It was under the dresser, a Smith & Wesson Terrier, five-shot .32. Parker took it and the Beretta and stowed them away in his suitcase. His watch said eleven-thirty-five, which made Handy over half an hour later, so something had gone wrong.
Parker straightened the room and Wilcoxen still hadn’t come out of it. Parker dragged him over to the wall, propped him up in a sitting position, and pinched him awake. Wilcoxen came out of it complaining, groaning, and thrashing his head around and keeping his eyes tight shut. There was a sour smell of wine on his breath. His face was all wrinkled grey leather except for two bright red circles on his cheeks, like a clown’s make-up.
Parker said, “Open your eyes, Jimmy.”
Wilcoxen stopped complaining and opened his eyes. They were a wet, washed-out blue, like an overexposed colour photo. He took a while getting them to focus on Parker’s face, and then the red blotches on his cheeks got suddenly redder, or the rest of the face paler.
Parker said, “Good,” then straightened up and went away across the room to the nearest chair. He brought it over and sat down and kicked Wilcoxen conversationally in the ribs. “We’ll talk.”
Wilcoxen’s lips were wet. He shook his head and blinked a lot.
Parker said, “I got a partner. You had a partner. Scorbi.”
Wilcoxen looked around and didn’t see Scorbi.
“Your partner wouldn’t tell me about my partner. I threw him back out the window.”
Wilcoxen’s eyes got bigger. He stared at Parker and waited, but Parker didn’t have anything else to say. The silence got thicker, and Wilcoxen squirmed a lot. His feet jiggled, and he licked his lips and kept blinking. Parker sat looking at him, waiting, but Wilcoxen’s eyes kept darting all over the place.
Finally, he asked, “What you want from me?”
Parker shook his head and kicked him again. “Wrong answer.”
“I don’t know no partner. Honest to Christ.”
“What doyou know?”
“I got a hundred bucks. Donny and me both. Go to the Wynant Hotel, first fire-escape in the alley, fifth floor. If there’s nobody home, take everything there. Suitcases and like that.”
“And if there’s somebody home?”
“Don’t do nothing. Come back and report.”
“Back where?”
Wilcoxen’s blinking was getting worse. His eyes were closed more than they were open. “Listen,” he said. “It’s just a job, you know? A hundred bucks. Nobody hurt, just pick up some suitcases. Anybody woulda took it.”
Parker shook his head. He didn’t care about that. “Back where?” he asked.
“Howison Tavern. On E Street, down by Fourth Precinct.”
“Who do you see?”
Wilcoxen frowned, and the blinking settled down a little. “I don’t know,” he said. “He just told us go in there and sit down. If we got the stuff, somebody would come by, pick it up. If not, somebody would come by, get the report.”
“What time you supposed to be there?”
“By one o’clock.”
“Which E Street?”
“Huh? Oh, Southeast.”
“Who gave you the job?”
“The job? Listen, I got pins and needles in my hands.”
Parker looked at his watch. Quarter to twelve. He had an hour and fifteen minutes. “I’m in a hurry, Jimmy,” he said.
“How come you know my name?”
Parker kicked him in the ribs again, not hard, just as a reminder.
“I’m giving you the straight story. I ain’t going to lie for a hundred bucks. You didn’t have to throw Donny out no window.”
“Who gave you the job?”
“Oh, uh a guy named Angel. He’s a heavy, he hangs out around North Capitol Street, up behind the station. Donny and me, we was in a movie on D Street, and when we come out Angel grabs on to us and gives us the offer.”
“Is Angel going to be at the Howison Tavern?”
“He says no. He says somebody will come by, don’t worry, he’ll recognize us. We should sit in a booth and drink beer. Schlitz.”
“Where do I find this Angel?”
“I don’t know. Honest to Christ. Hangin’ around some place, up around behind the station. In around there, you know.”
It was no good. Parker thought it over, chewing his lip. The meeting couldn’t be faked, so there was no way to
