“A story with evidence,” Calesian said. He strode to Buenadella’s desk and picked up a small white box, the sort of box that inexpensive earrings or cuff links come in, nestling on a bit of cotton gauze. Shevelly noticed Buenadella looking at the box with repugnance, his lips drawing back from his teeth as though he might suddenly throw up.
Calesian brought the box over to Shevelly. “This evidence,” he said, and opened the box, and inside, on the inevitable bit of cotton gauze, was a finger, severed just below the second knuckle.
Thirty-one
When Parker got back to Lozini’s place, the houseman told him, “There was a telephone message for you. Not from Mr. Lozini.”
No, not from Lozini. Parker said, “Who from?”
“Detective Calesian. He left a number for you to call him back.”
Parker looked at the piece of paper: a name, seven digits. “This number mean anything to you?”
“Yes, sir,” the houseman said. Sometime in the last hour he had either lost his fear or grown used to it; in any case, he was all right now, operating without that buzzing sense of tension. “That’s one of Mr. Buenadella’s home lines,” he said.
“All right,” Parker said. “Get me Dulare, Shevelly, Faran, Walters, and Simms. I want them to meet me here, all five of them, right now. I’ll use the hall phone here, you use a different one.”
The houseman looked doubtful. “Is this okay with Mr. Lozini? I don’t have any instructions about you.”
“You know those five names,” Parker told him. “Your boss wants them here.”
That made sense to the houseman. “Okay,” he said. “I just wanted to check, you know?”
Parker turned away to the hall phone, and after a second the houseman left. Parker dialed the number from the piece of paper, and on the first ring it was answered in Buenadella’s voice, sounding wary. “Yeah? Hello?”
”This is Parker.”
“Oh.” Buenadella sounded almost relieved, as though some other caller might have been even worse news. “Listen, Parker,” he said, “that wasn’t my idea. That was a mistake.”
Calesian’s mistake; Parker had already figured that out. And Calesian was in the room with Buenadella, which was why Buenadella had identified the caller by name.
“Parker?”
“I’m here.”
“You didn’t say anything.”
“I didn’t know you were finished,” Parker said.
“I’m not—I’m not exactly finished.” Nervousness was coming into Buenadella’s voice, meaning some sort of lie or con or trap was about to be brought out. Buenadella’s problem was that he wasn’t mobster enough; he could run circles around somebody like Lozini when it came to politics and business, but a job like Lozini’s wasn’t the right slot for a politician or a businessman. Buenadella would have found that out sooner or later; he could consider himself lucky he found out before he tried on the crown.
“Parker?”
“If you have something to say, Buenadella, go ahead and say it.”
“About your partner—”
“That isn’t the subject.”
“All right. The money.”
Another goddam pause. What did Buenadella want, fill-in about the weather, how’s the wife and kids, what do you think of the Miami Dolphins? A fucking businessmen’s lunch, on the phone. “I’m in a hurry, Buenadella,” Parker said.
“I want to set up a meeting.” Which was said all in a rush; leaping into the lie, meaning the lie was in the form of an ambush.
“What for?”
“To—to explain things. To make another deal.”
“Where and when?”
“You say. And it won’t be with me, or Calesian, or any of my other people. You know Ted Shevelly, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
”He’s not my man, absolutely not. He’s Al Lozini’s man all the way.”
Parker believed that. It made sense to tether a goat out as bait. “All right.”
“He’ll carry the message,” Buenadella said. “You meet with him, talk it over, make your decision. Okay?”
“Where is Shevelly now?”
“Right here with me. You can talk to him yourself, set up the meeting any way you want it. I swear to God, Parker, that last time was a mistake. I was negotiating in good faith.”
Parker believed that one, too. What he didn’t believe was that Buenadella was
