Plunder Squad (1972)

   by Richard Stark (aka Donald Westlake)

Random House
ISBN: 039448102x   

   PART ONE

   One

   Hearing the click behind him, Parker threw his glass straight back over his right shoulder, and dove off his chair to the left. The bullet furrowed a line through the plans on the table, the sound of the shot echoed loud and long in the closed room, and Parker rolled amid suddenly scrambling feet, his arms folded in tight over his chest. He didn't have a gun on him, and the first thing to do was get away from the guy who did.

   There was no second shot. An armchair was in the corner of the room to Parker's left, with a drum table beside it, and it was in that direction that he rolled. He banged his shoulder blades into the edge of the chair, spun around behind it, came up to his knees, grabbed the heavy glass ashtray from the table, and flung it at the doorway without pausing to look.

   But there was some kind of struggle going on in the doorway, two men in the indistinct darkness of the hall. Parker got to his feet, swept the lamp off the drum table, picked up the table, and ran forward. The other three men who'd been sitting at the table with him were all still on the floor.

   The struggle was over before he reached the doorway. The guy sitting on the floor, his eyes dazed, blood on his forehead and more running down from a cut over his left ear, was Ducasse, the one who'd left the room a minute ago and gone to the front of the house to answer the ringing of the doorbell. He had no gun in his hand, he had no grievance against Parker, and the other one was running away through the house toward the front door.

   Parker turned that way, but it was stupid to go after a gun with empty hands. He spun back into the room, throwing the table away, shouting, "Give me a gun! Somebody give me a gun!"

   Kirwan was their host, and most likely to be armed, but from the expression on his face as he sat there on the floor he was too rattled to make any fast moves. Before he'd figured out any kind of response at all, Parker had crossed to him, patted his torso, found the .38 Special Colt Cobra tucked away in its shoulder holster on his left side, and was moving away toward the door again. Then Kirwan called something, in an urgent voice, but Parker didn't pause to listen to it.

   The front door had already slammed. Parker ran down the hall, past the entranceway to the living room, and out onto the sagging front porch. Somebody was just getting into a car across the street, his torso silhouetted for a moment by the car's interior light; Parker braced his body against a porch column and fired two shots before the car door slammed and the light went out. But a Cobra is a defense gun, meant for close-in work; its two-inch barrel makes it as accurate as a tennis ball thrown cross-wind in a hurricane. Both bullets were probably somewhere in the car, but neither of them was in the driver.

   Parker leaped down to the lawn and raced for the street. Across the way, the driver was grinding his starter, trying to get the damn car to come to life. It did, and jolted forward, but then it stalled again, and he ground it some more.

   Parker was at the curb, and still running. This was a working-class residential street, not quite a slum, with a few of its rattier houses rented on a monthly or even weekly basis. It was now two o'clock on a weekday morning and there were neither moving cars nor pedestrians anywhere in sight. Nor was this a neighborhood where people would jump to call the police at the first unusual sound in the night.

   The car started again, with Parker coming out from the curb. As it moved forward, he dropped to one knee, braced his elbow, and fired through the driver's side window twice more. As the car kept moving, he took his fifth shot at the front left tire, but that one also went wide, and then the gun was empty.

   Parker straightened and watched the car travel away, steadily accelerating. The rear license plate was brightly lighted, but there was no point memorizing it; the car would be either rented or stolen. Parker stood there, his arms at his sides, the empty gun hanging from his right hand, and the car tore away in a straight line down the street. The last hope was that it was a poor driver, or one in too much of a panic to handle the speed he was trying for, so that he'd rack it up before getting too far away. But five or six blocks along, his brake lights went on, and the car slewed around a corner and out of sight, the corner having been taken at just about the maximum usable speed.

   Parker turned and walked back into the house, closing the front door behind him. Kirwan was coming down the hall, looking frightened and angry, and they met by the living-room entranceway, where light spill from the lamps in there made it possible for them to read one another's faces.

   Kirwan was very upset. "What the hell is going on? Parker? What's going on?"

   "You tell me," Parker said. "This is your party."

   "You go around shooting up every— That's my gun, for Christ's sake! What if you killed somebody?"

   "Don't be stupid," Parker said. "I was shot at first."

   "But for Christ's sake! Right out there in the middle of the street!"

   Ducasse, the one who'd let the guy in and then struggled with him and then been hit on the head by him, came shakily down the hallway, saying, "Did you get the son of a bitch?"

   "No, he took off. Who was he?"

   Kirwan said, "You don't even know? He tried to kill you, and you don't even know who it is?"

   "I didn't see his face."

   "Uhl," Ducasse said. "His name is Uhl."

   Parker frowned. "George Uhl?"

   "That's right," Kirwan said. "You do know him, huh?"

   "Yeah, I know him."

   Ducasse said, "What the hell's he got against you?"

   "I left him alive once," Parker said.

   Ducasse said, "Never leave a guy alive who'd like to see you dead."

   "I know," Parker said. It had been a mistake, and he'd known it at the time, but had done it anyway. Now he'd have to correct it. He said, "Who brought Uhl into this?"

   Kirwan said, "Ashby."

   "Let's go talk to him," Parker said, and the three of them walked back down the hallway toward the room where they'd been discussing the robbery.

   The idea of the robbery was a particular department store just before Mother's Day. The lady of the house is the one with the charge account, so Mother's Day gifts tend to be mostly cash sales, which meant that the Saturday before Mother's Day would be almost the best day in the year to find the store full of cash.

   Kirwan, their host, had organized the robbery and decided how many men it would take to do the job. The number he'd come up with was six. Unfortunately, two of the six were Parker and Uhl, Parker having been recruited by Kirwan himself, Uhl by a man named Ashby, after Ashby had been brought in by Kirwan.

   Kirwan was the one who had arranged for the rental house, and had put together this organizational meeting to describe the setup to the others and find out if all five wanted to be in on it. Parker had been the next to last to arrive, which was why he'd been seated with his back to the door; the only two empty chairs when he'd gotten here had both been on the side of the table nearest the hall.

   In a way, though, the seating had worked out to his advantage. Having his back to the door, he'd automatically been more alert, he'd paid more attention to small sounds from behind him —like the click before the firing of a double-action revolver.

   Had Uhl come here planning this? It seemed unlikely. As the three of them walked down the hall, Parker said to Ducasse, "Did Uhl ask who was here?"

   "Yeah, he did."

   "You told him my name?"

   "Sure. Naturally." Ducasse was a little defensive.

   Parker nodded. "AH right," he said.

   They walked back into the room, and Stokes, the fifth man, was back in his chair at the table, lighting a cigar. Between puffs, and through little clouds of smoke, he said, "Ashby's hit,"

   Ashby had been sitting directly opposite Parker. The bullet had skimmed a groove through the papers on the table and the tabletop, and had punched into Ashby's torso about two inches above the belt. Ashby was now lying face up on the floor beyond the table, his eyes closed, his breath labored and heavy as though he were snoring.

   "God damn it!" Kirwan said.

   Parker went around the table and dropped to one knee beside Ashby. He said the unconscious man's name twice and slapped his face lightly on both sides. Then he pinched his cheeks, hard, twisting the loose flesh back and forth, saying, "Ashby. Ashby, wake up."

   Kirwan was still being upset. Coming around the table, he said, "For Christ's sake, what are you doing?"

   Ashby wasn't going to wake up. Parker abandoned the try und got to his feet again. Ignoring Kirwan, he said, "Anybody else know how he got in touch with Uhl?"

   None of them did. As they were shaking their heads, Kirwan said, "The main thing is, what do we do with him?"

   Stokes, a heavy and phlegmatic man, a professional driver, said, "You got a doctor around here? A safe one?"

   "No," Kirwan said. "I picked a place where I was a stranger. Who expected anything like this?"

   Ducasse had come over to stand by Ashby's head and look down at him, his expression thoughtful. Now he said, "If we leave him there, he looks like he won't make it."

   "We've got to get him out of here," Kirwan said. "Dead or alive, he's got to go. We've all left prints all over the house, there wasn't supposed to be anything happening here."

   Parker said to Kirwan, "Go get a blanket. A big one."

   "Right," Kirwan said, and hurried away.

   Stokes took the cigar out of his mouth and said to Parker, "You mind if I ask what that was all about?"

   Parker told him a sentence or two about his background with Uhl, and Ducasse repeated his remark about not leaving enemies alive. Then Kirwan came back with a green blanket from a double bed. Parker took it from him and told him, "Go start your car."

   "Why my car?"

   "Because it's a station wagon."

   Kirwan went out, still upset, and Parker and Ducasse spread the blanket on the floor beside Ashby. They rolled Ashby over slowly onto the blanket, and then folded the blanket over him. Stokes put his cigar back in the corner of his mouth, got to his feet, and helped the other two pick up the blanket and carry it out of the room and down the hall and out of the house.

   The house had no garage, but it did have a driveway on the right side. Kirwan had backed his wagon out even with the lawn, and was now around opening the tailgate. The four of them slid the blanket into the rear of the wagon with a couple of toolboxes and a pair of coveralls and a bunch of oily rags, and then Kirwan shut the tailgate and all four got into the car, Parker in front with Kirwan.

   "Try to take it easy," Ducasse said. "He's still alive."

   Kirwan said, "Where do I go?"

   "A different neighborhood," Parker said.

   Kirwan backed out to the street, and they drove for about five minutes, twice crossing major streets still with some late- night traffic. Then Parker said, "Stop. We'll leave him there."

   It was a small modern church building: an A-frame, with a stylized cross on the top. A well-kept lawn fronted the church, neatly dotted with shrubbery. The four of them pulled the blanket out of the car and carried it up over the curb and across the sidewalk and set it down on the lawn. They rolled Ashby gently off the blanket, and then Parker and Stokes folded the blanket while Ducasse checked Ashby's pulse.

   Kirwan said, complainingly, "There's blood on the blanket."

   "Burn it," Parker said.

   "Or wash it," Stokes said. "Who knows, maybe you had a virgin."

   "He's still alive," Ducasse said, straightening.

   "Or your girl had her period," Stokes said.

   "Let's go," Parker said.

   As they walked back to the car, Stokes said, "Women make a wonderful alibi for bloodstains."

   Kirwan threw the blanket in back, and they all got in the cur. As they started away from the curb, Ducasse said, "Find a p«y phone."

   Kirwan frowned at him in the rear-view mirror. "How come?"

   "Anonymous call to the cops."

   "What for?"

   "The longer he lies out there," Ducasse said, "the worse his chances get."

   "Christ," Kirwan said. But two blocks later he stopped by a phone booth at a closed gas station. They waited in the car while Ducasse made the call, and then drove back to the house.

   Everything was as they'd left it. Kirwan went away for a minute to dispose of the blanket, and Parker and Ducasse and Stokes went back to the room where they'd been talking about the robbery. The papers were still on the table there, with a foot-long narrow line cut through the blueprint of the department store's sixth floor, where the safe was. There were no blood-stains on the floor.

   Stokes patted the papers on the table. Around the cigar, he said, "Too bad. It looked like a good one."

   "Maybe we can pick it up again later," Ducasse said.

   "Mother's Day comes once a year," Stokes said.

   "Next year, then."

   "The year I need money is this year," Stokes said.

   Ducasse gave a sour grin. "Don't we all," he said.

   Kirwan came in, looking more upset than ever. "It's screwed up, isn't it?" he said. He glared at the papers on the table as though they'd just told him a message he didn't want to hear.

   "At least until next year," Ducasse said. "But it's still a good idea."

   "Damn good," Stokes said.

   Parker said, "Anybody got another potential?"

   "Don't I wish I had," Stokes said.

   Ducasse said, "We'll keep each other in mind."

   "This was my baby," Kirwan said, his expression now gloomy as he stared at the papers. "I put this together with loving care, it was gonna carry me for a year."

   Parker said, "I'd also appreciate news about George Uhl."

   Sounding interested, Ducasse said, "You going looking for him?"

   Parker shook his head. "What I'm looking for is work. But if I find out where he is I'll take care of things."

   "By Christ," Kirwan said, "I'll come along and help. That son of a bitch screwed me up good." He gave the papers a wistful look and said, "I don't suppose there's any way we could ..." His voice trailed off.

   "No," Parker said. "First, there isn't time. Second, they've got Ashby."

   "He wouldn't talk," Kirwan said. "He might even be dead."

   "He doesn't have to talk. He just has to be there, a known heist man with a bullet in him in their city."

   Stokes said, "The first minute there's trouble, walk away. That's my golden rule, and that's why I never yet took a fall in my entire life." He rapped his knuckles against the tabletop.

   "We'll be in touch," Parker said.

   They shook hands all around. When they left, Kirwan was crumpling the papers together to take them out and burn them.

Two
  Parker walked through the house and saw Claire out by the lake, sunning herself. She was wearing a two-piece white bathing suit, and she was lying on a dark blue towel. It was still only June, but she already had a good tan, accented by the white suit.

   He slid open the glass door between the dining room and the back porch, crossed the porch, went down the stoop, and walked over the just-trimmed lawn toward where she was lying. She had turned her head at the sound of the door sliding, and now smiled in his direction as he approached. She was wearing sunglasses, large blue ovals with white frames. Through the blue glass, her eyes were level and bright. She said, "You're back sooner than I thought."

