town had forgotten him completely. In the meantime, his operational funds were running low and pretty soon he’d have to go dig up one of his emergency stashes of money. He needed a job, so the Beaghler thing was worth a look.
But the first look wasn’t encouraging. Beaghler might have done a lot of driving, but it either hadn’t made him much or he ran through it fast. This wasn’t a rich neighborhood. Beyond that, if he was having the meeting in his own home, he was operating practically on the cuff.
There was also the red convertible. The black Nova would be Beaghler’s car. and a good sign, but the red convertible suggested trouble. Was it somebody else living in the house? A wife or a girl friend, maybe. The personality suggested by the car wasn’t the kind Parker liked around when things were serious.
But he was here, and it was still worth a look.
Parker stepped through the weedy lawn and went up on the porch. Broken toys were scattered over the porch floor. He rang the bell, and a minute later the door was opened by a short stocky guy in black trousers and too-tight T-shirt. He was a little overdeveloped in the chest and upper arms for the rest of his body, as though he worked out with weights from time to time. He had deep sideburns and long wavy black hair, was about thirty-five, and hadn’t changed his style an inch since high school. He’d been a hot-rodder then, and he was a hot-rodder now.
“I’m Parker.”
The tough aggrieved-looking face broke into a sudden smile. ”Parker, yeah, Fred Ducasse told me about you. Come on in.” He stuck his hand out. “I’m Bob Beaghler.”
As they shook hands, Parker looked past him at a living room cluttered with discarded baby clothes, a new couch, and what looked like a new television set. There was also a new round felt-topped table in the center of the room, flanked by half a dozen functional wood-and-canvas chairs, as though ready for a poker game.
There were also two more people, one sitting at the round table and the other sprawled on the sofa. The one at the round table was male, very tall and thin, dressed in a suit and white shirt and narrow tie that all looked too big for him, and completely bald. He wore glasses and had a steady quiet competence in his face. He would be the driver of the other rental car.
And the one sprawled on the sofa would be the owner of the red convertible. Parker took one look at her and almost turned around and walked away from it right then. It was only that he was overdue for a job that he decided to stick around and see what the relationships were and how effectively Beaghler had her under control.
She was almost a parody of a suburban slut. Slender to the point of skinniness except for oversized breasts, she had the small narrow foxlike face of a tenement upbringing. Her hair was a well-tended gleaming brown, her face was carefully made up, and she had painted the nails of both fingers and toes. She was in the uniform of the type: halter and shorts.
The only good thing about her was that she didn’t seem to be in active agitation. There was no aura of tension from the man sitting at the table, as there would have been if he’d found himself unexpectedly in some kind of sexual arena, and when the woman met Parker’s eye, there was no invitation in her glance, nothing but a bored and muted curiosity. The machinery was all there, but it wasn’t turned on; which probably meant she’d married a man stronger than herself. Away from him, things might be different, but there’d be no reason for Parker or the others in the string to ever have to find that out.
Beaghler made the introductions, and in introducing the man at the table first he gave further demonstration of the relationship he’d established with his wife. “Parker, this is George Walheim. And that’s my wife, Sharon.”
Parker and Sharon nodded at one another, and Parker turned his attention to Walheim, who was getting to his feet to shake hands, saying, “Good to know you. You’re from the East, aren’t you?”
“Mostly. You do locks?”
Walheim grinned. “I can’t get away from it, people can always tell.”
“You look the part, George.” Beaghler said. “You look like nothing on God’s green earth but a lockman. Just like I look like a grease monkey.” And he did a simian pose, arms hanging curved at his sides. With his chest and upper arm development, he did look something like an ape. Then he straightened and said to Parker, “Beer?”
“No, thanks.”
“Coke, then.”
Apparently Beaghler felt the need to behave like a host. “Fine,” Parker said.
Beaghler turned to call to his wife, “Sharon, a Coke for Mr. Parker.”
A very small trace of resentment showed in the woman’s eyes and in the lines at the corners of her mouth, but there was no hesitation; she got to her feet and left the living room.
Beaghler gestured to the round table. “Come on and sit down. You have a good flight?”
The next twenty minutes were filled with small-talk. Beaghler was sensible not to outline his story until everybody was present, but Parker had never been any good at small-talk, preferring silence when there wasn’t anything meaningful to say. Still, half of the success or failure of any job lay in the personalities of the people involved, and in this one Ducasse was the only other guy in the string that he knew at all, so it was good to get a chance to watch these two and listen to them while they were relaxed and easy.
The impression he built up was mostly good. George Walheim looked to be as steady and calm as a rock beside the road. At work, he would be smooth and methodical, he would get his job done, he wouldn’t let the tension of the situation work on his nerves. Bob Beaghler was less controlled, but he had a fighting-cock kind of approach to the world, tough but with good humor; he looked to be the kind of guy who was in love with his own virility. Very often, good drivers had this style, it made them both skillful and competitive. He would be faster and tougher than Walheim, but not quite as steady and reliable.
The woman, Sharon, was a disaster area with a lid on it. She was the kind of woman a Bob Beaghler would be attracted to, simply so he could prove himself capable of domesticating her; like the kind of man who seeks work breaking horses. And he had obviously succeeded, at least while she was under his eye. The slight mulishness she showed whenever he gave her an order hinted at undercover revolution when his back was turned, but she’d obviously learned not to cross him directly.
In the course of the talk, it came out that the Beaghlers had three children; the baby was now asleep, and the two older ones were having dinner at a friend’s house. And Bob Beaghler was an auto customizer and drag racer: “That’s where my money goes,” he said, at one point. “Smeared against the wall out at Altamont.”
