Kirwan came in, looking more upset than ever. “It’s screwed up, isn’t it?” he said. He glared at the papers on the table as though they’d just told him a message he didn’t want to hear.
“At least until next year,” Ducasse said. “But it’s still a good idea.”
“Damn good,” Stokes said.
Parker said, “Anybody got another potential?”
“Don’t I wish I had,” Stokes said.
Ducasse said, “We’ll keep each other in mind.”
“This was my baby,” Kirwan said, his expression now gloomy as he stared at the papers. “I put this together with loving care, it was gonna carry me for a year.”
Parker said, “I’d also appreciate news about George Uhl.”
Sounding interested, Ducasse said, “You going looking for him?”
Parker shook his head. “What I’m looking for is work. But if I find out where he is I’ll take care of things.”
“By Christ,” Kirwan said, “I’ll come along and help. That son of a bitch screwed me up good.” He gave the papers a wistful look and said, “I don’t suppose there’s any way we could . . .” His voice trailed off.
“No,” Parker said. “First, there isn’t time. Second, they’ve got Ashby.”
“He wouldn’t talk,” Kirwan said. “He might even be dead.”
“He doesn’t have to talk. He just has to be there, a known heistman with a bullet in him in their city.”
Stokes said, “The first minute there’s trouble, walk away. That’s my golden rule, and that’s why I never yet took a fall in my entire life.” He rapped his knuckles against the tabletop.
“We’ll be in touch,” Parker said.
They shook hands all around. When they left, Kirwan was crumpling the papers together to take them out and burn them.
Two
Parker walked through the house and saw Claire out by the lake, sunning herself. She was wearing a two-piece white bathing suit, and she was lying on a dark blue towel. It was still only June, but she already had a good tan, accented by the white suit.
He slid open the glass door between the dining room and the back porch, crossed the porch, went down the stoop, and walked over the just-trimmed lawn toward where she was lying. She had turned her head at the sound of the door sliding, and now smiled in his direction as he approached. She was wearing sunglasses, large blue ovals with white frames. Through the blue glass, her eyes were level and bright. She said, “You’re back sooner than I thought.”
“It fell through.” He squatted beside her and placed one palm on her stomach, just above the white trunks. Her flesh was warm, almost hot, and covered with a butter-like suntan lotion.
“I’m all oily,” she said. But she smiled, and reached up to touch his other arm.
“You’re hot,” he said. “You don’t want to overdo.” He shifted his hand to her near thigh, cupping his fingers down along the side of her leg, so that his knuckles brushed softly against the skin of her other thigh. The flesh under his palm was hot, but down between her legs it was cooler.”I’m used to it now,” she said. Then she sat up and said, “I’ll shower. Don’t kiss me, I’ll just make you all slippery.”
He straightened and gave her a hand to help her up. They walked back into the house together and he said, “I have a phone call to make.”
“All right.”
She went away to the bedroom. Parker walked first to the kitchen to wipe the suntan lotion from his hand on a paper towel, and then turned back to the living room, where the phone was. He dialed the number of a diner in Presque Isle, Maine, four states from here, a diner run by a man named Handy McKay. McKay had been a sideman of Parker’s several times in the old days. He was retired now, living on his diner, and he served as a middleman for people in the business who wanted to get in touch with Parker.
Somebody else answered, but Handy came on a minute later and Parker said, “It’s me. I’m home again.”
“Didn’t work out?”
“Remember me telling you about a guy named George Uhl?”
“Couple years ago.”
“He showed up, and caused trouble.”
‘Too bad.”
“I’d like to get in touch with him.”
“I don’t know if I’d be any help.”
“Just mentioning it,” Parker said. “And also, I’m available again.”
“No messages since we talked.”
“All right.”
“When you going to come visit?”