   "It fell through." He squatted beside her and placed one palm on her stomach, just above the white trunks. Her flesh was warm, almost hot, and covered with a butter-like suntan lotion.

   "I'm all oily," she said. But she smiled, and reached up to touch his other arm.

   "You're hot," he said. "You don't want to overdo." He shifted his hand to her near thigh, cupping his fingers down along the side of her leg, so that his knuckles brushed softly against the skin of her other thigh. The flesh under his palm was hot, but down between her legs it was cooler.

   "I'm used to it now," she said. Then she sat up and said, "I'll shower. Don't kiss me, I'll just make you all slippery."

   He straightened and gave her a hand to help her up. They walked back into the house together and he said, "I have a phone call to make."

   "All right."

   She went away to the bedroom. Parker walked first to the kitchen to wipe the suntan lotion from his hand on a paper towel, and then turned back to the living room, where the phone was. He dialed the number of a diner in Presque Isle, Maine, four states from here, a diner run by a man named Handy McKay. McKay had been a sideman of Parker's several times in the old days. He was retired now, living on his diner, and he served as a middleman for people in the business who wanted to get in touch with Parker.

   Somebody else answered, but Handy came on a minute later and Parker said, "It's me. I'm home again."

   "Didn't work out?"

   "Remember me telling you about a guy named George Uhl?"

   "Couple years ago."

   "He showed up, and caused trouble."

   "Too bad."

   "I'd like to get in touch with him."

   "I don't know if I'd be any help."

   "Just mentioning it," Parker said. "And also, I'm available again."

   "No messages since we talked."

   "All right."

   "When you going to come visit?"

   "Sometime."

   "Sure. So long, now."

   "So long."

   Parker hung up and went to the bedroom. The two-piece bathing suit was on the floor, and the shower was running in the bathroom. He took off his clothes and went in to join her.

   Three
   Parker said, "I reserved a car here. The name is Latham, Edward Latham."

   The uniformed girl behind the counter said, "Yes, Mr. Latham, one moment, please."

   It was late afternoon, and San Francisco International Airport was doing fairly heavy business. He'd expected to have to wait on line at the car rental counter, but he was the only one here.

   "Yes, Mr. Latham, here it is. A LeMans with air. You made the reservation in New York this morning?"

   "That's right."

   "May I see your driver's license, sir?"

   He handed over his Latham license. It claimed to have been issued by the State of New Jersey, and it had cost him a hundred dollars. He had a number of licenses from different states in different names, depending on what he needed at the moment. The only states he avoided were those, like Massachusetts and California, which put the driver's photo on the license; he preferred to have no pictures of his face.

   "Will this be on a credit card, sir?"

   "Yes."

   He handed her the card he'd bought for twenty-five dollars last night in New York. He'd been guaranteed five days before this card's number would show up on the credit company's hot list, and even then it would only be the regional list for the Northeast. It wouldn't make the hot list out here until some of Parker's purchases on the West Coast filtered their way through the bureaucracy to the computer.

   Still, he watched the girl as she riffled the pages of the hot list, looking for the number. This wouldn't be the first time a hot card had been sold as cool.

   But this one was all right. The girl put the list away and spent a while filling out forms. Then Parker initialed "EJL" to acknowledge he was paying three dollars for the extra collision insurance, and signed Edward Latham at the bottom of the form.

   The girl gave him one copy of the form in a brightly colored paper folder, gave him a smile, gave him the thanks of the company for doing business with them, and gave him directions to the terminal exit where he would find his car. He thanked her and walked off, carrying the black attach^ case that was the most luggage he ever traveled with.

   The car was a bronze Pontiac LeMans with eight thousand miles on it. Eight thousand very heavy miles, from the looseness of the body and tightness of the brakes. It accelerated hard enough from a standing start to want to burn rubber at the slightest tap on the pedal, but the acceleration was mostly wheezed out above fifty. Not that he needed the car to do much for him, just take him to the meeting. If the job wasn't any good, it would also take him back to the airport for a night flight east. If he'd be sticking around, he'd ditch it somewhere in downtown San Francisco this evening.

   He took the Bayshore Freeway north to the city, following the directions Ducasse had given him. It was just after five when he left the airport, and he met the flow of outbound rush-hour traffic coming the other way. But traveling toward the city was easier, and he could make good time, coming into town in under half an hour, and then riding the Bay Bridge over toward Oakland. The address he was heading for was 1377 Mount Diablo

   Street in Concord, a small suburb in the East Bay, east of Oakland.

   Just after the bridge, Parker cut off onto Interstate 580, then switched to another freeway, California 24, to go the rest of the way into Concord. He was moving with the heaviest traffic now, traveling away from San Francisco, but the worst of the rush hour was already over.

   The address was in the middle of a poorish neighborhood in the process of being torn down. Across the street from the house he wanted there was a great open gouge out of the earth, where the houses had been stripped away and a deep pit dug in the ground. A sign half a block earlier had said this was something to do with the installation of a Bay Area Rapid Transit line. Down in the crater were stacks of steel reinforcing rod, coils of hose, stakes with yellow tags on them, and rows of parked trucks and bulldozers and earthmovers.

   The construction site was neater and cleaner than the house Parker stopped the LeMans in front of. A small L-shaped white plaster house, it was one story high with an asphalt shingle roof. The pale pink numbers 1-3-7-7 were set in descending order down one of the four-by-four porch posts. In the front yard, knee-deep in weeds, were two big recently rained-on cardboard boxes of trash. Untended shrubs and bushes grew wild across the front and down the side of the house toward an unattached garage.

   There was one car parked in the driveway up near this garage, and two more at the curb in front of the house. The one in the driveway was a dusty red Oldsmobile compact convertible with a white top. The lead car in front was a black Chevy Nova with overly wide tires and the look of being owned by somebody who cared more about function than beauty, and the other car was a dark green Plymouth Fury sedan that had about it—as did Parker's—the look of a rented car.

   Parker left the LeMans behind the Plymouth, got out, and stood a minute looking up and down the street. This wasn't a house taken just for a week or two so a meeting could be held here, the way Kirwan had done it. This was a lived-in house, the regular residence of the guy structuring this job. Beaghler, his name was. Ducasse had said of him, on the phone, "Beaghler's never done anything but drive. But he's worked with a lot of good people up and down the coast. Into Mexico, too."

   "This is the first job he's come up with himself?"

   "Yes. But he's a pro, and I think it's worth a look."

   Parker too had thought it was worth a look. The Kirwan thing had fallen through. The armored-car thing he'd done before that had loused up and he'd had to stash the money; some day he'd go back for it, but not until that town had forgotten him completely. In the meantime, his operational funds were running low and pretty soon he'd have to go dig up one of his emergency stashes of money. He needed a job, so the Beaghler thing was worth a look.

   But the first look wasn't encouraging. Beaghler might have done a lot of driving, but it either hadn't made him much or he ran through it fast. This wasn't a rich neighborhood. Beyond that, if he was having the meeting in his own home, he was operating practically on the cuff.

   There was also the red convertible. The black Nova would be Beaghler's car, and a good sign, but the red convertible suggested trouble. Was it somebody else living in the house? A wife or a girl friend, maybe. The personality suggested by the car wasn't the kind Parker liked around when things were serious.

   But he was here, and it was still worth a look.

   Parker stepped through the weedy lawn and went up on the porch. Broken toys were scattered over the porch floor. He rang the bell, and a minute later the door was opened by a short stocky guy in black trousers and too-tight T-shirt. He was a little overdeveloped in the chest and upper arms for the rest of his body, as though he worked out with weights from time to time. He had deep sideburns and long wavy black hair, was about thirty-five, and hadn't changed his style an inch since high school. He'd been a hot-rodder then, and he was a hot-rodder now.

   "I'm Parker."

   The tough aggrieved-looking face broke into a sudden smile.

   "Parker, yeah, Fred Ducasse told me about you. Come on in." He stuck his hand out. "I'm Bob Beaghler."

   As they shook hands, Parker looked past him at a living room cluttered with discarded baby clothes, a new couch, and what looked like a new television set. There was also a new round felt-topped table in the center of the room, flanked by half h dozen functional wood-and-canvas chairs, as though ready for h poker game.

   There were also two more people, one sitting at the round table and the other sprawled on the sofa. The one at the round table was male, very tall and thin, dressed in a suit and white shirt and narrow tie that all looked too big for him, and completely bald. He wore glasses and had a steady quiet competence In his face. He would be the driver of the other rental car.

   And the one sprawled on the sofa would be the owner of the red convertible. Parker took one look at her and almost turned around and walked away from it right then. It was only that he was overdue for a job that he decided to stick around and see what the relationships were and how effectively Beaghler had her under control.

   She was almost a parody of a suburban slut. Slender to the point of skinniness except for oversized breasts, she had the small narrow fox like face of a tenement upbringing. Her hair was a well-tended gleaming brown, her face was carefully made up, and she had painted the nails of both fingers and toes. She was in the uniform of the type: halter and shorts.

   The only good thing about her was that she didn't seem to be in active agitation. There was no aura of tension from the man sitting at the table, as there would have been if he'd found himself unexpectedly in some kind of sexual arena, and when the woman met Parker's eye, there was no invitation in her glance, nothing but a bored and muted curiosity. The machinery was all there, but it wasn't turned on; which probably meant she'd married a man stronger than herself. Away from him, things might be different, but there'd be no reason for Parker or the others in the string to ever have to find that out.

   Beaghler made the introductions, and in introducing the man at the table first he gave further demonstration of the relationship he'd established with his wife. "Parker, this is George Walheim. And that's my wife, Sharon."

   Parker and Sharon nodded at one another, and Parker turned his attention to Walheim, who was getting to his feet to shake hands, saying, "Good to know you. You're from the East, aren't you?"

   "Mostly. You do locks?"

   Walheim grinned. "I can't get away from it, people can always tell."

   "You look the part, George," Beaghler said. "You look like nothing on God's green earth but a lock man. Just like I look like a grease monkey." And he did a simian pose, arms hanging curved at his sides. With his chest and upper arm development, he did look something like an ape. Then he straightened and said to Parker, "Beer?"

   "No, thanks."

   "Coke, then."

   Apparently Beaghler felt the need to behave like a host. "Fine," Parker said.

   Beaghler turned to call to his wife, "Sharon, a Coke for Mr. Parker."

   A very small trace of resentment showed in the woman's eyes and in the lines at the corners of her mouth, but there was no hesitation; she got to her feet and left the living room.

   Beaghler gestured to the round table. "Come on and sit down. You have a good flight?"

   The next twenty minutes were filled with small-talk. Beaghler was sensible not to outline his story until everybody was present, but Parker had never been any good at small-talk, preferring silence when there wasn't anything meaningful to say. Still, half of the success or failure of any job lay in the personalities of the people involved, and in this one Ducasse was the only other guy in the string that he knew at all, so it was good to get a chance to watch these two and listen to them while they were relaxed and easy.

   The impression he built up was mostly good. George Walhelm looked to be as steady and calm as a rock beside the road. Al work, he would be smooth and methodical, he would get his Job done, he wouldn't let the tension of the situation work on his nerves. Bob Beaghler was less controlled, but he had a fighting- cock kind of approach to the world, tough but with good humor; hp looked to be the kind of guy who was in love with his own virility. Very often, good drivers had this style, it made them both skillful and competitive. He would be faster and tougher than Walheim, but not quite as steady and reliable.

   The woman, Sharon, was a disaster area with a lid on it. She was the kind of woman a Bob Beaghler would be attracted to, dimply so he could prove himself capable of domesticating her; like the kind of man who seeks work breaking horses. And he had obviously succeeded, at least while she was under his eye. The slight mulishness she showed whenever he gave her an order hinted at undercover revolution when his back was turned, but she'd obviously learned not to cross him directly.

   In the course of the talk, it came out that the Beaghlers had three children; the baby was now asleep, and the two older ones were having dinner at a friend's house. And Bob Beaghler was un auto customizer and drag racer: "That's where my money Hoes," he said, at one point. "Smeared against the wall out at Altamont."

   At a break in the conversation, Parker asked if either of them had ever heard of George Uhl, but they hadn't. He didn't bother to explain, and they didn't ask anything. In the two weeks since Uhl had loused up the Mother's Day robbery, Parker had dropped a few lines into the stream, hoping to get word of his potential whereabouts, but so far nothing had happened. Once before he'd tracked Uhl down, but that trail was dead now, and in any case he had neither the patience nor the resources right now to try it again. The first thing was to put a job together and get the finances back where they belonged; after that he could spend some time looking for Uhl if he wanted.

   When the doorbell finally sounded again, Beaghler said, " That'll be Ducasse," and got to his feet.

   Parker turned to Walheim, saying, "He's the last one?"

   "I guess so. Bob said it was a four-man job."

   "Good." The smaller the string, the better.

   It was Ducasse. He came in, looking pleased, and Beaghler introduced him to Walheim and Sharon. Then they all sat down at the round table again, and Ducasse said to Parker, "I checked back a few days ago. Ashby died."

