The booming went on, and the windshield starred as a bullet went through, and there was nothing for it but to hit the accelerator and get out of there, leaving Arnie behind dying or dead; nothing else to do, no other way.
Within eight blocks, twisting and turning, he knew he was clear. He slammed the car into a parking space and got out, leaving it there forever.
Dead or dying. The whole setup shot now, shot forever. There’d never again be a team like Little Bob Negli and Arnie Feccio.
And all because of Parker, that stupid bastard, that clod, that mindless bungler. Parker was the one to blame.
‘I’m going to get you, Parker,’ he said. He threw the car keys into a garbage can and walked on.
Six
For a man who hated to talk, being a polltaker wasn’t an easy job. Pete Rudd hated to talk.
Like Abe Clinger, Rudd had come to his profession as a second choice. He’d started as a carpenter and cabinet-maker, and he did slow and careful work with very expensive wood. It was difficult for him to find good materials, but that wasn’t enough to drive him out of the business. What drove him out was the lack of good customers.
Outside every large city in the country there is a highway flanked by shopping centers and discount stores, like a tow of roofed-over city dumps. In these places, in plastic or cheap wood, shoddily assembled, barren of design, can be found the sort of product Pete Rudd was making slowly and carefully in a crafty workshop with concrete floor. Rudd’s work cost five times what the competition was charging, and would last ten limes as long. He came close, a few times, to starving to death.
He made a trunk for a customer one time, a special sort of trunk with a hidden inner compartment. The customer offered him extra money to keep the secret of the trunk a secret, and Rudd refused it; it was ridiculous to pay Rudd to be silent. When the customer came back with an illegal proposition for Rudd two months later, Rudd looked into his empty cash register, leafed through his unpaid bills, and joined the mob that took the Regal Electronics payroll in Mobile. His job in that one was to dummy up the interior of a truck with a fake partition behind which five men could hide.
For a while after that, the occasional robberies helped to keep his woodworking business solvent, but gradually he was doing less and less woodworking, because while the robberies solved his lack of money, they didn’t solve his lack of customers. By now the woodworking was down to a hobby and an easy cover of respectability; Rudd’s main profession was heisting.
The nice thing about the job, for him, was that it practically never required talking. Other people, people like Parker, did all the planning and explaining. They told Rudd what they wanted him to do and he did his part not caring about how it fit into the general scheme, and when the job was over he took his split and went home.
Sometimes things went wrong, jobs turned sour. When that happened, he went home without any money, but he still went home. He’d never been touched by the law, and he saw no reason why he ever would be.
Which was one’ of the reasons he didn’t like hanging around here in this city this time. There was law all over the place. The take, his share of it, was only around twenty thousand dollars anyway. He could get that somewhere else before the year was up.
But the others were all in it, so he had to be in it too. So here he was, carrying a clipboard, walking around asking dumb questions, checking back with Kifka every once in a while to tell him how he’d done so far and to get another trio of names, and then off again.
This one was a walk-up, a furnished room. Rudd doggedly climbed the stairs and knocked on the door, and after a minute it was opened by a tall, broad-shouldered young man with a deep tan. He looked like a halfback on a college football team. His expression was suspicious as he said, ‘What is it? What do you want?’
Rudd knew immediately the television gambit would be no good here; in a furnished room like this, this guy wouldn’t have a television set. So he said, ‘Radio.’
The guy frowned. ‘What? What’s that?’
‘Radio,’ said Rudd. ‘I’m from Associated Polls, we want to know when you listen to the radio.’
‘Radio? I don’t listen to the radio, I just moved in here.’
‘We want to know,’ Rudd said, pushing it, ‘what programs you listened to on Tuesday night. Did you listen to the special -‘
‘Tuesday night? What about Tuesday night?’
‘We want to know -‘
‘Come on in here. Come on.’
Rudd went in and the guy shut the door. It was a small square box of a room, badly furnished.
The guy turned around from the door and hit Rudd with his closed fist on the side of the head. Rudd stumbled and fell over a chair, and the guy came after him and kicked him in the small of the back. ‘Who sent you?’ he said. ‘Who sent you here?’
After a while, Rudd told him.
Seven
Ray Shelly was an easygoing sort. Only once in his life had he hit anyone in anger, and that was a major in the United States Army. Shelly at the time was a private in the United States Army, and in the major’s private bed, and very close to the major’s wife. The major, returning unexpectedly and finding his wife and Shelly in bed together, had taken one look at the size of Shelly and had then started to beat up on his wife instead. He got to hit her twice before Shelly flattened him. Shelly got six months stockade and a bad conduct discharge out of that, the major got a transfer to a base where his presence wouldn’t cause so many snickers, and his wife got a change-of-life baby.
Sitting on the sofa in the living room of a guy named Fred Burrows now, Shelly thought about that time and wondered how the major was treating his kid. The kid would be eight year’s old now. Nine. No, eight.
Parker was doing the talking for both of them, so Shelly didn’t have to waste any time listening. He and Parker
