Parker sat down beside her, put his sunglasses on, leaned back on his chaise longue with his face in the sun, and said, ”I’m going away for a while.”
Still looking at the book, she said, “I knew.”
“It may just be for a day or two. If I’m not back in two days figure me to be gone for a couple weeks at least.”
“Or maybe for ever,” she said.
He looked at her, but her eyes were still on the book. He said, “I’m not walking out on you.”
“Maybe not on purpose,” she said. “I’ve known men like you before.”
She might have been talking about her airline pilot husband, who wound up smeared like raspberry jam across some mountaintop. Parker didn’t like the analogy.
“You’ve never known anybody like me before,” he said. “I only walk where the ice is thick.”
“You walk on ice,” she said. “That’s what I mean.”
“That’s a surprise? You knew that all along.”
“I know.”
“Then why this?”
She turned her head, looked at him through the green lenses of her glasses. After a minute she shook her head and looked back at the book. “I don’t know. No reason.”
“All right.” He faced front again and said, “The room’ll be paid for a month. If I’m not back by then, there’s a package in the hotel safe, enough to carry you for a while.”
“If you’re not back in a month, I shouldn’t wait any more, is that it?”
“Right.”
“You won’t be contacting me at all.”
“Probably not. I might, if there’s a reason, but I won’t just to say hello the weather’s fine.”
“I know,” she said.
Parker got to his feet. “Don’t get too much sun.”
“I’ll be going in in a while,” she said.
Parker took his towel and walked across the sand to the hotel. He looked back when he reached the door, but Claire wasn’t looking at him. Her head was down on the book now, and her hands were covering her face. Parker went on into the hotel.
3
”Stan,” said Fusco, “this is the fella I told you about. Parker, Stan Devers.”
It was raining in New York, drizzling down on the airport in the darkness, cold and wet and a million miles from the heat of Puerto Rico. People with intent faces were hurrying by, bumping into each other, carrying luggage, in a hurry, not happy. In the middle of the brightly lighted floor Parker and Fusco and Devers made an island that the bustle eddied around, the hurriers managing to miss them without quite seeing them.
Devers stuck out his hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr Parker.” He was a pretty beach boy, muscular and smiling and self-confident, with a clean strong jawline and curly blond hair. His handshake was self-consciously firm, and he was in civilian clothing, in threads a little too good for somebody who’s supposed to be living on Army pay. He made Parker think of the kind of insurance salesman who peddles his policies on the golf course, except this specimen wasn’t quite old enough for that yet.
“I’ve got a car outside,” Devers said.
Fusco had explained to him on the way up that the fastest way to get to Monequois from New York was to drive. There was local airline service, but it was slow and unreliable. That’s why Devers had been contacted to drive down and meet them at Kennedy Airport.
They started now toward the exit, Devers leading the way through the crowd, saying over his shoulder, “It’s about a five-hour drive, so if you want to make any kind of stop now, go right ahead.”
“We’ll stop on the way,” Parker said.
“Fine.”
The doors opened for them and they went out to moist cold air. There was a roof over this area, but everything was wet just the same, glistening with a clammy sheen of moisture. A Carey bus was picking up passengers to the left, and a stream of taxis was inching along the ramp, letting out arriving passengers and picking up new ones.
Devers had illegally parked his car, a two-year-old maroon Pontiac, in a loading zone just to the right. He unlocked the trunk and stowed the luggage while the others got into the car. Fusco started to get in front but Parker stopped him, saying, “Sit in back. I want to talk to your boy.”
“Sure thing.”
Devers showed surprise for just a second when he got into the car and saw Parker in the front seat with him, but all he said was, “The longest stretch’ll be getting out of this damn city.” He started the engine, cut off a taxi, and they rolled down the ramp into the rain.
Devers was a good driver, if a little fast and cocksure. He out-distanced most of the cabs he met while circling around Kennedy Airport and out on to Van Wyck Expressway, and from there on he maintained a steady seven or