   "That's tough," Parker said.

   Beaghler gave them both a bright look: "Something?"

   "Nothing important," Parker said. "We all here now?"

   "Right." Beaghler grinned, looking over at Walheim as though to say you'll-appreciate-this, and said, "Have you all heard of San Simeon?"

   Walheim had, and seemed puzzled by the reference. Parker knew the name slightly, but couldn't remember what it signified. Ducasse said, "Wasn't that Hearst's place?"

   "Right. A big mansion he built for himself down the coast. About halfway to L.A. Filled it full of art goods, millions of dollars' worth of art goods."

   Walheim said, "You aren't going to break into San Simeon."

   "Shit, I know that." Beaghler grinned. "There's a cousin of mine," he said, "he's one of the guides there, for the tours they have, the public tours. He told me there's some stuff going out on loan, in about a month from now. Coming up here to the university, over at Berkeley."

   Ducasse said, "You want to make the hit at the college?"

   "No, on the way up."

   Parker said, "How much stuff?"

   "Three statues," Beaghler said. "They're some kind of famous old statues from Europe, from a long time ago. There was ten of them done, and three of them are down in San Simeon. They're going to have maybe seven of them brought together at Berkeley, and pictures of the rest."

   Ducasse said, "How much are they worth?"

   "My cousin says they're two hundred grand apiece."

   Walheim whistled, and Ducasse said, "Six hundred thousand. That's a lot."

   Parker said, "Who's your buyer?"

   Grinning, Beaghler shook his head and said, "I don't have lino, You know my story, I'm a driver, I never been anything but. I don't have any contacts like that."

   Parker said, "You want one of us to come up with a buyer."

   "Right."

   "For three of a thing that there's only ten of in the world."

   Beaghler's smile slipped a little. "You don't think it can be done?"

   "I'm not sure," Parker said. "But it doesn't sound easy. What are these statues made of?"

   "Gold. Solid gold, all the way through."

   Walheim said, "What would they be worth melted down?"

   Parker shook his head. "Nothing, in comparison. The best but would be the insurance company."

   Beaghler frowned. "We'd be lucky to get a quarter from the Insurance company."

   "You'll be lucky to find a buyer," Parker told him.

   Beaghler said, "All right, let's wait a while on the buyer. Let me tell you my idea for the caper."

   Parker shrugged. "Go ahead."

   "My cousin told me they're going to crate them up in three separate wooden boxes, packed really safe and secure. Then they're going to travel up the coast road in an armored car. No escort, just the armored car."

   Ducasse said, "An armored car doesn't need an escort."

   Beaghler looked around at the three faces. "Do all of you know the coast road, up through Big Sur?"

   They all nodded. Parker remembered having driven it two or three times in the past, a curving two-lane road between the ocean and the mountains of the Santa Lucia Range, twenty-eight miles of rugged scenery, cliffs and boulders and mountains and no cities or towns. There were campsites and forest ranger stations off in the mountains, but that was all.

   "All right," Beaghler said. "They're coming up that road. We ambush the armored car on one of the curves there, I've got one all picked out, a beautiful hairpin where they're gonna have to come to practically a full stop anyway."

   Ducasse said, "How do you ambush it?"

   "With grenades," Beaghler said. "Smoke, and then percussion. We hit them with a smoke grenade so they can't see and they have to stop. Then we roll a percussion grenade under the car to keep them stopped. Then we come down and George opens the rear door and we take the statues out and go on our merry way, safe and sound."

   Parker said, "On our way where? In the first place, armored cars keep in radio contact with their headquarters, and in the second place, there's no way off that road. All they have to do is block both ends and wait for us."

   Beaghler's broad grin showed he'd been waiting for that objection. "Not so," he said. "I've got an ATV."

   "A what?"

   "An all-terrain vehicle," Beaghler said. "They make them for people who want to camp out. They're like a jeep, only they'll go places even a jeep won't go. I've got one that'll go places you'd think twice about going with a horse. It's fantastic."

   Walheim said, "Where do you figure to go with it, Bob?"

   "Over the mountains," Beaghler said. "Over to King City. We'll have another car stashed there, and we can just take the main road back up through Salinas."

   Walheim shook his head. "Not a chance."

   "Why not?"

   "You can't get through there. You'll never make it to King City."

   "That's where you're wrong," Beaghler said. "Because I've done it. Artie Danforth and me, we did it together about a month ago."

   Walheim squinted at Beaghler as though he was hard to see. "Are you putting me on? You really went through that country?"

   "Man, we averaged six miles an hour. But we got through."

   Parker said, "How many miles?"

   "Just under sixty."

   "You're talking about ten hours."

   "Probably longer than that. We'll probably have to camp out overnight. See, the timing is, we'll probably hit the armored car around noon. Say one o'clock. Then we've got only five or Nix hours before—"

   "Somebody outside," Sharon said. She was standing by the living-room window looking out. "Looking at the cars," she said.

   All four got to their feet and went over to look out the window. Out there, giving the three rental cars a once-over, was a stocky compact guy with a flattened nose, thinning curly hair, and a heavy slightly-blued jaw. He was glancing in the windows of each car, strolling along past them, taking his time but not making a major production out of it.

   Parker frowned, trying to see the guy's face more clearly. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but he couldn't really be sure.

   Beaghler, sounding very worried, said, "Fuzz, do you think?"

   "No," Ducasse said. "Private maybe, but not law."

   Beaghler said, "Sharon?"

   "I never saw him before." The sudden frightened defensiveness told Parker just how tight a rein Beaghler kept on his wife, and suggested also how necessary it was. Which was confirmed when she added, "If I knew the guy, would I have said anything?"

   Parker said, "Nobody knows him?"

   Outside, the guy had turned toward the house, was coming up through the bedraggled lawn.

   Ducasse said, "Not me."

   Frowning, Parker said, "There's something— Let me take

   It."

   "Sure," said Beaghler. "I don't want him."

   Parker kept watching as the guy came up on the porch. Was It a familiar face, or just a familiar type? He said to Beaghler, "Are you into anything else right now? Anything I should worry about?"

   "Not a thing," Beaghler said. "I've been quiet for a year, that's why I'm so broke."

   The doorbell rang. Parker walked around the others and over to the front door. When he opened it, the guy was standing slightly turned away, pretending to be bored and looking out toward the street, as though he were a house-to-house salesman or something. Which he wasn't.

   Parker had opened the door only wide enough for him to step outside onto the porch, and then closed it again. If this was somebody he had known in the past, he might not want to advertise it to the people in the house.

   The guy had turned his head this way when Parker opened the door, and Parker watched the quick assessment in his eyes, and the recognition that neither of them was playing in his true role. But there was no other recognition there, not the kind Parker had been waiting for; and he himself still couldn't be sure.

   The guy had apparently decided to go ahead and continue playing salesman: "Mr. Beaghler?"

   "No." They didn't know one another after all, so there was no point stretching out the conversation. Maybe he was simply from a credit outfit; maybe Sharon had been pushing her charge accounts too hard.

   "How about the little lady of the house? Is Mrs. Beaghler—?"

   "No," Parker said, interrupting him, and waited for him to go away.

   But he hadn't yet given up. "You mean she isn't here at the present time, or that—"

   "I already said no." Enough was enough. Parker reached behind himself for the doorknob, and stepped backward to go into the house again.

   But as he turned away into the house, the guy suddenly said, "Parker."

   He stopped, and looked back. He never traveled in the square-john world under that name. To be recognized was one thing; to be called by that name was something else. He said, "What did you call me?"

   "Parker."

   "You're making a mistake. The name is Latham."

   The guy shrugged. "It was Parker in 1962," he said. "You've gotten a new face since then, but the rest is the same."

   Sixty-two; California; a faint memory stirred.

   Which the guy confirmed. "My name's Kearny," he said. "You were bagged in Bakersfield, broke out of the prison farm. A woman from Fresno gave you a ride, ended up taking you home with her for a two-day shack-up while the heat died down. You never told her you were the one they wanted, but she knew. She didn't care. She was my wife's sister. I stayed at the house the second night. We killed a bottle between us."

   Parker remembered. Kearny had a private detective's ticket, but his field was bad credit risks, not wanted convicts. Parker had allowed him to kill most of that bottle himself that night, and had left early the next morning.

   But that still didn't explain his knowing the name. Stepping hack out onto the porch, shutting the door again, he said, "I was Ronald Casper then."

   Kearny said, "She heard you telephoning a guy in Chicago, collect. He wouldn't accept a call from Casper, you had to use the name Parker. She told me about it afterwards, after you left. She still talks about you. I never told her she was just an easy way for you to be off the street for a couple of days."

   Parker shrugged that off and said, "So what is it now?"

   "I'm looking for a paroled con named Howard Odum."

   The name didn't mean a thing. Parker said, "Odum is a friend of Beaghler's?"

   "Was," Kearny said. "Friend of the wife's now. Beaghler doesn't know." Kearny added carefully, "This has nothing to do with anything Beaghler's into now."

   Was this the trouble with the wife? If Beaghler's heist was going to break down—other than with the problem of a buyer for the statues—it would be something to do with his wife, and If It was going to happen, it might as well happen right now.

   Parker half turned, opened the door partway, and called, "Sharon."

   It took her a while to come out; she was probably making a lot of denials in advance to her husband. When she did emerge, swinging the door wide and then closing it again, her face was as closed and sullen as a prison door.

   Parker gestured a thumb toward Kearny, saying, "He wants Odum. Tell him."

   "Odum?" Her voice was shrill, announcing the lie. "I haven't seen Howie since—"

   Parker made an impatient move with one hand. She gave him a defiant look, but it didn't last. Her eyes slid away, and finally she cleared her throat and said, in a much lower voice, "Sixteen-eighty-four Galindo Street."

         Parker glanced at Kearny, but the other man shook his head, so he turned back and said, "Try again."

   It was impossible for her to look innocent, but she tried. "Honest," she said, "that's his address."

   This was running on. Parker felt suddenly very impatient, very irritable. "Once more," he said, and he meant it was the last time.

   "Well, uh—" She was very nervous. She said, "Maybe he means, uh, Howie's girl friend over in Antioch."

   This time Kearny nodded. Parker looked back at Sharon.

   Now the words poured out in a nervous stream: "He . . . stays over with her a lot. She—I don't know her name, but her address is, ah, nineteen-oh-two Gavallo Road. It's a like new apartment building, twelve units. Howie said—"

   "Good," Parker said. "I'll be right in."

   She'd been dismissed. It took her a second to get it, and then she scrambled back into the house like a cat leaving a full bathtub.

   Parker turned to Kearny: "I'd hate to think you'd memorized those car plates to find out who rented them."

   "What cars?" said Kearny.

   That was good enough. Kearny had shown himself a long time ago to be a man who minded his own business. Parker nodded and went back inside, where Sharon was white-faced,

   Beaghler red-faced, and Ducasse and Walheim both looking very uncomfortable. "It wasn't anything," Sharon was saying. "I swear to God, Bob, it was a mistaken identity."

   Beaghler turned to Parker. "What was it all about?"

   "Mistaken identity," Parker said. "He's a skip-tracer named Kearny I met once a long time ago. He's looking for a dead skip woman, and he thought she lived here. He talked to Sharon and found out he was wrong. Now, what about this overnight stuff?"

   Sharon was giving him a grateful look that would have lipped the lie if her husband had seen it. But he was glaring at Parker instead, saying, "What overnight stuff?"

   "In your all-terrain vehicle," Parker said.

   "Oh. I thought you meant something—I don't know what the hell I thought you meant."

   "I'm here to talk about a robbery," Parker said.

   "Yeah, you're right, you're right." Beaghler turned away toward the table.

   Sharon suddenly said, "I think I hear the baby." With a frightened look toward her husband, she turned and hurried from the room.

   The four men sat down at the table again, and Beaghler Hid, "Where was I?"

   Ducasse said, "Staying overnight in the mountains."

   Walheim said, "You said we'd probably hit the armored car around one o'clock."

   "Right." Beaghler nodded. "That gives us about five hours' viable daylight. It gets too dark in the woods after six o'clock, you could drive into a canyon and think it was just a shadow."

   Parker said, "So we'd get into King City around noon the Bent day."

   "That's the way I figure it, yeah."

   Parker nodded. That was good, to have a place to hole up Ida Urst night, and then finish getting out of the area the next

   day.

   Walheim said, "How do you know they won't track us?"

   "Through those mountains? Hell, they won't know where we are. They'll figure we're camping near the road someplace, they won't look for us thirty miles in."

   Ducasse said, "Thirty miles isn't very far."

   "Yes it is," Beaghler said. "Thirty miles on Interstate 80 isn't very far at all, but thirty miles of forest is one hell of a long distance."

   Parker said, "But this vehicle of yours leaves tracks, doesn't

   it?"

   "For the first five miles we'll be on ranger trails. We can leave the trail almost anyplace and cut off into the woods. A lot of people do that and go in a mile or two, so which set of tracks do the cops follow?"

   Walheim said, "What if they bring up a helicopter?"

