But then Uhl had to have worked it out and realized it meant Parker was after him. And he’d almost settled for Parker at the same time.
Where would Uhl go now? Pearson hadn’t gotten around to telling Parker how to find Uhl, but Uhl couldn’t know that or take a chance on it. So now he’d dig a hole someplace and climb in and pull the dirt in after him. Now he was going to be twice as tough to find.
And Parker had only one name and address left. Joyce Langer, 154 West 87th Street, New York City.
Pearson’s wife was still screaming. Parker got into his drove away from there.
car and Nine The girl who opened the door to Parker’s knock had the aggrieved look of the born loser. Without it, she would have been good-looking. A willowy girl with long chestnut hair streaming down her back in the manner of urban folk singers, she had good brown eyes and a delicately boned face, but the hangdog expression destroyed her shot at beauty. You looked at her and you knew right away her voice would be a whine.
It was. She said, “What is it? I’m having dinner.”
It was eight o’clock, a little late for dinner if she was by herself, and from her clothing Parker guessed she was by herself. She was in wrinkled dark blue bell-bottom slacks, rope-sole sandals, and a gray sweatshirt with a cartoon character’s face on it.
Parker said, “I want to talk to you about George Uhl.”
Her face hardened, the complainer lines deepening in her forehead and around her mouth. “I haven’t seen George for over a year,” she said. “Try somewhere else.”
“Where?”
“I wouldn’t know,” she said, and started to close the door.
Parker stuck his foot in the entrance. “Just a minute,” he said.
She looked at the foot as though she couldn’t believe it, and when she looked back up at Parker her complainer’s face was on her so strong she looked as though she had a toothache. She said, “What do you think you’re doing?” And the whine had gone up an octave.
“You don’t like George Uhl,” he said.
“What does it matter to you who I like? Do you want me to call for help?”
“I don’t like George either,” Parker said. “If I find him, I’ll cause him some trouble.”
She looked at him appraisingly. “You will?”
“Yes.”
“What is this? You a jealous husband or something?”
“Something.”
She looked past Parker at the hall, frowning, and then half turned to look at the apartment behind her. “I was just having dinner … .”
“I’ll wait.”
“The apartment’s a sight.”
“I couldn’t care less,” he said.
She looked at him again. “You’re really mad at George?”
“Yes.”
She hesitated a second longer, then shrugged and pulled the door all the way open, saying, “Okay, come on in.” Even that was said as though a heavy weight had just been put on her.
Parker walked into a sloppy living room, with a TV dinner on the coffee table and the television on with the sound turned low. He stood there and she shut the door after him, saying, “I don’t like fuss when it’s just me. You know how it is.” She was embarrassed about herself, though Parker didn’t care, and her embarrassment wouldn’t make her change anything.
“I know how it is,” Parker agreed.
She came around him, looking forlornly at her dinner. “It’s probably cold anyway. Listen — uh. What did you say your name was?”
“Tom Lynch.”
“Hi, Tom. I’m Joyce Langer.” It looked for a second as though she would even offer to shake hands with him.
“I know,” he said.
“Listen,” she said, trying to be animated. “Have you had dinner?”
Parker had driven straight up from Alexandria with stops only for gas. Four hours ago he’d had some of Lew Pearson’s gin and tonic, but nothing since. He said, “No, I haven’t.”
“Then why don’t you take me? I know a pretty nice little Mexican place down on Seventy-ninth Street. Okay?”
Parker was feeling the sense of urgency more than ever now. The people he was talking to were spread out up and down the eastern seaboard; he was wasting most of his time driving from one city to another. In the meantime Uhl could be anywhere. And Rosenstein could still be ahead of him.
But Joyce Langer could close up on him at any second, and he knew it. She was an injustice collector, a whiner, a stubborn, ineffectual hater. She might not be able to tell him a damn thing, but he would have to keep her happy until he found out one way or the other, so he said, “Okay. Let’s go.”
