Johnny moved very slowly, reaching around under the apron to his hip pocket and coming up with a worn brown leather wallet. Parker said, “Toss it on the desk.”
“I got a lot of papers in there,” Johnny told him. “Driver’s licence and stuff.”
“Good,” said Parker. It would go with the papers from the poker players in Miami. Legitimate papers were always useful. He dropped the wallet in the box and closed the top. Then he switched the gun to his left hand, picked up the box in his right, and swung it against St Clair’s head. It made a dull echoing sound. When St Clair woke up, he’d be in a hospital.
Parker put the box down, got into his topcoat, and picked the box up again. “Now,” he said, “We’re going outside. We’ll go through the kitchen and out the back way, and you won’t say anything to that boy working back there, not even hello. You got me?”
“Not yet, but I will.”
“Don’t be brave, Johnny, you just work here. Let’s go.”
Johnny led the way, and Parker followed, cradling the metal box. They went out to the hallway and turned right to go through the kitchen. The Negro was still sweating at the clipper, shoving dirty dishes in at one end and pulling clean dishes out at the other. The clipper made a lot of noise and he didn’t even notice them going through. The kitchen was steamy from the clipper, which made the outside air seem even colder and damper than before.
After they went out, Parker closed the door. It was pitch-black, and it took Parker a few seconds for his eyes to adjust. Then he saw and heard Johnny making a run for it to the left. He smiled thinly and followed. They both went around the building, Johnny crashing and blundering ahead, Parker moving silently in his wake. Then Johnny burst out to the brightly-lit sidewalk and ducked to the left around the corner of the building towards the entrance. Parker made it to the sidewalk and walked the other way. In three steps he was in darkness, and then he was around the corner. He got into the Olds, put the metal box on the seat beside him, and drove away.
4
IN SPIDERY GOTHIC script, the name plate on the ivory door read:
Justin
Fairfax
Parker looked at the name, then touched his finger to the button beside the door. The apartment within was soundproofed. Standing in the muted hall, Parker couldn’t hear the bell or chimes or whatever sound the button produced. Probably chimes. He waited, looking at the name plate on the door.
Justin Fairfax. He hadn’t moved. That was stupid, it really was. He should have moved.
Parker had been here once before, while trying to get his money back from the syndicate. Justin Fairfax was one of the two men in charge of the New York area of the Outfit’s operations.
The door opened. A heavy set, distrustful man stood there, his right hand near his jacket lapel. He asked quietly, “What is it?”
Beyond him, Parker could see the elegant living room with its white broadloom carpet, white leather sofa, and free-form glass coffee table. The twin brothers of the heavyset man lounged there, looking out of place, like burglars resting in the middle of a heist.
“I’ve got a message for Mr Fairfax. From Jim St Clair,” Parker said.
“What’s the message?”
“I’m supposed to deliver it to him personally.”
“Tough. What’s the message?”
Parker shrugged. “I’ll go tell Mr St Clair you wouldn’t let me in,” he said. He turned away and headed for the elevator.
“Hold on.”
Parker looked back.
“All right. You wait there, I’ll see what Mr Fairfax has to say.”
“I’ll wait inside. I don’t want to hang around the hallway.”
The heavyset man made an angry face. “All right,” he said, “get in here.”
Parker went in, and the heavyset man closed the door after him. They stepped down into the living room, and the man warned, “Watch this bird!” Then he crossed the room and went through another door which led deeper into the apartment.
The twin brothers watched him. Parker stood with his hands in his pockets, his right hand on the .38. His topcoat was unbuttoned, so he could aim the gun in any direction from within the pocket.
The heavyset man came back, followed by Fairfax. Fairfax was tall and stately, greying at the temples, with a smartly clipped pepper-and-salt moustache. He was about fifty-five, and had obviously spent a lot of time in gymnasiums. He was wearing a silk Japanese robe and wicker sandals. He looked at Parker and frowned. “Do I know you?”
The new face came in handy sometimes. Parker said, “I work for Mr St Clair. You might of seen me around with him.”
“Mmmm.” Fairfax touched his moustache with the tips of his fingers. “Well, what’s the message?”
Parker glanced meaningfully at the bodyguards. “Mr St Clair said I should keep it private.”
“You can speak in front of these men.”
“Well it has to do with Parker.”
Fairfax smiled thinly. “Parker is the reason these men are here,” he said. “What about him?”
“He knocked over The Three Kings tonight.”
“He what?”