   "We're under the trees," Beaghler told him. "It's really dense in there, man, you could hide an army in that forest, you wouldn't see a thing from the air."

   Parker said, "All right. I'll want to look at this place, but for now let's say it can be done. That still leaves the question of the buyer."

   "I'm open to suggestions," Beaghler said.

   Ducasse said, "You want one of us to find the buyer?"

   "I'll tell you the God's honest truth," Beaghler said, "I just don't have that kind of contact. All I've ever done is drive."

   Which meant, Parker knew, that he'd driven exclusively small-time operations. A suburban bank, a loan office in a shopping center, places where the take is eleven thousand dollars and if they catch you they'll put you away for just as long as if you'd been after a million.

   Walheim said, "Bob, I know the same people you do."

   Parker said, "You mean it's up to Ducasse and me."

   "I have the caper," Beaghler said, "and I have the way to get the thing and get away. But I don't have anybody to turn it into cash for me."

   "Until you do," Parker said, "you don't have anything at

   all."

   "I know that," Beaghler said. "Can you help me?"

   Ducasse said, doubtfully, "I can ask around."

   "Give us a name for these statues," Parker said. "Something a buyer will recognize. We'll see what we can do."

   "I'll have to ask my cousin. Can you guys stick around till tomorrow?"

   Parker and Ducasse looked at one another, and Parker saw his own feelings reflected in the other man's eyes. There was a sense of this job as being too loosely assembled, not tightly enough controlled or organized; but on the other hand, there was the need to put something together and make some money, (Parker's plan had some crazinesses in it, but most workable plans did.

   If he'd been flush, Parker would have walked away from it right there. But he said, "I can stay over."

   Ducasse shrugged and said, "So can I. What can we lose?"

   Four
   The knocking at the motel-room door was soft but persistent. Parker had been asleep, but he came awake all at once, his eyes opening and staring upward in darkness that was almost total.

   The faint rapping sounded again. Parker turned his head slowly, and oriented himself by the slit of light outlining the window draperies. He was in a motel room down near Fremont, the other side of Oakland from Beaghler's suburb, and Ducasse was in the next room to the left. But there was no connecting door, and in any case, the sound came from someone outside, someone at the room entrance, which was down past the foot of the bed and to the right.

   Parker waited a few seconds, until he felt sure there was no one in the room with him, and then he slipped quickly out of the bed. He put on clothing and went over to the broad window beside the door. Peering around the edge of the draperies, he saw the dim form of a woman out there, and as he watched she looked to right and to left and then knocked again, a little more loudly and demandingly than before.

   Sharon.

   Parker grimaced in irritation. The playlet in the woman's head was so clear and obvious he could practically see it as though on a movie screen: "I had to come thank you for covering for me today." "That's all right." "No, you were really Wonderful. You just don't know how Bob—" etc. "Come on in." "Oh, thank you. What a lovely room! Is that bed as comfortable M It looks?"

   If a thing is no good, it's no good. There was no point ((ticking around until everything went absolutely to hell. Parker moved away from the window toward the door, found the light switch on the wall, and clicked it on. The tapping at the door immediately stopped.

   Packing wouldn't take long. The attach^ case was standing In the closet. Parker got his toilet kit from the bathroom and change of clothing out of the dresser drawer. Then he sat down on the bed again, picked up the phone, and asked the motel operator to connect him with the airport. It was while he was waiting for someone to answer that the knocking started at the door again. He also thought he heard her call something, in a voice that tried to be loud and soft at the same time.

   His watch said it was two-twenty-five. After a dozen rings the phone was answered by a female voice giving the name of an airline and thanking him for calling. He said, "What's the next flight non-stop to Newark?"

   "Does it matter which airline, sir?"

   "No."

   "Does it have to be Newark? There's a flight leaving for Kennedy—"

   "It has to be Newark." That was where he'd left his car, when he'd driven down from Claire's house.

   "Yes, sir. One moment, please."

   While he waited, there was a sudden commotion outside. First a shriek of brakes, then a woman squealing, then different kinds of shouting and contention, and finally a loud angry hammering at the door.

   The female voice came back to say that the next non-stop to Newark wasn't until seven-ten. Nearly five hours away. "Thank you," he said, and hung up, his expression disgusted.

   Outside, Beaghler's voice suddenly shouted out his name: Parker, not Latham. Parker looked over at the door. He got to his feet, walked over there, opened the door, and Beaghler came bursting in, his mouth full of words. Sharon was quivering in the background, rump against the hood of Parker's rental car, eyes glittering in the light-spill from the open door.

   Beaghler was still yelling. Parker shut the door, closed his hand into a fist, turned around, and hit Beaghler in the face. Beaghler went wind milling, his eyes wide open, and tripped over a corner of the bed to land on his butt on the floor. "Now shut up," Parker said, and went over to the bed.

   Sitting there on the floor, Beaghler looked too surprised to think. The fist had caught him on the left cheekbone, and his left eye was already beginning to blink and water.

   Parker went to one knee beside the bed, and reached underneath. First he pulled out the revolver he had under there, a .32- caliber Smith & Wesson, a stubby defense gun similar to Karan's, the one that hadn't shot George Uhl. Parker switched this gun to his left hand and reached under the bed again, when Beaghler suddenly yelled, "Jesus Christ!" and threw himself face down on the floor, covering his head with his hands.

   Parker ignored him. Working by feel, he released the spring- clip holster from under the bed, and then got to his feet again. He put the revolver in the holster, and both in the attache case still open on the bed.

   By this time it had occurred to Beaghler he wasn't being killed. He moved his hands away from his head, lifted his face, and blinked open-mouthed up at Parker. He watched Parker shut the attaché case and snap the two catches. Then he said, "What are you doing?" All anger was out of him now, he was just baffled and curious.

   Parker picked up the attaché case, and paused to look down at Beaghler, who was shifting position again. He waited till Beaghler was sitting up on the floor the same as earlier, and then said, "I'm going home. I'm not interested in you or your heist. And if you ever shout my name out in a public place again, I'll take your jaw off."

   "Wait a minute, wait a minute." Beaghler was scrambling to his feet. "What are you going away for?"

   Parker turned toward the door.

   Beaghler called, "Will you wait? Listen, I made a mistake, Hint's all. I thought there was something—"

   Parker looked back at him. "You didn't think anything," he said. "You don't think at all. You're married to a whore, Beaghler, get used to it. Either put her on the street to bring home some money, or get rid of her. But stop trying to turn her into the little woman, it won't work."

   "But—" Beaghler stalled, as though somebody had turned his engine off. He just stood there, his expression strained, one hand out in an explanatory gesture.

   Parker turned away and went to the door. When he opened It, Sharon was still in the same artful pose of terror against the hood of his car. He stepped out, leaving the door open, and said to her, "Move it over there."

   "You aren't going away?" The little-girl voice was so artificial that she gave the impression of being run by a ventriloquist.

   The next unit's door opened and Ducasse came out, fully dressed. He said, keeping his voice down, "What the hell's going on?"

   "Marital problems," Parker said. He took Sharon by the elbow and moved her away from his car.

   "God damn it," Ducasse said. "I really need the money."

   Parker said, "So do I. You want a lift to the airport?"

   Ducasse had come close enough so he could look through the open doorway at Bob Beaghler, who was now standing in there with his hands on his hips, looking both embarrassed and defiant. Ducasse glanced at Sharon, who was biting her under lip and trying to decide whether or not to get angry. Then he sighed and looked at Parker and shook his head. "I guess I'll hang in here a little longer," he said. "I'm living on my case money as it is. Maybe they'll calm down now, after this."

   "Maybe," Parker said. "See you around."

   "So long," Ducasse said. He looked wistful as he watched Parker get into his car.

   The last Parker saw of them in the rear-view mirror, Sharon was running for her red Olds convertible and Ducasse was on his way through the lighted doorway to talk to Bob Beaghler.

Five
   Parker slipped the credit card into the narrow opening at the edge of the door and slid it downward until it hit the bolt. He applied pressure slowly, the bottom edge of the card pushing against the curved face of the bolt, the card moving downward a fraction of an inch at a time, and suddenly the door popped inward and was open.

   Parker put the credit card away in his shirt pocket. It was the one he'd used in San Francisco, and while it could no longer be safely used anywhere in the country to buy or rent things, it could still open most locked doors that hadn't been double- bolted. And in the majority of suburban houses, that meant either the kitchen door or the door to the attached garage; people devote their attention to guarding against entry through the front door or through windows, and hardly think at all about the rear entrances to their houses.

   In this case it was the door to the garage. Stepping through the dark opening, Parker could see the streetlight through the small windows in the main garage door straight ahead. But in the intervening space between himself and that door, there was a car.

   It was almost two in the morning now, and not a light showing in any of the suburban houses on this curving block. Was the woman who lived here merely out late, or had she gone away somewhere on a vacation?

   Or was she in fact here, having loaned her car to Uhl?

   The word had come to him early this morning, indirectly from Kirwan through Handy McKay. George Uhl was supposed to have set up a thing for himself with a divorcee in one of the bedroom communities outside Pittsburgh. Kirwan had learned the woman's name and the name of the town; the local phone book had given Parker this address.

   It was too bad about the car being gone. Or maybe it wasn't; he'd know better after he'd been through the house.

   There was a door to his left, seen dimly in the streetlight glow through the garage-door windows. He took his revolver from under his left arm and moved that way, turning the doorknob slowly, pushing the door open slowly, seeing darkness that separated itself into several lighter masses: refrigerator, stove, cabinets.

   There were two steps up from garage level to kitchen level. He went up them quietly, at a slight crouch, listening for sounds from inside the house, shifting his weight slowly to make no creaking-floor sounds of his own. He pushed the door closed again behind himself, and started across the kitchen.

   He heard the clicks on linoleum and saw the dark shape hurtling at him just an instant before it hit, slamming into him at chest height and knocking him flat on his back on the floor. Its breath was hot and sour in his face, and then it was going for his throat, and he had no choice but to jam the revolver barrel into its hairy side and pull the trigger.

   It gave a convulsive leap, and he shoved it away to the left as he rolled to the right. He hit the wall and got up quickly on one knee, staring, listening, waiting.

   Its claws were scrabbling on the linoleum, but it wasn't going anywhere. He hadn't killed it, but he'd de-fused it. He got to his feet and brushed his left sleeve across his face where it had slobbered on him.

   The sound of the shot hadn't been very loud. He had muffled it by pressing the muzzle into its body, so the noise wouldn't have been heard by anybody on the street; but it might have been heard by somebody in the house, if there was anybody around to hear it.

   With the claws scrabbling on the linoleum, he couldn't hear I he rest of the house, so he moved deeper into the kitchen until he saw the streetlight again to his right. A doorway to the living room. He stepped through onto carpet, did some more listening, and heard nothing ahead of himself at all. Nothing but the scratching behind him. The thing still hadn't made any sound of Its own, only that click of claws on linoleum.

   It took him ten minutes to search the house, moving slowly, using no light other than that which came in through the windows along the front. It was a ranch-style house, all built on one level, with the garage at one end, living room and kitchen in the middle, bedrooms at the other end. And all completely empty. The closet in the main bedroom was full of clothing, all of it female, suggesting that the woman wasn't away for an extended period of time. In the bathroom there were three toothbrushes, but no toiletries that could be thought of as exclusively male. It was likelier, in any event, that Uhl had a place of his own and wouldn't be living here on any kind of long-range basis.

   Back in the kitchen, Parker opened the refrigerator door to get enough light to see what he'd killed. The thing had stopped scratching now, and when he put light on it he saw it was dead: a Doberman, lying on its side with its legs stretched out in running posture, its eyes open and covered by a gray film. There hadn't been a lot of blood, but some was on the floor.

   Next to the entrance to the garage was a door leading to the cellar stairs. Leaving the refrigerator door open, Parker opened this door, switched on the cellar light, and went down for a quick look around. He hadn't expected to find anything of interest, and he'd been right. Finished, he went back upstairs, took the dog by one leg, dragged it over to the cellar doorway, and pushed it downstairs. Then he switched off the cellar light, cleaned the bloodstains off the linoleum with a dishtowel, and threw that down the stairs after the dog. Shutting the cellar door, he looked around the kitchen to see if any traces remained, found none, and closed the refrigerator again. Then he went into the living room to sit down and wait. There was a picture window facing the street in there, its draperies drawn more than halfway open, and he pulled a chair down to the end of the room so he wouldn't be visible from out front.

   It was ten to four when the headlights suddenly flashed across the living-room wall. Parker got to his feet, and when he heard the garage door lifting, he moved quickly down to the other end- of the living room, where the doorway to the kitchen was, and waited for whoever was coming in.

   He heard the car drive into the garage, and almost immediately heard the garage door shut again. From the sound of it, it was equipped with an electrically controlled motor.

   Car doors slammed, two of them. Parker tensed, the revolver held in his right hand.

   The door from garage to kitchen opened, and a woman's voice called, "Blackie? We're home, boy!"

   High heels took two steps on linoleum, but then stopped again. "Blackie? Where are you, boy?"

