“Shut up. There was supposed to be two of them, right?” “They said—he said—”
“Well, only one showed up. Harry, George, go on outside, keep an eye open. They might have had an idea about this.”
“Right.”
“Can I go now?” Renard again.
“Let’s just see about the merchandise first. Maybe they were cute, maybe the second man has the stuff.” “What am I supposed to—”
“Get in there. Take a look, see is it all there.”
“I don’t want—”
“Get in there.”
Parker crouched behind the crates. He felt the van rock slightly on its springs, metal scraping against metal up behind his head where door and truck were jammed together, and then Renard, twitching and terrified, was making his way around the passenger seat and into the cargo area.
Parker let him get all the way in, let him start to lift the tarpaulin; then he stood up and leaned forward, pushing the revolver into Renard’s face, whispering, “You scream and we’re both dead. But you first.”
Renard went white, and began to slump toward the floor. Parker reached his other hand over, grabbed Renard by the hair, yanked upward hard. The pain cut through Renard’s need to faint, and his eyes got their focus back again. He stared at Parker like a bird staring at a snake.
A voice from outside: “Is it all there?”
Parker whispered, “Tell him it’ll take a minute.” When Renard did nothing, Parker shook his head by the hair to attract his attention. “Tell him! It’ll take a minute.”
Still staring at Parker, Renard called over his shoulder, “It’ll lake, uh— It’ll take a minute.”
“Why?”
“You have to check inside one crate.”
“I have to check inside one crate,” Renard called.
“Well, snap it up.”
With the hand holding his hair, Parker pressed Renard down till he was kneeling beside the crates. Parker crouched facing him, let go of his hair, and whispered, “What is this? This isn’t your idea.”
“I didn’t want to have anything—”
“Keep it down. And forget that other stuff; just tell me what’s going on.”
Renard licked his lips, and gave the crates a frightened, resentful look. “This is all Leon’s fault,” he whispered. He was being petulant through the fear.
“Griffith? He’s dead.”
“He needed money.” Now the resentful look was turned toward Parker. “For you people.”
“And?”
“He wanted to borrow from me. I couldn’t do it, I, uh . . . My own financial situation wasn’t—”
Parker shook his head in impatience. “What happened?”
“I sent him to some people I knew. To loan him the money.”
“Mob money.”
“I don’t know, I—” Renard glanced over his shoulder toward the front of the truck. “I suppose so.”
“After Griffith killed himself,” Parker said, “they came to you to get the money back.”
Renard nodded.
“And you gave them us instead.”
“They wanted you. They wanted the paintings.”From outside, the leader’s voice called, “Renard. what the hell are you doing?”
“Tell him you need help.”
Renard’s eyes widened. Shrilly, he whispered, “I don’t want to die!”
“Nobody does. Tell him you need help.”
The van rocked on its springs again. Somebody was leaning his elbows in on the passenger seat, looking around the edge of the seat toward the darkness at the rear of the truck. The only light source was still the van headlights, illuminating the interior of the lumberyard but leaving the cargo area of the truck almost totally dark.
“Renard? What’s going on?”
Parker pressed the revolver barrel into Renard’s side.
“I—I need some help here. With the, uh, with the crates.”
“For Christ’s sake.”
