Lozini gave Harold Calesian a glum stare. “Where do you suppose the cops were?” he asked.
Calesian grinned sympathetically, undisturbed by Lozini’s implied accusation. He had the easy assurance and humorous arrogance of the long-time cop, combined with the calmness and quietness that comes from being on the inside, one of the masters. He always spoke quietly, with small expressive hand gestures, and nothing ever ruffled him. “The cops were on the street, Al,” he said. “By three o’clock this morning we were saturating the streets.”
“That goddam garage,” Lozini said, “is on London Avenue, the brightest street in the city.”
“We had a car in the area,” Calesian said. “You had two cars there yourself, Al, there was almost trouble between them and the patrolmen. What happened to your people?”
“They’re not trained cops.”
“Then why put them on patrol?”
Lozini waved it away like a buzzing fly. “That isn’t the point,” he said. “The point is this son of a bitch Parker. Where is he, and how do we stop him?”
“I don’t know where he is,” Calesian said, “any more than Ted does. Remember, Al, we came in this late. If you’d talked to me yesterday, or even the night before when he called you, I might have been able to do something by now.”
“Who knew he was going to move like that?”
Calesian shrugged. “We’ve been on it for six hours,” he said.
“Do you have a make on him yet? Who is he, where’s he from?”
“We don’t have any helpful identification, no fingerprints, just the name Parker. We’ve queried Washington, and we’ll see what happens.”
Lozini peered at him. “You don’t think much will.”
With a small smile, Calesian said, “No, I don’t.”
Ted Shevelly said, “What do we do about tonight?”
But Lozini was thinking about something else. “There may be a way I can find out who he is. Something about him, anyway.”
Shevelly said, “How’s that?”
“I’ll get in touch with you people later,” Lozini said. “I have to make a phone call.”
Shevelly said, “What about tonight?”
“I’ll call you this afternoon,” Lozini told him. To Faran, he said, “Frankie, you keep yourself available. You gonna be at the club or home?”
“Home,” Faran said. “I feel crappy, to tell you the truth. I’m gonna try to sleep a little.”
“Just stay available.”
“Oh, I will.”
Walters said, “Anything special for me to do?”
Lozini gave him an irritable look. “About what?”
Walters gestured with the sheet of paper. “These losses.”
“Unexplained robberies,” Lozini told him. “Deal with them straight. Give that driver from the garage a little something for his trouble.”
“Scoppo,” Walters said, and nodded.
Getting to his feet, Calesian said, “Let me know, Al, if you want any change in what we’re doing. Right now, we’re full out looking for them.”
“I’ll call you,” Lozini said.
The four men left the room, saying so long, Lozini giving each of them a short angry nod. When the door closed and he was alone, he sat brooding out the window for a minute, staring at the sunny morning.
He was reluctant to make the call. Doing anything the bastard wanted him to do seemed somehow like a defeat, like knuckling under. Still, it was the only move that made sense right now.
The hell with it. Lozini reached for the phone. But it wasn’t that easy. It took twenty minutes just to find out what city Walter Karns was in right now—Las Vegas—and another half-hour to track him down on a golf course there. But finally the heavy authoritative voice did come on the line, saying, “Lozini?”
“Walter Karns?”
“That’s right. You wanted to talk to me.”
“I need to ask you about somebody.”
A small hesitation, and Karns said, “Somebody I can talk about, I hope.”
“He said I should talk to you,” Lozini said. “I should ask you about him.”
“He did? What’s his name?”
“Parker. He says.”
“Parker?” There was surprise in Karns’ voice, but not displeasure. “You don’t mean anybody that works for me,”