   A male voice said something indistinct. Parker couldn't make it out, whether it was Uhl or not. Then the woman said, "I don't know what's wrong. He always comes, you know that."

   Fluorescent lights flared in the kitchen. Parker stared diagonally through the doorway, trying to adjust his vision. The part of the kitchen he could see was set up as a dining area, with a small round table and four chairs.

   "Blackie?"

   The man's voice said something.

   The woman said, "I think you're right, George." She sounded worried, but capable.

   Damn the dog. Parker stepped around the corner into the kitchen, the gun out in front of him, but the woman was standing in the line between him and the garage doorway. "Down!" he yelled, but she was frozen there, staring in astonished terror at the gun.

   He didn't see Uhl at all, but he heard the movement of the bastard going away. Parker looked to his right, saw a door lead- lug to the back yard, and jumped to it. And the instant he took his attention away from the woman, she started to scream.

   The door was locked. A button in the knob had to be turned and released. It all took time, and then he had the door open and caught a glimpse of something running across the yard toward (he house facing on the next street.

   This was not a neighborhood to do a lot of indiscriminate shooting. An area like this would be well covered by police patrols, and the citizens around here would be likely to reach for the phone at the first sound of trouble. And Uhl was not going to be caught up with on foot.

   Angry, Parker stepped back into the house, slammed the door, and headed at a fast stride toward the woman, who was pulling breath for a third scream. She backed away, starting to Jabber in a high-pitched voice, and too late turned to run. Parker grubbed her shoulder with his free hand, spun her around, and slapped her face hard. She landed against the wall beside the door and he held her there with a hand cupped against her throat. "Don't make me do it," he said.

   "What do you—what do you—?" The words were gargled, as though he were strangling her, but he wasn't.

   "I want Uhl," he said. "I want his address."

   "I don't—I don't—"

   He pushed the gun barrel against her stomach. "If you won't tell me, you're no use to me alive. And you've seen my luce."

   "I don't—I can't—"

   He applied pressure to her throat, until she couldn't talk. Her hands came fluttering upward, but the gun made her afraid to struggle with him, so that her fingers never quite touched the hand with which he was cutting off her air. She looked as though she were doing typing movements, her fingers twitching around his hand.

   He eased the pressure again. "His address. I'm in a hurry."

   Now she closed both hands around his wrist, gently, as though in a request for kindness. "Mantle Street," she said; her voice sounded rusty.

   "In Philadelphia?"

   "Yes. Two-eighty-three. Apartment seven."

   "Anybody else live there with him?"

   "No. No."

   He switched his left-hand grip to her face, thumb on one cheekbone and fingers on the other. He pulled her head forward an inch, then punched it back against the wall. Her eyes glazed, and he used both arms to lower her to the floor. There was no point having her dead, but he didn't want her raising the alarm for a while either.

   There was a length of clothesline in a kitchen drawer. He did a fast job of tying her, then switched off the kitchen light and went out the back door.

   The car he was using was a block away. He took a minute to find Mantle Street on a Philadelphia road map and work out the best route to it, then put the map away and started the car. Uhl had perhaps a ten-minute lead on him, but had left on foot and would have some trouble finding a cab in this sort of neighborhood at four in the morning. If Uhl was heading home, Parker had a fair chance to beat him there or at least catch up with him before he gathered his things and went anywhere else.

   Thirty-five minutes later Parker was driving past 283 Mantle Street, a red-brick apartment building that looked to have been built in the twenties or thirties: corners slightly curved rather than square, casement windows, carriage lamps on either side of the arched entrance. There was no light showing in any of the building's windows, except for a single row up the middle above the entranceway; that would be the staircase. The building was five stories high, with probably four or six apartments on each floor, and no elevator.

   Parker drove on, and left the car a block away. He walked back and entered the building, and read on the mailboxes in the foyer that apartment 7 was occupied by a G. Underwood. So Uhl was apparently one of those who liked to keep their initials when using aliases, an idea that was always stupid and sometimes harmful.

   The inner door was of the kind that can be opened by a tenant ringing a buzzer up in his apartment. Which meant it couldn't be double-bolted, which further meant the credit card would open it. Parker went through and up the stairs and found that apartment 7 was on the second-floor rear. This door was double-bolted, and Parker didn't travel with a lock man's tools, so he left the door and went on up the stairs to the roof.

   There was a fire escape down the back. The windows at the rear were also all dark, and there was no light source other than the stars and a quarter-moon. Parker went down the fire escape to the second floor, turned to the window that should lead in to apartment 7, and peered through it looking for light. He saw none, and went to work on the window.

   Like those in the front, it was of casement type. A lever-and- ratchet arrangement inside would open or close it, and it would swing out like a door rather than raising. Parker inserted the credit card at the top corner, then slid it along the top toward the hinged end. This forced the outer corner away from the frame sufficiently for him to get a grip on it with his fingertips. He pried the corner farther open, and slipped a pencil into the space just as the credit card slipped through and fell inside the apartment. Pulling the corner out while simultaneously sliding the pencil along the top toward the hinged end, he made the opening steadily wider, until there was a sudden click-click sound from the bottom of the window as the ratchet slipped two or three notches.

   Now the leading edge of the window was open about half an inch. Parker could get a firmer grip now, pull harder, and force the ratchet to give several more grooves, until he could slip his hand inside and turn the lever, opening the window the rest of the way. He stepped into a small dark bedroom, retrieved his pencil and credit card, and searched the apartment as he had earlier searched the house—silently, and in darkness.

   It was empty. There was a flashlight in a kitchen drawer, and Band-Aids in the bathroom medicine chest. Parker put Band-Aids over the flashlight glass, leaving just a small open slit, and then used this narrow light to go through the apartment again, looking for something that would tell him where else Uhl might go. But he had apparently rented the place furnished, and had few possessions of his own. There was no address book, there were no letters, there was nothing to say a word about Uhl's past or future. Some ordinary clothing in the closets and drawers, a few decks of cards, some paperback books; it was like the leavings in a rented summer cottage after the season is over.

   Except for the four thousand dollars in the corn-flakes package. Two hundred twenty-dollar bills neatly stacked, filling a box of corn flakes that at first didn't look as though it had been opened. But Parker lifted it and it was too heavy, and when he looked at the bottom he could see where the box had been steamed open and then resealed. He ripped it open and the bills thudded out, four stacks of fifty bills, each with its own paper band around it.

   Uhl, like Parker and most other men in the same profession, kept caches of money in different locations, in case the sudden need for a bribe or a getaway should arise. Parker himself had left several of these behind, at times when it had seemed too dangerous to go back for them; was Uhl smart enough to do the same? Or would the four thousand tempt him to stop by here for just a minute? It was worth waiting awhile here to find out. Until morning.

   It was then a little before five. At twenty to six the phone rang. Having an idea who it was, Parker answered, saying, "Hello?"

   "George? Get away from there, I had to tell him—he was going to kill me, I had to tell him where you lived. I'm sorry, darling, I had to— George?"

   Parker said nothing.

   "George? George?"

   He hung up. With the four thousand in his pockets, he left the apartment.

   Six

   Ducasse was in the lobby. "Come on upstairs," he said.

   Neither of them spoke in the elevator. Parker had gone back to Claire's place after Philadelphia, and she'd told him Handy McKay had called to say that Ducasse wanted to see him. Ducasse would be at the Port Dutch Hotel in New York until the following Tuesday, staying under the name Anthony St. Pierre. So today Parker had driven in the sixty miles from Claire's place, had called Ducasse from a pay phone, and had arranged to meet him this afternoon.

   It was an expensive hotel, but Ducasse had taken himself a modest room. As they went in, he said, "You want a drink? Anything from room service?"

   "No, thanks."

   "I drink when I'm not working," Ducasse said. "Mind if I go ahead?"

   "Fine."

   Ducasse made himself a gin and tonic without ice. He held the glass up, grinning at it as though it were a foolishness he'd somehow become saddled with, and said, "You know how I got onto this stuff?"

   The furniture tended to white imitation Italian Provincial.

   Parker sat in a chair with a comfortable back and uncomfortable arms and said, "No, I don't."

   "Every time I'm in a hotel," Ducasse said, "sooner or later I'm in a conversation I don't want overheard. And that's when the ice runs out. In a motel, you just take the bucket and walk down to the machine, but in a place like this you've got to call room service. It takes half an hour, and in comes a guy looks invariably like an undercover narcotics man. And everybody sits around not talking and not wanting their face seen. So I trained myself to drink this shit without ice." He took a swig and made a face. "It's like drinking iodine."

   Parker said, "You say you're not working. What happened to the San Simeon deal?"

   "There was a sweet pair." Ducasse sat on the sofa and clinked the glass down on the coffee table. "That Sharon is out to get somebody killed, brother, and that's all there is to it."

   "That's why I left."

   "I hung in two more days," Ducasse said. "But then I'd had it. Once it was out in the open, with you, they were at each other all the damn time. She's afraid of him, you know, but not enough to make her change her head, only to try to hide things. And she's too damn stupid to hide anything even from a lightweight like Bob Beaghler."

   "So you quit, too?"

   "George Walheim kept telling me to ignore it, it would blow over, everything would be okay. He said that once Sharon figured it out you wouldn't have anything to do with her, she'd leave you alone. But the whole situation made me very nervous. Particularly because Beaghler's also a pothead, and he figured to bring some grass along on the job. To smoke in the mountains."

   "It was almost a good idea," Parker said, "except for the people."

   "Well, I got something else right away," Ducasse said, "so it worked out okay. When I left there, I went back and got in touch with my contact, and he had something for me. They only needed one guy, though, so there was no point contacting you about it."

   Parker shrugged.

   "But then there was something else came along," Ducasse said. "You know Ed Mackey?"

   "I used to."

   "Well, I contacted some people here and there, trying to find « buyer for those damn statues. You know, before I walked out on It. So after I got together on this other thing, I heard back from Ed Mackey. It seems he's putting together an art heist himself, and he needs some people, and through the feelers I put nut, he got onto the idea of me. So he got in touch, but I said I wmh already working, and I mentioned you. He said he knew you and he'd like to work with you, and I said I'd pass it on."

   "He give you any details?"

   Ducasse shook his head. "I wasn't interested, so there wasn't any point. But I know Ed, he's a real professional. He's no Bob Beaghler."

   Parker knew that was true. "I appreciate it," he said.

   "Listen," Ducasse said, "I know I was getting kind of tight with my money, and I had the idea you were into the same kind of situation, so what the hell. You'd do the same thing for me."

   Parker nodded; he would now. "I picked up a few thousand the other day," he said, "but it didn't help much. I need a major score."

   "Well, that's what this is, according to Ed. I have where he'll be staying next week." He took a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it across. Parker took it and put it away without looking at it.

   Then there were fifteen minutes of small-talk. Parker never look pleasure in that kind of thing, but he knew other people found it necessary and he'd trained himself to take part in it. Finally, though, Ducasse's iceless drink was finished and Parker could get to his feet and say, "Good luck on your job."

   "And the same to you," said Ducasse. He was grinning a little loosely. "May we both get rich," he said.

   

   PART 2

   

   One
   Parker stood looking at the painting. It was four feet high and live feet wide, a slightly blurred black-and-white blowup of a news photograph showing a very bad automobile accident, all mashed parts and twisted metal. A body could obscurely be seen ripped inside the car, held there by jagged pieces of metal and glass. Superimposed here and there on the photograph were small comic-book figures in comic-book colors, masked heroes In bright costumes, all in running positions, with raised knees Mild clenched fists and straining shoulders and set jaws. There Were perhaps a dozen of the small figures running this way and Unit over the surface of the photograph, like tropical birds on a dead bush. The painting was titled "Violence."

   Parker turned his attention to the mimeographed sheet he'd been given at the door. "Violence" had been loaned to the exhibit by Mr. and Mrs. Gerald Shakauer of Perth Amboy, New Jersey, who had purchased it in 1966 for thirty-five thousand dollars.

   Parker moved on to the next painting. Hexagonally shaped, three feet in diameter, it was an exact replica of a red-background white-lettering STOP sign, with plastic sculptured noses glued onto it all over. This one was titled "Thanacleon IV." Parker looked at the mimeographed sheet again: painted by, loaned by, purchased in 1968 for eighteen thousand dollars.

   He moved on. There were twenty-one paintings in the exhibit, mounted on the white walls and on a temporary divider down the middle of the room. Adding up the numbers on the mimeographed sheet, a total of three hundred seventy-five thousand dollars had been paid out at one time or another in the last eight years for these paintings.

   Parker studied every one of them. He also studied the seven private guards—gray uniforms, revolvers on right hip—standing around the room like seven more exhibits, and the other two armed guards moving back and forth in the hall outside, constantly passing the doorway. The fifteen or twenty other visitors to the exhibit at the moment all seemed to be ordinary citizens, none of them having that aura about them of the plainclothes cop.

   When he had seen everything, Parker folded the mimeographed sheet and put it in his suit-coat pocket and left. The exhibit was being housed for this temporary show in a second- floor room in a downtown bank building, and he had his choice of elevator or stairs to the first floor. He went down the stairs and outside, and a municipal police car was parked by the fire hydrant in front of this entrance. It had been there when he'd gone in, and for the second time the two cops inside it gave him a casual once-over. He turned left, went down to the corner, left again, and half a block to the rented car. Sunlight glistened off everything; the time was two-ten.

