” He turned and looked at the woman. “Get started,” he said. “If Kent wants to kill you, I won’t do nothing to stop him.”
“You tookthe offer, you bastard!” she screamed at him.
Chemy turned his back on her, saying to Parker, “You might as well take off now. Sorry we had all this fuss.”
“I’ll be seeing you.”
Parker stowed his suitcase on the back seat of the car. The woman, after hesitating a minute, had gone away from the garage, headed for the house. Parker backed the Oldsmobile out into the late sunlight, turned it around, saw the flash of orange hair in the living-room window, and drove away down the rutted road, easing the car slowly and carefully across the bumps and potholes. When he got to the blacktop road, he headed north. The Olds responded well. The upholstery was in rotten shape, the floor mats were chewed to pieces, and the paint job was all scratched up, but the engine purred nicely and the Olds leaped forward when he pressed the accelerator. He lit a cigarette, shifted position till he was comfortable, and headed north out of Georgia.
2
THE OPERATOR WANTED ninety-five cents. Parker dropped the coins in; then the phone went dead for a while. A little rubber-bladed fan was whirring up near the top of the booth but not doing much good. Parker shoved the door open a little, and the fan stopped. He adjusted the door again until it was open a crack and the fan still worked. The phone started clicking with the sounds of falling relays, then stopped, and a repeated ringing took over.
The phone was answered on the fourth ring by a male voice.
Parker said, “I’m trying to get Arnie LaPointe.”
“Speaking.”
“This is Parker. I want you to give Handy McKay a message for
me.”
“I’m not sure I’ll see him.”
“If you do.”
“Sure, if I do.”
“If he’s got nothing on, I’d like to meet him at Madge’s in Scranton next Thursday.”
“Who should he ask for?”
“Me. Parker.”
“What time Thursday?”
“Next Thursday. Not this Thursday.”
“I got that. What time?”
“Nine o’clock.”
“Morning or night?”
“For Christ’s sake. Night.”
“If I see him, I’ll tell him.”
“Thanks.”
He hung up, and the coins clattered deeper into the box. He left the booth and went out of the drugstore. He was on the outskirts of Indianapolis, far enough away from the centre of the city for the drugstore to have a parking lot. The blue Olds was there, nosed against the stucco side of the building.
Parker had had the Olds four days now, and it worked fine. He slid behind the wheel and pulled out of the lot. He was farther north now and, though the sun was bright, the air was cool. He headed east, through Speedway out to Clermont, and between Clermont and Brownsburg he turned off on a small road where a faded sign announced, “Tourist Accommodations”. The land was flat, but heavily forested, and he was practically on top of the house before he saw it. He pulled around to the side and parked.
It was a big house painted white some years ago. Bay windows protruded from its sides with no pattern, like growths. The porch was broad with narrow rococo pillars. Four rocking chairs stood empty on the porch. A second- floor curtain flicked and was still.
Parker got out of the Olds and walked around to the front and up on the porch. A small, bald man in white shirt and grey pants with dark-blue suspenders appeared at the screen door and squinted out at him. He had a pair of
