Parker glanced at the finger. “That’s no proof of anything,” he said.
“If you don’t get to Buenadella’s by noon tomorrow,” Shevelly said, “they’ll send you another finger. And another finger every day after that, and then toes. To prove he’s still alive, and not a decomposing body.”
“And if I go there by tomorrow I get him and the money both, and an ambulance to take him away in.”
“That’s right.”
Parker said, “Do you believe that, Shevelly?”
“He’s alive,” Shevelly said. “I saw him, he doesn’t look good, but he’s alive.”
“The deal is Buenadella’s way of doing things,” Parker said, “but Buenadella isn’t in charge any more.” He gestured with the pistol at the finger in the white box. “Calesian’s running things now.”
“It was a stupid thing to kill Al Lozini,” Shevelly said.
Parker frowned at him, looking at the coldly angry face. “Oh. They told you I did that, huh?”
Shevelly had nothing to say. Parker, studying him, saw there was no point arguing with him, and no longer possible to either trust him or make use of him. He gestured with the pistol toward Shevelly, saying, “Get out of the car.”
“What?”
“Just get out. Leave the door open, back away to the sidewalk, keep facing me.”
Shevelly frowned. “What for?”
“I take precautions. Do it.”
Puzzled, Shevelly opened the door and climbed out onto the thin grass next to the curb. He took a step to the sidewalk and turned around to face the car again.
Parker leaned far to the right, aiming the pistol out at arm’s length in front of him, the line of the barrel sighted on Shevelly’s head. Shevelly read his intention and suddenly thrust his hands out protectively in front of himself, shouting, “I’m only the messenger!”
“Now you’re the message,” Parker told him, and shot him.
Thirty-two
Nathan Simms did dogged laps in the pool out behind his house. At his age it was hard to keep in shape, to trim away those fat rolls at the sides of the waist, to keep the belly from hanging out as though he had swallowed a soft basketball, to keep from panting like a walrus after making love to Donna. Swimming was supposed to be good for all that, wind and belly and spare tire, so whenever the weather was at all good enough Simms was in the pool, exhausting himself, plodding earnestly from end to end, keeping track in his head of the number of laps he had done, and from time to time lying like a discarded doll on the hot concrete beside the pool, listening to his heart drum while he waited for strength to go on.
Elaine came out, shielding her eyes from the sun like an Indian looking for cavalry. It had been ten years or more since she’d made any effort to keep herself in shape, and now she was a dumpy woman with bad digestion and a perpetual manner of ill-treatment. “Phone, Nate,” she called, managing to imply by her tone of voice that the phone call was frivolous and that it had interrupted something very important that she had been doing.
Simms was grateful for any excuse to stop the endless back-and-forth swimming. He churned laboriously to the steps, and by the time he got out of the pool Elaine had already disappeared back into the house. He was grateful for that too; Elaine’s presence, the last few years, grated on him like an old bedsore. Dripping, he padded into the house and used the wall phone in the kitchen. “Hello?”
It was Harold, Al Lozini’s houseman. “Mr. Lozini wants you to come over right away.”
Now what? A wooden ball of apprehension formed high on Simms’ stomach. “I’ll leave right now,” he said, and hung up, and went upstairs to his bedroom to dress. Putting on plum-colored slacks, brown suede high-top shoes, a white turtleneck shirt and a madras jacket, he thought about last night’s meeting with Dutch. Had a contract really been put out on Parker and Green, were they dead now? Had something gone wrong, did Al know the whole truth all of a sudden?
These last few days were grinding him down. He wished it was all over, that the dust was settled and he was already comfortable and safe at the new plateau, with more money and more power and more to offer Donna.
He drove across town to Lozini’s house and was met by the houseman. Simms said, “Mr. Lozini in his office?”
“He isn’t here yet, Mr. Simms. Would you wait in the living room?”
“Not here? Where is he?”
“He went out this morning. He’s supposed to be back pretty soon.”
That wasn’t satisfactory, but Simms could see it was the only answer he was going to get, so he gave an irritated shrug and went on into the living room, where he found Frank Faran standing by the window, swirling a colorless drink in a tall glass. A bit of lime in the drink suggested it was probably a vodka-tonic.
Faran turned and gave Simms his professional smile and a salute with the glass. “How de do, Nate. Your hair’s wet.”
“I was in the pool.”
“Harold!” Faran shouted. When the houseman appeared in the doorway, Faran gestured to him, saying to Simms, “Have a drink.”
“No, thanks,” Simms said. He was worrying about the meeting, the reason for it, and he wanted to ask Faran as soon as they were alone. But then he suddenly thought that a drink might calm him, and he said, “Wait. All right. I’ll have one of those.”