   It took twenty-five minutes to drive out to the motel. Mackey and his woman were the only ones in the pool area when Parker turned in from the highway. Mackey, standing on the diving board in his flower-patterned trunks, waved a big hello. Parker lifted a hand from the steering wheel, put it back, and drove on in past the office, while Mackey dove into the blue water, swam the length of the pool, climbed out, grabbed his towel, and came padding toward his room. His woman stayed at the pool.

   Parker was leaning on the front of the rental car when Mackey got there. Mackey said, "You saw it?"

   "I saw it."

   Mackey had his towel around his shoulders and his room key in his hand. Opening the door, he said, "It isn't really warm enough to swim, you know? Not quite warm enough." He pushed open the door, stepped in, hit the light switch beside the door. Parker followed him in and shut the door behind him.

   It was night in here. Heavy draperies with an autumn-leaf design covered the window, and the switch Mackey had touched had turned on two table lamps and a floor lamp, showing a motel room like any other, with gold filigree on the dresser front. The air conditioner was going, high in the rear wall, and the air in the room was as cold and dead as a tile floor.

   "Jesus, it's cold!" Mackey said, but he didn't touch the air conditioner. Standing in the middle of the room, shivering, he peeled off his wet bathing suit, tossed it through the open bathroom doorway, and started to towel himself dry. He was hairy, stocky, just under average height, and about forty years of age. His hair was a little thin on top. There was a puckered scar on his back, high and to the right, just under the shoulder. He said, "Scotch and ice on the dresser there, help yourself." He kept patting himself with the towel.

   "I didn't eat lunch yet," Parker said. When you're maybe going to work with a man, give him reasons for things, don't be overly curt. Parker went over and sat down in a somewhat Dan- l«h chair near the door.

   "Yeah? Neither did I, I'll join you."

   "All right."

   "We'll leave Brenda here. She never eats lunch anyway. Keeps herself down to fighting weight, you know?"

   Parker nodded.

   Mackey wadded up the towel, threw it into the bathroom after his bathing suit, and went over to the dresser. He opened the top drawer, pulled out some clothing, and started to dress. "What do you think?" he said.

   "You won't do it where it is now."

   "Don't I know it?" Mackey grinned, balancing on one foot to put on a sock. "Brenda says this is good for my belly," he said. "Put on my socks standing up. One of these days I'll fall over, ram my head through a wall. But I'll have a great belly. Nobody's talking about doing it where it is. The whole point is, it's a road show."

   "There were nine private guards in sight," Parker said. "Two city cops in a radio car out front. That's how they protect it when it's standing still. How do they protect it when it's in motion?"

   "I know what you mean." In his underwear, Mackey went over to the doorless closet. He took a white shirt off a hanger, put it on, started buttoning it. "But when you come right down to it," he said, "what we're talking about here is a simple hijack."

   "Simple?"

   Mackey reached for a pair of slacks. "You know what I mean. It's maybe a tough hijack, but a hijack is all it is." He stopped, the slacks in his hands, and looked at Parker. "Think about it. Twenty-one paintings in one truck, out on the road."

   It was the San Simeon thing all over again, except that nobody would be taking a truck full of paintings over any roadless mountains. Not even Bob Beaghler. "It won't be that easy," Parker said.

   "But worth it," Mackey said.

   Parker said, "Three hundred fifty-seven thousand."

   Mackey frowned at him. "Where'd you get a number like that?"

   Parker took the mimeographed sheet from his pocket, opened it up. "In here they tell you how much the owners paid."

   "Oh, yeah? But that was a couple years ago, right?"

   "Mostly. Why?"

   "Griffith told me it's half a million." Mackey shrugged, and started putting on his slacks. "Paintings get worth more all the time," he said, as though it were a field he knew a lot about. "Like stock, you know?"

   "How much is ours?"

   "A hundred thirty grand, split among however many of us there are."

   Parker frowned. "Where'd you get that number?"

   Mackey, his trousers on, reached for a tie and grinned. "Griffith started at a hundred grand, I started at two hundred, and we dickered."

   "Griffith won."

   Mackey's grin widened. "Yeah, I know." He carried the tie over to where he could see himself in the mirror over the dresser. "But that's his business, you know? I steal for a living, he dickers for a living." He shrugged, watching his hands move with the tie. "You don't think I worked for that thirty grand?"

   "I suppose you did," Parker said.

   Mackey finished with the tie, and turned away from the mirror. "I'll tell you the truth," he said. "We spent twenty minutes talking price, and I kept thinking, I got to get this guy up to one- fifty because that's the middle between where we started. But after a while I began to think, What if there's five of us do this thing? Then only one dollar out of five that I'm fighting for is mine. We're up to one-thirty, and I'm sick of all this talk back and forth, all this stuff that he does because he likes to do it, and I hate it. So what am I trying to get out of him? Another twenty grand. But how much of that is for me? Four grand, if there's five of us doing it. Do I want all this hassle for four grand? So I said okay, one-thirty, the hell with it." He spread his hands, grinning, and then turned away and went back over to the closet for his sports jacket.

   Parker said, "I'll have to meet him."

   Mackey frowned, shrugging into his jacket. "He wouldn't like that, Parker," he said. "He told me he didn't want a lot of contact back and forth, he was just telling me about the caper and that was it. If I pulled it off, I should bring him the stuff and he'd pay for it."

   Parker said, "If I'm in, I'll have to meet him." Mackey considered. "I'll call him," he said. "I'll call him at his home tonight, I'll explain the situation."

   "Good," Parker said. He got to his feet. "You ready?" Mackey was stuffing things from the dresser top into his pockets: wallet, cigarettes, matches, keys. "Ready."

   Two

   When they got out of the car they could hear rock music, very loud, coming from the other side of the house. There were a dozen automobiles parked on the curving drive, most of them foreign sports cars. The house was two stories high, white, rambling, with white pillars in front.

   Mackey said, "I don't know should we go through the house or around it." It was warmer today than yesterday; he pulled out a white handkerchief and patted his forehead.

   "Through it," Parker said. He wanted to know who Griffith was, and his house would be a part of him.

   Brenda said, "Is my skirt wrinkled in back?" and turned around. She was a slender girl, mid-twenties, good-looking, with a lot of leg. And just as Mackey was a hundred times better than Beaghler, Brenda was a thousand times better than Sharon. She knew who she was, she didn't have to struggle with anybody, there was never any sense of tension between her and Mackey, no tug of war as to which one of them would run her life. She ran it herself, and she did a good job of it.

   Now Mackey smiled happily at the rump she'd turned toward him and said, "Yeah, baby, it's awful wrinkled. Maybe you oughta take it off and leave it in the car."

   She didn't see the humor. Very serious about it all, she tugged at the hem of the short skirt in the back, saying, "No, really, is it? We sat in the car so long."

   "It's okay, Brenda," Mackey said, still with the same happy grin on his face. "Don't worry about it, nobody's gonna hate to look at you." And he patted her on the behind.

   Parker stood there and waited for Mackey to get done with his clowning, so they could move on. Griffith had only agreed to this meeting if it could be handled as though it were a social occasion, which was why Brenda was along. That had been the compromise Mackey had worked out, and Parker was willing to ride with it as long as it didn't become inconvenient.

   Brenda was the first to realize that Parker wasn't being an amused spectator of the horsing around, but was simply waiting for them to stop; she grew at once brisk and efficient, turning around to face Mackey again, saying to him, "Now cut it out, Ed, you're supposed to be here on business."

   Mackey glanced over at Parker, and his grin faded. "Yeah, you're right," he said. "So let's go."

   Parker went up between the middle pair of pillars to the porch. A screen door was closed, but the main door inside it stood open, and chilled air drifted out. Parker opened the screen door, looked into a large square entrance hall empty of people and dim after the sunlight outside, and stepped in, followed by Mackey and Brenda.

   It was a big house, expensively but thinly furnished, each room looking as though one or two important pieces had recently been removed from it. A wide variety of paintings hung on the light-colored walls. The floors tended to dark woods, sometimes parquet, infrequently covered by small rugs. Light and almost fragile-looking furniture was the rule.

   Parker moved directly toward the rear of the house, from the entrance hall through a small airy parlor, down a hall past broad arched doorways showing more airy rooms to left and right, and at the end of the hall into another parlor, this one broad and full of plants. French doors on the opposite side led out to a slate patio and an expanse of lawn sloping gently downward toward a high thick bamboo hedge.

   The music was live. When Parker stepped through the open French doors, he saw four musicians at work to his right, methodically pumping away in front of banked amplifiers lined up along the rear wall of the house. Electric guitar, electric organ, Fender bass and drums. The musicians were all very young, and nil looked serious and self-absorbed, like apprentices learning to build ship models in bottles.

   The music was very much louder out here, drowning all other sounds. Parker had to lean close to Mackey's ear and shout, "You know what he looks like, you lead the way."

   Mackey nodded, and gazed out over the lawn. About forty people, the men in shirt sleeves and the women in expensively casual day wear, were scattered across the lawn between the house and the bamboo hedge. Down at the far end, a long white- cloth-covered table had been set up in front of the hedge, functioning as a bar at one end and a buffet at the other, with white- uniformed and black-bow-tied men efficiently at work behind it. Although here on the patio nothing could be heard but the music, the guests out on the lawn seemed to be talking to one another.

   Mackey scanned the crowd, and then turned back to Parker and shrugged, with an eyebrow-raising movement; he didn't see Griffith out there. He made a stirring motion with one down- pointing finger; he would circulate around the lawn and look for Griffith. Parker nodded and jabbed a thumb at the French doors; he would wait inside, away from the worst of the noise.

   When he went back in, he shut the doors behind him, which cut the volume of the music in half. He wandered around the room looking at the paintings; they were all recently done, but traditional in style, naturalistic. No abstractions here, though he had seen some in other rooms he'd passed while coming through the house. He stopped in front of one painting that showed a civilized cocktail party in a quietly wealthy room. People stood in small groups across the surface of the painting, chatting with one another. There weren't too many guests for the size of the room, and those present were all middle-aged, well-dressed, obviously well-bred. The quiet sounds of their conversations could almost be heard emanating from the painting, blotting out the rock music from the patio.

   "That is a contrast, isn't it?"

   Parker turned his head, and standing beside him was a fairly short man in a white Norfolk jacket, pale blue turtleneck shirt, and dark blue slacks. The drink he was holding was tall, carbonated, iced, and transparent. There was something a little too graceful about the way he was standing. He had black hair, thinning on top and worn long over his collar in back. Between his wide mouth and narrow nose ran a thin line of mustache.

   Parker looked back at the painting. A contrast. "Yes," he said.

   "I mean, with that crowd out there."

   Parker said nothing.

   "Oddly enough," the short man said, as though the fact were for some reason sad, "two of the guests depicted in that painting are outside on the lawn right now."

   "Is that right?"

   "I don't believe I know you," the man said.

   Parker shrugged. "You don't." He kept on looking at the painting.

   "But that isn't acceptable. I have to know everyone here, that's one of the rules of the house."

   Now Parker looked at him. "You mean you're Griffith?"

   Griffith's expression suddenly changed again, became almost petulant. "Oh, of course," he said. "You must be Mackey's friend, the one who absolutely had to have a face-to-face."

   "That's right."

   "Well, I really can't talk now. You may not believe it, but this little affair isn't quite off the ground yet. I have to keep breathing on the guests till they come to life. Where's Mackey?"

   "Outside."

   "Why don't you join him? I'll have time to chat with you soon."

   "I'll wait in a quiet room in here," Parker said.

   Griffith frowned, disapproving and not liking to have to explain his orders. "You're supposed to behave," he said, "as though you're here for social reasons only."

   "Mackey brought his woman. I didn't. I'll wait in here, in a quiet room."

   Griffith gave an irritable shrug. "Oh, all right, suit yourself. I don't like this anyway, I don't see what the point is. I told Mackey what I want and what I'll pay for it and where it is. What more is there to talk about, for heaven's sake?"

   "You want to talk now?"

   "No. I already said no." He moved his hands in an agitated way. "I don't have the time."

   Parker shrugged. "What room should I wait in?"

   "At least get yourself a drink. Try not to look as though you're here to repossess the furniture."

   "All right. I'll get a drink."

   "Thank you," Griffith said, being half sardonic and half grateful. He said, "Then, if you insist on a quiet room, go out that door over there and down the hall and through the second arch on your right. Then go across that room and through the door on the other side. That's my office, you can wait in there."

   "Good."

   "If someone blunders onto you, pretend you're making a long-distance call or something."

   "All right," Parker said.

   "Now come along and get a drink."

   Parker went with him outside again, past the loud and sober musicians and down across the lawn toward the bar along the hedge. Midway, Griffith got dragged into somebody else's conversation, and Parker went on alone. He arrived at a slight lull in the bar's activity, and got himself a light gin and tonic. Mackey came wandering over to him as he turned away from the bar; They nodded to one another, and Mackey said, "You talk to him?"

