“Latham. Edward Latham.”
“Home address?”
“Newcastle Business Machines, Minneapolis, Minnesota.”
“That’s a single, sir?”
“Yes.”
“For three nights.”
“Yes.”
“We will hold the reservation until three p.m. on Thursday.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Thank you for calling the Wilmington, sir.”
Parker broke the connection again and dialed a number in Chicago. It rang six times, and then a heavy male voice came on, saying, “I hope to hell this isn’t a wrong number. You know what time it is?”
“I’m looking for a fellow named Briley. He and I just did some musical work together.”
“You the guy called the day before yesterday?”
“No. That was Keegan.”
“He called at a better time of day, my friend, but I’ll tell you just what I told him. Our friend is partying in Detroit. No fixed abode.”
“No contact? You’re supposed to be his contact.” As Handy was Parker’s.
“I know what I’m supposed to be. You know a girl in Detroit named Evelyn?”
“No.”
“Evelyn Keane. You’ll find her.” There was a click.
Parker hung up, and a tractor trailer roared by, down-shifting as it went through the little town. It was the only traffic that had passed here since Parker had stopped the car. He stood in the phone-booth doorway now, and watched the truck taillights recede, the red lights outlining the trailer body. He frowned at the departing lights, thinking.
He had no way to get to Morris. No matter what means of transportation Keegan’s killers were using, it made sense for them to work in a straight line, which would mean Detroit before the East Coast, starting from Minnesota. So there should be safe time for Claire in that. Maybe.
Parker went over and got into the Dodge and drove it back to the slot he’d stolen it from in the Minneapolis airport parking lot.
There were no girls in the booths at this time of day, and no customers at the bar. When Parker walked in, the only person present was the bartender, writing on a sheet of paper beside the open cash register. Parker went over and sat down on a stool, and the bartender looked sideways at him and said, “I can’t serve you a drink this early. Against the law.”
“I don’t want a drink. I want a girl named Evelyn Keane.”
“Mrs. Keane? She isn’t one of the girls here.”
“I don’t want her for that. I want her because she knows how I can get in touch with a friend of mine.”
The bartender tapped the eraser of his pencil against his front teeth. “I don’t know her personally,” he said thoughtfully. “I think I may have heard the name. I could ask around.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll just make a couple phone calls. I can sell you a soda.”
“I don’t need one.”
“Up to you. It just makes me nervous to have a John at the bar with no glass, in front of him. I’ll be right . back.”
Parker read the bottle labels on the back bar for three minutes, and then the bartender came back with a folded piece of paper. “I was told this was the place you ought to go.”
. “Thanks.” Parker reached for his wallet.
“On the house,” the bartender said. “Come back when you can buy me a drink.”
“Right.”
Parker went out and got a cab and took it to the address he’d been given, a brick apartment building constructed between the wars in a neighborhood that hadn’t gotten better. There was no name in the slot next to the button for 5-F. Parker pushed it, waited to identify himself, and didn’t have to; the buzzer sounded right away, unlocking the door.
There was no elevator, and 5-F was on the top floor. He went up, hearing nothing from the top of the stairwell, and walked along the carpeted corridor to the apartment door. Light bulbs imitating candle flames were in wall sconces imitating candles, but only three of them were lit, leaving the hall in semi-darkness.
Parker rang the bell, and the man who opened the door had a gun in his hand. “Come in,” he said.
Parker held his hands out from his body, and went in.
There were four of them in the living room, but only one counted: the middle-aged fat man sitting on the sofa, rolling a cigar in his fingers. The other three, including the one who’d opened the door, were just hoods, extensions
