the bed. Parker withdrew, making a note of the place; if nothing else worked out, the fat man could be kept in a closet for a couple of days.
5B. The key didn’t work. A different key finally worked, reluctantly. Parker entered a living room with one lamp burning in the far corner, giving a low yellow light. The room was neat, furnished in the style of a decorating magazine, and it contained no pile of mail. There were two bedrooms, one for adults and one for two male children who used bunk beds. The closets seemed full and there were pieces of luggage on the shelves, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything one way or the other. But the refrigerator in the small neat kitchen contained an open bottle of milk, half a homemade chocolate cake, and leftover casserole in an orange oval pot with lid. The people in this apartment were too neat to leave things like that in the refrigerator if they planned to be gone for a week or so; they would be back tonight.
5D. The first key worked. The living room was dark, dry, and hot. Parker switched the light on, looked around, and saw no pile of mail. Green drapes were drawn across the window at the far end of the room. The furnishings were ordinary: a sofa and two chairs all arranged so that they faced the television set, and with the appropriate tables and lamps. One bedroom, dominated by a king-size bed and apparently occupied by a couple. No luggage on the closet shelves, and visible spaces amid the clothing, particularly on the woman’s side. No razor or toothbrushes in the bathroom. An almost completely cleaned-out refrigerator.
This one looked good. Parker went back to the living room, where a secretary stood against the wall near the front door. Opening the desk part of the secretary, he found papers in pigeonholes, and went through them looking for an indication of this couple’s travel plans.
Brochures describing the Caribbean. A pencil-written list of woman’s clothing and accessories, each item checked off. And a telephone bill inside its opened envelope; the cancellation date on the envelope was three days ago, Thursday. Since the payment card and return envelope were both gone, the bill had been paid, no earlier than Friday.
All right. Parker had left his and Grofield’s luggage—one small bag each—in a locker down at the railroad station, and he’d go down there tonight to get them back. At the same time he would switch cars. Before then, though, he had other things to do.
The phone was in the living room, next to the sofa. Parker switched on the air-conditioner mounted in the wall under the windows, sat on the sofa, and called Handy McKay collect, using a name that Handy would know: Tom Lynch. Handy, sounding surprised and confused, accepted the charges, and when Parker came on, Handy said, “How come collect?”
“I don’t want your number to show up on this phone bill.”
“Ah.”
“You still looking for something to do?”
“I still eat.”
“I have something. It’s a little different from regular.”
“Will it pay?”
“Yes.”
“Where and when?”
“Tyler. The address is 220 Elm Way, apartment 5D. Get here between noon and sundown tomorrow. Arrive quiet.”
“On tiptoe,” Handy said, meaning that he understood he shouldn’t merely take a cab direct from the airport or railroad station to 220 Elm Way.
“See you,” Parker said, and broke the connection and made another collect call.
He phoned a total of twenty-five men. Some of them took two or three calls to locate. By the time he was finished, full night had descended on Tyler and eleven of the twenty-five had said they were in.
Thirty-six
Sunday was early closing; local ordinances prohibited liquor sales after midnight. Not that Faran or any of the other local saloonkeepers really minded, since Sunday was a dead night anyway. They were mostly glad of the excuse to close up, throw the few regulars out, and go home.
Angie came into Faran’s office a few minutes after midnight, bringing him a final drink. “Everybody’s set outside,” she said.
He was totaling the figures. “Fine.”
“I’m taking off now.”
He kept his eyes and his mind on his paperwork. “Okay.” She hesitated. “Will I see you later?”
He looked up. “I’m not sure, Angie. I’m feeling a little shaky.”
“Is it me, Frank? Did I do something?”
“Hey, no,” he said. Getting to his feet, surprising himself with the sudden rush of tenderness he felt toward the girl, he went around the desk and took her upper arms in his hands. “Nothing wrong with you at all, Angie. It’s just all this trouble we’ve been having. Give me a couple days, let things calm down, then everything will be just fine again.”
“Okay,” she said, and gave him a tentative smile. “You had me a little worried.”
“Don’t worry, Angie. Don’t worry about a thing.” He kissed her briefly and released her. “I’m just nervous these days, that’s all.”
”Okay, Frank. Good night.”
He watched her walk toward the door, skinny and tight, and felt the old ripples in his loins. “Maybe—” he said. She turned to look back at him.