   "We met," Parker said. "We didn't talk. You and Brenda hung around out here."

   "Brenda's having a big time," Mackey said, and grinned. He was fond of her. "I'll tell you a rule of human nature, Parker," he said. "All women are social climbers."

   There was nothing to say to that. Parker nodded again and walked back up the slope toward the patio. A man stepped in front of him, frowning slightly, and said, "Aren't you Greene?"

   "No," Parker said.

   "My God, that's fantastic." He was a little drunk, but carrying it well. "Hubert Greene?" he said, as though Parker might be the right man after all and had merely forgotten his own name. "You don't know him? Surely people have told you you look like him."

   "No," Parker said.

   "Listen, come along here. Do you mind?" Taking Parker's arm, he turned and started off, calling, "Helen! Come over here!"

   A nearby group of three women and two men now shifted to include Parker and the other man, and one of the women said, looking curiously at Parker, "What is it? What's the matter?"

   "Who does this fellow look like?"

   Everybody looked at him. Parker stood looking back, waiting for something else to attract their attention.

   Nobody could guess who it was he was supposed to look like, and when the first man mentioned the name of Hubert Greene, it prompted a long discussion, half the group agreeing more or less and the other half in violent opposition, one of the women constantly assuring Parker, "You don't look anything like Hubie Greene, you really don't." And one of the men grinned at him and said, "If you knew Hubie, you'd punch Fred right in the face."

   The conversation finally shifted gears when one of the women said, "Why isn't Hubie here, anyway?"

   "I suppose he isn't a potential customer."

   "Don't be catty."

   "Face it, dear, the only reason Leon invited any of us here is in the wild hope we'll take some of his stock off his hands."

   The man who'd thought Parker looked like Hubert Greene now got caught up in this new discussion. Finally releasing Parker's elbow, he said, "Do you really think that's true? I thought Leon was loaded."

   "Leon," said one of the women, "is loaded with valuable paintings, which isn't quite the same thing."

   "Not the way the tax laws are changing," one of the other men said, and a couple of people nodded grimly.

   The woman named Helen said, "Tax laws? You mean paintings aren't a good investment any more?" She sounded worried enough to have a lot of money of her own tied up in paintings.

   "Investment, yes," said one of the men. "Tax write-off, no. Not as good as they used to be."

   "The old charity dodge, you know," said another man.

   But it turned out Helen didn't know. As the group began all at once to explain the old charity dodge to her, Parker moved quietly away from them and on up over the lawn toward the house.

   Three

   When the door opened and Griffith came in, Parker was sitting at the desk in the small neat office, looking at nothing in particular. Griffith looked at him, shut the door, and said petulantly, "I suppose you've gone through everything."

   "There wasn't that much to go through."

   Griffith obviously didn't know how to handle Parker's lack of denial, any more than he knew what to do about the fact that Parker wasn't getting up from the desk. He stood indecisively just inside the door, and then made an abrupt unfocused movement forward, ending it just as abruptly, and saying, "Well. Very well, I'm here. You wanted to talk."

   "My price is forty thousand," Parker said.

   Griffith frowned. "You should have talked this over with Mackey," he said. "I've made all the financial arrangements with him."

   "I know, he told me all about it. We get one-thirty to split however we want. That's between you and Mackey. But my price is forty. Meaning that whatever my share of the one-thirty is, the difference between that and forty I get direct from you."

   "Definitely not," Griffith said. "Absolutely no."

   "All right," Parker said. He got to his feet, walked around the desk, and headed for the door.

   Griffith watched him, frowning, until Parker reached out for the doorknob. Then he said, irritably, "What makes you worth It?"

   Parker kept his hand on the knob. Looking at Griffith, he said, "When Mackey called you and said I wanted this meeting, you said no. Mackey told you he wanted me in on the job, and he Have you reasons. The reasons were good enough to make you change your mind about seeing me. Those are the same reasons why I cost forty."

   "Other people can make up plans," Griffith said. "You aren't the only one who can do it."

   "If they're good, they're expensive."

   Griffith gazed moodily toward his desk. From the way the side of his face was rippling, he was biting the inside of his cheek. Parker watched him, and finally Griffith said, still looking toward the desk, "It might be we could work something out."

   Parker took his hand from the knob. "I'm willing to listen."

   Griffith moved. He tried to pretend he was walking casually toward his desk, but in fact he was hurrying there, not wanting Parker to go back and sit there again. Parker leaned against the door and waited, and when Griffith had seated himself behind the desk, told him, "But my price is still forty."

   Griffith seemed to be more confident with the desk around him. Palms on the desktop, he gave Parker a tight smile and said, "We can't negotiate that way. Why not come sit down?"

   "It might be wasted movement."

   Suddenly irritable again, Griffith said, "Why not argue with Mackey? He's the one who thinks you're so important. Tell him you want forty thousand, and he can split the other ninety any way he wants."

   "No. You're the one buying, not Mackey."

   "Well, what if he finds out you're getting a special deal? I can't—"

   "I'll tell him," Parker said.

   "You'll— But then he'll come want the same thing!"

   Parker shrugged. "That's up to the two of you."

   "This is—I can't—" Griffith gestured vaguely with both hands. "I can't have you people coming in one at a time, holding me up, everybody wanting the same amount as everybody else."

   "I figure it will probably be five men," Parker said.

   "Five! That's two hundred thousand dollars."

   "If everybody gets paid the same."

   "Won't they all want to? I can't afford that."

   "They probably will, yes."

   Griffith shook his head; he was positive, definite. "I can't do that," he said.

   "Tell them so. My price is forty."

   "I know, I know." Griffith looked around the small room as though the solution to his problem were written on one of the walls somewhere. Then he brooded at Parker again, and finally said, "Why not do it with three? I'll still pay one hundred thirty, and you'll have an extra ten thousand dollars to split among you."

   "Can't be done," Parker said. "You're talking about a major robbery, a hijacking of goods valued at around half a million dollars. It'll be well guarded, it'll be tough to get at. Three men can't do it, not a chance in the world."

   Griffith was becoming petulant again. "This was all supposed to be taken care of," he said. "We were supposed to have an understanding."

   "You do. With Mackey. But my—"

   "I know, I know." Griffith irritably patted the air. "Your price is forty. Try not to say that any more."

   Parker pushed away from the door he'd been leaning against, as though getting ready to leave. "If I'm wasting your time—"

   "Wait a minute, wait a minute." Griffith fidgeted as though mosquitoes were bothering him. "Let me think about this."

   Parker stood there, not quite against the door, neither fully committed to the room nor fully committed to leave, and Griffith chewed the inside of his face for a while, frowning at his desk, pushing pencils and stamp-holders around. From far away the rock music could be heard, more as vibration than sound; at this distance, it gave the room a timeless quality, a feeling like that of an aquarium, a place for afternoon naps.

   Griffith sighed. Frowning up at Parker, he said tentatively, "I'll tell you what." Then he paused again, apparently still thinking over his proposition.

   Parker said nothing. He waited.

   Griffith cocked his head to one side. "Four men?" he asked.

   Parker shrugged. "Maybe," he said. "Depends how it lays out."

   "But it's possible."

   "Maybe."

   "You could do it with four men," Griffith insisted. "If the circumstances were right."

   Parker nodded. "Yes," he said.

   "Then I'll tell you what." Griffith smiled slightly, showing a surprising warmth and openness and friendliness, all patently false. "I'll add another ten thousand to the main number," he said, "making it a hundred forty. That way, if you do it with four men you'll wind up with thirty-five thousand for yourself. How about that?"

   "And I get the other five direct from you?"

   For just a second Griffith looked really angry; then it subsided to his normal irritation, he said, "You know better than that. I'm talking about a compromise here, and you know damn well that's what I'm talking about."

   "But I don't compromise," Parker said. "My price is forty thousand dollars. Not thirty-five. Not even thirty-nine and a half."

   Petulant, Griffith said, "Never? Never in your goddam life have you ever done anything for less than forty thousand?"

   "This job," Parker said, pointing straight down. "This job, my price is forty thousand."

   "Come off it," Griffith said, as though suddenly he was desperate to be finished. "Come away from that number, how can I talk to you? I came up ten thousand, you won't even come down five?"

   "What if it takes five men? Then my piece is twenty-eight. You offering me the other seven thousand to bring it up to thirty-five?"

   "No, God damn it," Griffith said. "I'm saying I won't make any separate deals, because once I do it with one, I'll wind up doing it with everybody. I say to you all right, okay, thirty-five, and then one after another everybody else wants thirty-five, and then you do it with ten men. And where's my profit?"

   Parker shrugged. "I don't know," he said.

   "You don't even give a damn," Griffith said. "You stand there and you don't care. Maybe the whole thing is, you don't want to do the job at all, it scares you, but you don't want Mackey to know you're afraid of it, so you're going through all this to have an excuse to run away."

   "Pay me forty thousand," Parker said, "and I'm in. Don't pay it and I'm out."

   "You won't negotiate, damn it. How can I deal with you?"

   "Maybe you can't."

   Griffith chewed his lips and cheeks again for a minute, looking now very angry. Finally he said, "All right, I have another suggestion. You said it's a possibility you could do it with four men."

   "Maybe. With luck."

   "All right, all right. Let's both take a chance. I'll go to one- sixty. That way, if you do it with four men, you get your price. If it takes more, you settle for less. And I'm paying you practically separate from everybody else, I've come up thirty thousand from what I already agreed."

   Parker looked doubtful. "I don't know—"

   "What don't you know?" Griffith was on his feet all at once, trembling with annoyance. "I've broken my back for you, I've given you everything you want. What don't you know?"

   Being hesitant, a little reluctant, Parker finally nodded. "All right," he said. "One-sixty, no matter how many men it takes."

   "At last," Griffith said.	v

   Four

   Parker found Mackey down by the bar, talking with one of the bartenders about pro football. "I'm done," Parker said.

   "Sure thing." Mackey knocked back the rest of his drink and put his glass on the table. "Tittle," he said to the bartender. "I still say Tittle."

   The bartender gave a disbelieving shrug. "Maybe," he said.

   "No maybe about it." Mackey turned away, saying to Parker, "Let's find Brenda."

   Brenda was with a group of younger people in the middle of the lawn, discussing Viva. It took Mackey a minute to cut her out of the herd, during which time Parker stood to one side and avoided becoming involved in other people's conversations. Then the three of them walked up across the lawn and into the house. They went through the same rooms and halls as before, and out the front door, without having seen Griffith anywhere along their route. They got back into the car again, Mackey driving, Brenda in the middle, Parker to the right, and after they'd driven out into the street and turned in the direction of the motel, Mackey said, "You get everything worked out the way you wanted?"

   "Yes."

   "What was the point, anyway? You just want to meet him?"

   "I wanted to get the other twenty grand," Parker said.

   Mackey frowned across Brenda at him. "What other twenty grand?"

   "Between one-thirty and one-fifty."

   Mackey grinned suddenly, and faced front. They were driving in light traffic through a residential area. Mackey said, "You get it?"

   "I got more."

   "More?"

   "He jumped from one-forty to one-sixty. So I said yes."

   Mackey laughed out loud. "I wish I'd been there," he said. "God damn it, that's beautiful."

   "Maybe," Parker said. "I'm not so sure."

   "Why not? What's the problem?"

   "It came too easy. Jumping like that. And some people at the party said he was broke."

   "Griffith? With that house?"

   "The story is, he's stuck with a lot of paintings he can't sell."

   Mackey frowned, gazing out through the windshield. "You think so?"

   Brenda said, "Why would he want more then? I mean, if he can't sell the ones he's got."

   Mackey dismissed that one with a shake of the head. "He could have buyers lined up. He could take care of that one ahead of time."

   Parker said, "You talk to him about payment?"

   "That's the question," Mackey said. He sounded worried. "I didn't bother to ask, you know? I figured, he's stuck with that house, that business, his whole life, he can't really skip out, so he won't try a cross. So I didn't worry about it."

   Brenda said, "You think he might try to run away?"

   "No," Mackey said. "That isn't the problem."

   "Now is when I need money," Parker said.

   "Me, too," Mackey said.

   Brenda said, "Oh. You mean he might want you to wait till he'd sold the paintings."

   "Robbery on consignment," Mackey said. He sounded disgusted.

   Parker said, "Let's get that straightened out."

   "We can go back right now."

   "No. He's in a heavy mood now, he might decide to drop the whole thing. Call him tonight. Don't sound suspicious or greedy, just say you want to talk over the details of trading the paintings for our money."

   Mackey nodded. "Okay. I'll work it out with him."

   Brenda said, "Does this mean it might not happen?"

   "Bite your tongue," Mackey said.

   Brenda turned to Parker. "What do you think?"

   Parker thought three in a row would be too many. He said, "We should be able to work something out. First we'll find out what he's got in mind."

   "I want to get this thing off the ground," Mackey said. "It's been a long while between drinks."

   They drove the rest of the way back to the motel in silence. Parker left them and went off to his own room and called Handy McKay again. If something else had come along, he'd leave this right now. If nothing was happening, he'd stay here and hope for the best.

