Run Lethal
(aka The Handle)
By
Richard Stark
Copyright S 1966 by Richard Stark
ONE
1
WHEN the engine stopped, Parker came up on deck for a look around. The mainland was nearly out of sight now, just a grey smudge on the horizon between the dark blue of the water and the lighter blue of the sky.
The man who called himself Yancy was sitting in one of the two chairs astern, and the man whose name Parker didn’t know was standing at the controls. They both wore white trousers, navy blue jackets and yachting caps and sunglasses, but they both had the faces and voices and hands of New York or Chicago hoods.
Yancy raised the hand with the glass in it and motioned forward. ‘There it is,’ he said.
Parker turned and looked out past the spray-flecked windshield, over the top of the rest of the boat, and out over the water to the island. It was still about half a mile away, and all he could make out was a mound of jungle greenery bulging up out of the water over there.
‘Get in closer,’ he said. ‘I can’t see anything from here.’
The one at the wheel said, ‘We don’t want to take chances.’
‘Neither do I,’ Parker told him.
Yancy said, ‘He’s right. Move in closer.’
The guy at the wheel didn’t like it, but he had nothing more to say. He just frowned behind his sunglasses, shrugged his shoulders, and started the engine.
Yancy waved the hand with the bottle in it. ‘Come on and sit down. Why stay below all the time?’
Parker had gone down into the cabin before they’d left the dock and had stayed there until just now. He had no fear of the water, but he didn’t like boats and he didn’t like the ocean. Coming out away from land like this was like sticking yourself in a cage; there was no way out. From a practical point of view he was stuck on this boat, imprisoned on it, till it touched land again. So long as he stayed down below in the cabin, a place that looked like half the motel rooms in the southwest, he wasn’t so aware of the caged feeling, but up here, surrounded by the flat blue water of the Gulf of Mexico, he was reminded of it all the time.
Still, the island was in sight, and that’s what he’d come out here to see, so he went back and sat in the other white chair next to Yancy. The boat was pushing through the waves again, not very fast, heading towards the island.
Parker supposed it was a good boat, as boats go. It was an Owens cabin cruiser, forty feet long, sleek and gleaming, mostly white, with a blond wood deck. There were three rooms below, plus two baths, and space enough with convertible sofa and hideaway bed to sleep eight. The area up here where he and Yancy were sitting could probably be easily fixed up with fastened seats for deep-sea fishing.
Yancy said, ‘The main building’s around the other side of the island.’
‘What’s on this side?’
‘Storage sheds, power plant, few guest cottages.’
‘Guest cottages? Customers stay over?’ He hadn’t been told that.
Yancy shrugged. ‘Sometimes. Just one night, you know what I mean?’
Parker said, ‘It’s a whorehouse, too, is that it?’
‘Not very much.’ Yancy grinned and spread his hands. ‘Just sometimes, on a special request, for some good friend of Baron’s.’
Parker said, ‘You know Baron?’
Smiling, Yancy shook his head. ‘I know aboutBaron. That’s what counts.’ He was better than his partner at the wheel in making his speech suit his playboy clothing; only the hard lines of his face gave the lie away.
Parker had been with Yancy off and on the last two days and at all times Yancy carried a glass in one hand and a bottle in the other. Now, discovering the current bottle was empty, he got to his feet and said, ‘Blast.’ He flipped the bottle over the side. ‘Be right back.’
Parker watched him go. Yancy moved as though the boat were on dry land and he himself was sober. He went down the ladder into the cabin below and out of sight. Parker watched the island coming closer; he could make out buildings in among the greenery now, small pink cottages near the water and some sort of brick construction farther back.
As Yancy was coming back up on deck with a fresh bottle, the guy at the wheel said, ‘Somebody coming.’
Parker got to his feet. A small boat was chopping through the water towards them, leaving a white Y in its wake.
Yancy said, ‘No problem, no problem.’ As though he wanted to soothe his partner at the wheel.
Parker knew the other two looked all right out here, but he in his suit wouldn’t ring true. He said, ‘I’ll wait down below.’
‘Fine, fine.’ Yancy, distracted, waved the hand with the glass in it. He was watching the little boat speeding towards them.
Parker went below. He was in a fair-sized but crowded room, furnished with a sectional sofa, a chair, and table, and a combination kitchenette-bar. Curtained windows lined both sides, giving the interior a dim and bluish light.
