“Yes.”
“Where do I get in touch with him?”
Stern’s eyes flickered and his brow creased with worry lines. “You’re making me dead, man,” he said.
Parker said to the woman, “Maybe you’ll get a chance at him after all.”
Stern said, “I’ll be dead anyway. What’s the difference?” He sounded bitter, as though an injustice had been done him.
“I’m not talking about dead,” Parker told him. “She won’t let you die. Will you, Bett?”
She shrugged. She no longer seemed very interested. She knew Stern was going to give in without her doing anything. So did Parker. So did Stern. He said, “He runs a club in Brooklyn. On Kings Highway, near Utica Avenue.”
“What’s it called?”
“The Three Kings.” Stern closed his eyes again. Every time he closed them, he looked like a corpse. He said, “You’re killing me, man.” He sounded tired, that was all.
“This guy Menner,” said Parker. “You were supposed to call him when the job was done. Right?”
“Yes,” said Stern.
Parker pointed. “There’s the phone. Call him.”
Stern sat up. Then he winced and put his hand to his bruised temple. He winced again, away from the hand, and looked bleakly at the spot of blood that had come off on his palm. “Maybe I got concussion,” he said.
“Move faster,” said Parker.
Stern got to his feet, climbing up the chair. He moved as though he was dizzy. He stumbled when he moved away from the chair, and almost fell down. He made it to the writing desk where the phone was, and leaned against the wall. He picked up the receiver as though it was heavy, and started to dial. Then he looked over at Parker and said “What do I say?”
“Parker’s dead.”
Stern finished dialling, and lifted the receiver to his ear. He waited, dull-eyed. From the middle of the room Parker heard the click and the metallic chatter when the phone was answered at the other end.
Stern said, “This is Stern. Let me talk to Menner.”
There was a brief metallic chatter again, then silence. Stern leaned against the wall. Perspiration was streaming down his face, and his eyes looked heavier and heavier.
Finally, the phone chattered again, rousing him. He said, “Menner?” His eyes got brighter, feverish. He licked his lips. A kind of sick nervousness seemed to be pumping through him.
Parker watched him, and knew he was getting ready to tell Menner the truth. He whispered, “Remember the women, Stern.”
Stern slumped. He said, “It’s done. He’s dead.” Questioning sounds. “No. No trouble.” His voice was as flat and lifeless as his eyes. “Yes. All right. Goodbye.”
But he remained leaning against the wall, head bowed, phone to his ear. Parker went over and took the phone away from him and hung it up. He said, “Where did you just call?”
“Floral Court. Rampon Boulevard.”
“What number?”
“Twelve. Twelve Floral Court.”
“How many others there?”
“Five or six. It’s a poker game.”
“All right. You got any money? Stern! You got any money?”
“Not on me.”
“Where you can get it.”
“Yes.” He was acting now as though he’d been doped.,
“You better get it and take off. South out of the country.”
“Yes.”
“It won’t do any good to try again. It won’t work. And it wouldn’t mean anything to the Outfit anyway. They’re going to know you missed the first time, so they’ll know they can’t count on you.”
“Yes.”
“Take off,” Parker told him.
Stern stepped away from the wall, and stopped. His eyes swivelled up in their sockets and he fell over on his face, loose and limp.
Parker shook his head, irritated. He said to Bett, “Wait here.” He pulled a pair of pants on, grabbed Stern under the shoulders, and dragged him to the door. He pulled the door open and looked outside. It was a quarter to four in the morning, and the hall was empty. Parker dragged Stern down to the hall and opened the door to the interior fire stairs. He pulled Stern through and shut the door again. A dim bulb faintly illuminated each metal landing up and down the stair well.
Parker propped Stern up in the corner and checked his pulse. He was still alive, but not by much. When he’d
