“Stop in the diner, I’ll fry you an egg.”
“Thanks.”
The next street allowed them to go in the direction they wanted.
Handy said, “I’m sorry about this. I wish I knew somebody in Buffalo, then we could of just by-passed this town.”
“It’d be the same in Buffalo.”
“Yeah, but we’d bethere.”
“After you make the connection, we’ll get up north of town by the thruway and stop in at a motel. I don’t want to drive any more after this. We can get to Buffalo tomorrow and still have plenty of time.”
“Okay, good. Park anywhere.”
“Sure.”
There weren’t any parking spaces. They passed the building they wanted, and there still weren’t any parking spaces. The curb for the last half-block to South Salina Street on the right was empty of cars, but lined with No Parkingsigns. Parker would have been willing to go around the block again, but to go around the block again, he’d have to go halfway around the city, so he pulled to the curb in the forbidden zone and shut off the engine. Let them give him a ticket. The car was a mace anyway. And he wouldn’t have it more than a week or two. Once the job was done, he’d unload it. So let them copy down the licence number in their little books and pile the tickets on the hood like snow.
They both got out of the car. Parker locked it, and they walked back down the block to the building they wanted, two tall men in hunting jackets and caps among the milling herd of stocky women with their arms full of packages.
It was an old building, with plaster walls, painted a bad green. There were two elevators, but only one of them was running. Because it was nearly six o’clock, the old man who ran the one elevator was sitting on his stool with his coat on, waiting for the last few tenants to come down so he could go home. He frowned when he saw Parker and Handy, because he knew they’d be keeping one of the tenants past six o’clock.
“Everybody’s gone home,” he said, hoping they’d believe him and go away.
Handy had called earlier today, from Binghamton. “Our man’s still here. Third floor we want.”
Handy’s man was Amos Klee, and on the directory between the elevators it said: AMOS KLEE, Confidential Investigations. Klee was a licenced, bonded private detective, but if he’d tried to make a living, as a private detective in a city like this with an office in a building like this one he would have starved to death in a month. Klee had one priceless asset which paid his rent and kept him in spending money. That asset was his pistol permit. Plural. Pistol permits. The State of New York had given Amos Klee three pieces of paper each of which allowed him, for purposes of business, to own and to possess and to carry a pistol. Three pieces of paper, three pistols. Klee normally owned between fifty and a hundred pistols, but he never had more than three at a time where they might be noticed.
Pistols were Klee’s business. Revolvers and automatics, and, occasionally, shotguns and rifles. Just twice in his career he had been asked for machine guns, and both times he’d been able to supply the order. Both times the customer had had to wait a bit, but Amos Klee had eventually supplied the order.
With an ordinary pistol it was easier. Same day service. Call him in the morning drop in in the afternoon, and pick up the merchandise. Simple. And later on, if you wanted, Klee would buy the pistol back at half the original price. He would then rotate barrel and grip with another pistol, clean it, relube it, if necessary, and sell it again. If he was offered a pistol he hadn’t had in stock before, he’d buy it at a very low price, less than a quarter what he would eventually ask for it, because with a gun new to him there was the additional work of filing the serial numbers away. As a sideline, he did a small business in fake collector’s items. He had done three or four Dance Bros & Park .44 cap-and-ball revolvers that only an expert with a magnifying glass could prove false.
Because Klee’s telephone had been tapped once and he had come close to losing licence, permits, and all, during the call Handy had made from Binghamton this morning he hadn’t mentioned guns at all.
“Klee speaking.”
“Mister Klee, you don’t know me, but Dr Hall of Green Bay recommended you to me. I intend to be in Syracuse next Monday afternoon, and if you’re free, I’d like to discuss a matter of some delicacy with you.”
“On Monday?”
“Or later today.”
“Monday would be best. What’s the problem?”
“Well, I’d rather discuss that in person.”
“Is it divorce work?”
“Well, yes.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t handle divorce work.”
Handy had apologized, and hung up. Mentioning Dr Hall of Green Bay had told Klee that he was a customer for a pistol. And Klee demanded that all pistol customers suggest two times when they could drop in to see him, and the one he said noto would be the one when they should arrive. If his phone was being tapped again, and if the law ever did catch on to the Dr Hall from Green Bay gambit, he wanted to be sure he was raided on the wrong day.
So Klee was in, and waiting for them. The old man in the elevator grumbled to himself as he took them up to the third floor, and when they were getting out he said, “I go home six o’clock. You hang around too long, you’ll have to walk down.”
They ignored him and went down the hall. The same green paint covered the plaster walls here. Klee’s office was flanked on one side by a food broker and on the other by a novelty company. Handy led the way into Klee’s office.
