Parker reached out and closed his left hand around Carmody's right thumb, bending the thumb in on itself, applying only the slightest pressure. Carmody's face turned almost as white as the makeup smeared on it, his knees bent, his mouth opened in a wide O. Parker said, 'Shut up, now. You said your say. Now we walk to the money room.'
Carmody tried to say something else, but Parker squeezed just a little bit harder, and no sound but a faint whimper came out of the angel's mouth. Obedient, wide-eyed, he turned, his sandals shuffling on the concrete, and they all walked together along the gently curving corridor, lit by widely spaced fluorescent tubes mounted on the ceiling. Parker and the angel looked like they were holding hands, flanked by the other two as they walked from light to light, the three big hard-boned men in dark clothing, carrying shotguns, all round the bedraggled angel, shoulders slumped beneath the useless wings.
The hymn-singing got louder as they progressed, more aggressive, ridding the world of evil by shouting at it. A side corridor went up to the left, and they paused there to look.
That corridor, tunnel-like, was dark and low-ceilinged, with a closed mesh gate at the end. Beyond the mesh were the bright field lights, washing the arena in a glare of white, so that from where Parker and the others stood it was impossible to make out exactly what was taking place on the artificial turf out there. A mass of people, their backs turned, all swaying so that the light glinted and shifted, harsh white bleaching out the colors, making the shadows blacker than black. Except for the rolling roar of the hymn, almost anything could have been going on out there; a political rally, a demolition derby, a football game. At one time or another, the arena had been used for all of those, but tonight the attraction that had brought twenty thousand souls to this domed arena in the American heartland was William Archibald and his Christian Crusade.
The hymn ended. The people shuffled and stirred, and the amplified fruity voice of Archibald himself sounded above and around and among them all as though speaking from a cloud: 'Brothers! Sisters! Fellow mortals!'
'Come on,' Parker said, and tugged gently on the thumb.
Tom Carmody's resistance was all used up. As the other two followed, he plodded along at Parker's side, shaking his head slowly. 'I hate that bastard,' he muttered, but in an exhausted way, without passion. 'I hate his lying voice. I hate everything he does. I ought to
Parker tightened his grip on Carmody's bent thumb, just a little, just enough to bring him back to earth. 'Where's the money room?'
'Ahead!' Pain and surprise were in Carmody's voice; lie hadn't known he deserved punishment. 'Just up ahead.'
'Keep your mind on what we're doing.'
They walked a little farther, the corridor constantly curving, appearing ahead of them, disappearing behind their backs, and then they came to a brown metal door on the interior side of the curve, with white block letters reading NO ADMITTANCE. Parker released the angel's thumb, and Carmody immediately closed his other hand around it, like one small animal comforting another. 'Do it,' Parker said, and prodded him in the side with the shotgun barrel, the blued metal poking into the white folds of the robe.
As the three armed men stood against the shadowed wall, Carmody stumbled forward and stood in front of the door. His left hand reluctantly released the aching thumb and pressed the button beside the door. He stood there blinking, the sharp fluorescent light above his head making him look more like a clown than an angel, and then a harsh voice sounded from the grid below the button: 'Yes?'
'Hi, Harry. It's Tom Carmody.' The angel's voice sounded almost normal; it hardly quavered at all.
'Hi, Tom,' said the voice from the grid. 'Come on in.' A raspy buzzing sound came from the door.
Carmody pressed his non-painful hand to the door and it clicked open. Holding it that way, opening inward toward the corridor to the money room beneath the stands, he looked at Parker and said, 'All right?'
Mackey moved forward to take the door. 'You did fine,' Parker said, and hammered the angel with the shotgun butt.
2
It began with a phone call. Parker didn't hear it ring, because he was out on the lake, in the row-boat, oars shipped, doing nothing, feeling the pulse of the water through the wood hull. Early May, this lake in northern New Jersey was still too cold to swim in, most of the vacation houses around its fringe still closed down, waiting for their owners to come back from the city when weather and water got a little warmer. Parker and Claire were among the few year-round residents, Claire establishing her presence in the community, Parker more aloof, being someone whose work let him stay at home for periods of time and then took him away sometimes. Claire was the one who made the home here, being Claire Willis because Parker had been Charles
Willis a long time ago, before they'd met. She liked the idea of reaching back into the world when they hadn't known one another, to make a link, throw a line back into the past.
Movement. He always reacted to movement, no matter how small, anywhere in his vision. This was three- quarters behind him, and when he turned his head it was Claire, at the dock, waving. The lawn stretched behind her up to the dark house. He lifted a hand, then rowed back, and as he stepped up onto the dock she said, 'Man called. Pay phone. Says he'll call back in ten minutes.' She looked at the slender watch on her slender wrist and corrected herself: 'Six minutes.'
'Did he give a name?'
'George Liss.'
Parker frowned at that, and tied the boat to the stanchion, and they walked up to the house, she holding his wrist in her cool fingers. She said, 'He seemed like he knew you.'
'To a point,' Parker said.
Parker and George Liss had never worked together, though they'd come close. Twice, they'd met on other guys' deals that hadn't panned out. He had no real opinion about George Liss, except he thought he probably wouldn't want to count on him if things turned sour.
