The Green Eagle Score
by
Richard Stark
1967
Contents
Title Page
Part One
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
Part Two
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
Part Three
1
Part Four
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
Part One
1
Parker looked in at the beach and there was a guy in a black suit standing there, surrounded by all the bodies in bathing-suits. He was standing near Parker’s gear, not facing anywhere in particular, and he looked like a rip in the picture. The hotel loomed up behind him, white and windowed, the Puerto Rican sun beat down, the sea foamed white on the beach, and he stood there like a homesick mortician.
Parker knew him. His name was Fusco.
Parker rolled over and called to Claire, a wave away, “I’m going in.”
“Why?” But then she looked toward the beach, and didn’t need an answer. She paddled over near Parker and said, “My God, he’s inconspicuous. Who is he?”
“Business, maybe. You can stick around down here.” He knew she wouldn’t want to hear about business.
“I’ll work on my tan,” she said. “Will you come back?”
“Yes. Don’t get too much sun.”
He let the long waves glide him in toward the beach, and when he waded out onto the sand Fusco was gone. He walked up to his chaise longue, toweled himself dry, slipped into his sandals, draped the towel around his shoulders, and crossed the sand to the rear entrance of the hotel. He was a big man, blocky, with a big frame and an efficient graceless way of moving.
It took him a second to adjust to the darkness inside the door. He stood on the carpet until he could see, then walked down the long corridor to the hotel lobby. As he crossed the lobby Fusco got up from one of the black leather chairs and strolled obliquely across Parker’s route and into the cocktail lounge. Parker went on to the elevator, rode up to seven and went down the hall to his room. The air conditioning was on and the room was as cold as a piece of tile. Parker called room service, ordered tonic and ice, and got dressed. Then he stood at the window, looking down at the tourists walking along Ashford Avenue, until the knock sounded at his door.
It was the tonic and ice. He signed for it, got a glass from the bathroom and the gin from the dresser, and made himself a drink.
The glass was half-empty before Fusco arrived. Parker opened to his knock and Fusco came in saying, “Christ, it gets hot down here.”
“That’s what it’s for.” Parker shut the door. “Make yourself a drink.”
“What’s that, gin? I can’t touch it.” Fusco shook his head and patted his stomach. “It’s a funny thing,” he said. “Since I got out I can’t touch the hard stuff, it makes me double right up.”
There was nothing to say to that. Parker went over to the chair by the window and sat down.