   Handy came on the line and said, "Got a call for you."

   "Good."

   "Guy in San Francisco. Named Beaghler."

   Parker shook his head. "Forget it," he said.

   "Well, what Beaghler said was, he had information for you on a friend of yours. Somebody you wanted to look up."

   "Ah."

   "He said to call him at home."

   Parker did, but it was Sharon's voice that answered, full of strangled sexuality. Parker said, "Bob there?"

   "No, he's out now." The sentence was so loaded with veiled invitation that it sounded as though it had to be a parody; except it wasn't.

   "When will he be back?"

   "Around five." The voice had throttled back, become more matter-of-fact. "You want me to have him call you?"

   Five. There was a two-hour time difference from here to California, so that would be seven this evening here. "No," Parker said, "I'll call him."

   "Who should I say?"

   "I'll tell him when I call back," Parker said, and hung up, and phoned again at quarter after seven.

   This time Beaghler himself answered, all of his belligerence and insecurity compressing themselves into the one suspicious word, "Hello?"

   "The last time I saw you," Parker said, "was at that motel in Fremont. I got mad at you for shouting my name so loud."

   "What? Oh, Pa—! Oh, yeah, yeah. That's right. You got my message, huh?"

   "I got it."

   "You were looking for that fellow George, right?"

   "That's right."

   "Well, he's here."

   "Where?"

   "Not thirty miles from where I'm standing. Where are you?"

   "More than thirty miles from where you're standing. How can I get in touch with George?"

   "I'll take you to him."

   Parker frowned at the telephone. "There's no need for that," he said.

   "But I want to. Listen, be a sport. There's money in it."

   "What money?"

   "Not from you. But this could help me, it really could."

   Parker considered, trying to work it out. Uhl was someplace with money, apparently. Beaghler wanted the money, but didn't want to go up against Uhl himself. So he wanted Parker to take care of Uhl while Beaghler took care of the money. And the hook would be that Beaghler wanted to make a deal: Uhl's whereabouts for Uhl's money.

   Beaghler said, "Hello?"

   Parker said, "How long's he going to be there?"

   "Just a few days."

   The details would have to be worked out at the scene. "I'll be there tomorrow," Parker said.

   "I'll stay home from work."

   Parker hung up, and went to see Mackey. Mackey and Brenda were getting ready to go out to dinner, and they both had the slightly flushed look of people who'd paused in the middle of changing clothes. Parker said, "I'm taking off for a couple days. Work out what you can with Griffith. I'll give you a call before I come back, to see if things are still on. If you aren't here, I'll know they're off."

   Mackey said, "You want help?"

   "No, you have things to do here. I'll call you in a couple days."

   "So long," Mackey said.

   Brenda said, "Good luck."

   Five

   Sharon opened the door. When she saw Parker standing out there on the porch, her face tightened up and she said, coldly, "Just a minute." She shut the door again.

   Parker sat on the porch railing. Behind him, heavy equipment was grinding and clanking in the excavation on the other side of the street. The sky was half blue and half puffy clouds, so that sunshine and cloudiness alternated like very slow Morse code; there was almost a ten-degree drop in the temperature of the air every time a cloud covered the sun. It was ten-thirty in the morning, and the Dodge at the curb had been picked up from a different rental company, using a different credit card.

   The door opened again and Beaghler came out, shrugging into a blue denim jacket with metal snaps to close it down the front. He left it hanging open. Under it he was wearing a T-shirt, plus black trousers, the legs stuffed into black boots. He looked tense but cheerful; maybe too cheerful, as though he were nerving himself up to something that frightened him.

   Parker stood up. Past Beaghler he got another glimpse of Sharon in the doorway, her face closed and sullen, before she shut the door.

   Beaghler ignored the slap of the door behind him. "Hi, there," he said. "You made good time."

   "Where's Uhl?"

   "We'll go out there now. You got heat on you?"

   "Just tell me where he is."

   Beaghler's hands were up behind his neck, twisting the collar of his denim jacket. He stopped that way, looking like a prisoner of war about to be frisked, and gave Parker a stupid and cunning grin. "Come on," he said. "You figured it out by now."

   "Tell it to me anyway."

   "In the car. Come on."

   They went down off the porch and through the bedraggled lawn and over to the Chevy Nova with the oversized tires. Beaghler got behind the wheel and Parker slid in on the passenger side. Beaghler put his hands on the steering wheel and shift lever, and confidence could be seen to flow into him like electric current from the car. He sat that way for a second, changing like a comic-book hero who's said the magic word, and then he gave Parker a quick meaningless grin and took the car keys from the breast pocket of his denim jacket.

   Much had been done to the engine. The sound that came from under the hood was well muffled but still full of the promise of strength—a controlled growl, ready to move. A faint vibration spread throughout the car, like the eagerness in tensed muscles.

   But Beaghler didn't drive like a cowboy. He moved the car smoothly away from the curb and stuck to normal speeds throughout the drive; it was like being in a plane taxiing toward the runway, being slow and sedate but on its way to where it could really let out and be itself.

   Parker let Beaghler have a couple blocks of communion with his car, and then he said, "Tell me the story."

   Beaghler gave him a look almost of surprise, as though he'd forgotten he had a passenger in the car with him. Then he could be seen to organize his thoughts again, to remember what they were here for; he faced front, watched the traffic, and said, "First of all, I want you to know I'm not sore."

   Parker waited.

   Beaghler gave him a quick glance, and faced front again. "About you socking me, I mean," he said.

   "All right." Parker noticed that Beaghler hadn't referred to Sharon, either her role in it or what Parker had said about her. But her existence shimmered in the car, and Parker understood that Beaghler meant he wasn't angry about all that either. Which might be true, or might - "

   "I had it coming," Beaghler said. "I got a bad temper, it gets me into trouble all the time. I'd be rich and retired and well off today, except I shoot my mouth off all the time."

   "All right."	

   "So I wanted you to know that, in front."

   "Now about Uhl."

   "Right." Beaghler paused to make a right turn, then said, "I guess you know the San Simeon thing didn't work out."

   "I knew Ducasse left."

   "It was my own fault. I should of done it different. Anyway, after it fell through, George Walheim went over to Sacramento and tied in with some other people that were doing a thing over there. You remember him? George Walheim?"

   "The lock man I met at your place."

   "Right. And they already had a driver, so they didn't need me. But George worked with them, and damn if another guy in on it wasn't this fellow you're after, George Uhl. You know, two guys named George, you remember the name. It struck us both at the time. I mean, George Walheim and me."

   "Is that where Uhl is? Sacramento?"

   "Not any more. Let me tell you the story."

   Parker shrugged. He didn't need the whole story, but if he had to wait through it he could.

   "George didn't tell me about this— I mean George Walheim."

   "I know who you mean."

   "Yeah. Anyway, he didn't tell me about Uhl until after they did their job together, you know?"

   "What was the job?"

   "I don't know exactly. I think it was one of those discount stores at a shopping center outside Sacramento. I think that was the one they did, but I don't know exactly."

   "How much did they get?"

   "I don't know. But I do know George is flush. George Walheim. He's very happy about it. I'd guess he got maybe ten grand or more for himself out of it. He's really happy."

   "So Uhl should have the same amount."

   "That's what I figure." Beaghler gave Parker a fast grin, then faced in front again. "And I figure half of it is mine," he said. "I'll show you where Uhl is, I'll help you take him, and we'll split the money."

   "Where's Uhl now?"

   "In a farmhouse in the mountains." Beaghler grinned again and said, "Hiding out from you."

   "How do you know he's there?"

   "It's the place they all went after they pulled their job. Then when they split up, Uhl said he was going to stay there maybe a month or two, because there was a guy looking for him and he wanted to lay low." Beaghler gave Parker another bright-eyed look and said, "That was you."

   "Walheim told you how to find the farmhouse?"

   "I already knew about it. I used it a couple times myself."

   "Who else is there besides Uhl?"

   "Nobody."

   "You know that for sure?"

   A touch of Beaghler's underlying nervousness showed through. He said, "He was alone when George left, that's all I know for sure." Squinting at Parker, he said, "You think maybe he's got friends with him now?"

   "I don't know."

   Beaghler brooded through the windshield at the traffic. He said, "Well, we're gonna come at him from the back, so it should work out okay." Another quick glance at Parker. "Don't you think so?"

   "We'll see," Parker said.

   Six

   "Here's where we switch," Beaghler said.

   They were just below Fremont, on a secondary road heading southeast, already starting to climb toward the mountains. Beaghler was making a left where a wooden sign in need of fresh paint said: Doughtery's Campsites—Mobile Homes— Sales, Service—Trailer Park—Eat. A gravel road led in between two ragged lines of old-looking trailers. A white clapboard house, also in need of paint, was up-slope to the right.

   Parker said, "Switch to what?"

   "The ATV. I told you about it." Beaghler drove slowly down the gravel road, the Chevy's engine growling low as if in greeting to all the wheeled houses.

   "Why do we switch to that?"

   "I told you, we'll come at him from the back." Beaghler steered around a group of children, who gave blank-faced stares as the car went by. "There's only the one road in," Beaghler said. "It's dirt, it's dryer'n hell, you drive along there you raise a dust cloud you can see for ten miles. That's what makes it such a good place to hole up."

   Remembering Beaghler's scheme of driving through mountains for ten hours with the statues from San Simeon, Parker said, "How far is it, the back way?"

   "Ten miles, fifteen miles." Beaghler said it in a dismissing way, as though the distance were unimportant.

   "How long to get there?"

   "From here? Less than an hour." Beaghler had reached the end of the line of trailers. He turned right onto a dirt lane that climbed up and curved around behind the white house. "Don't worry," he said, "it won't take long. Not like down around Big Sur."

   Parker said, "Who are the people here?"

   "Friends of mine. I keep my ATV here, I don't like to drive it in the city. Wait'll you see it, it's a sweetheart."

   Parker recognized the vehicle the instant it came into view, around behind the house. Amid the half-dozen junkers scattered around the weeds, the high and boxy ATV stood out like a Marine sergeant in a roomful of winos. It was of the type of a Land Rover, jeeplike in the bottom half and trucklike in the top, with windows all around and the spare tire mounted high on the back like a man wearing a holstered gun waist-high on his hip. The tires were large and wide and deep-treaded, and the grill and headlights were covered by a mesh screen. A five-gallon gasoline jerry can was mounted on the left side, just ahead of the driver's door, and the whip antenna curving back over the roof suggested a short-wave radio inside.

   Beaghler parked between his ATV and a wheelless Volkswagen Microbus. He said, "I'll just go in and say hello to my friends. Be right back."

   They got out of the car, and while Beaghler went off to the house Parker strolled around the ATV. It was made in Japan, a brand name he'd never seen before. There were four separate seats inside, two and two, all bolted to the floor and easily removable. The stowage area behind the rear seats contained a toolbox, a coiled length of heavy chain, a hatchet, and two folded wool blankets, blue, with U S on them in black.

   The vehicle was unlocked, and its floor a high step up. Parker sat in the front passenger seat, left the door open, and looked around at the interior. A bubble compass in fluid was mounted on top of the dashboard, there were seat belts for all four chairs, and four cans of oil were stowed in a cardboard box under the rear right seat. A first-aid kit was mounted under the dash, and the glove compartment contained flashlight, matches, two red flares, and a pair of heavy canvas work gloves.

   Beaghler came back while Parker was still going through the glove compartment. He opened the driver's door and grinned in, saying, "Outfitted pretty good, huh?"

   "Yes," Parker said. Whatever else Beaghler might be, he took his vehicles seriously.

   Beaghler swung up behind the wheel as Parker shut the glove compartment. "This is my baby," Beaghler said, and touched the steering wheel and gearshift just as he had done with the Chevy. And once again he seemed to get strength and power direct from the machine; it made him grin some more, and hold the stance.

   Parker looked around some more. He moved the two sun visors up and down, then reached under his seat and found the Smith & Wesson Military and Police .38 tucked away in a holster attached to the under part of the seat. It wasn't a spring clip holster like the one Parker used when traveling, but an ordinary leather pocket; the revolver made a snug fit in it, and the opening was at the side, but the gun could still fall out on a bad jounce.

   Beaghler's grin had gotten a little tight. He stayed where he was, hands on steering wheel and gearshift, and watched Parker holding the gun. "That's just for in close," he said.

   With a two-inch barrel, the gun could be for nothing but close work: inside the car, for self-defense. Parker nodded, and put it away again, and Beaghler's smile relaxed; he shifted to a more comfortable position on the seat, moved his hands away from the wheel and shift, and said, "We'll just let her run for a couple minutes first."

   "Fine."

   The engine sounded pretty much like an ordinary pickup truck, strong, but not the powerful growl of the Chevy. Parker said, "What other guns have you got?"

   "Rifle in the back, under the blankets. And another pistol."

   "I'll take a look."

   "Help yourself," Beaghler said, but his eyes glinted again.

   Parker stepped down to the ground and walked around to (he back, where the top half hinged up like a station wagon. Parker opened it, put the metal rod in place that propped it open, and moved the blankets to look at the other guns.

   The rifle, wrapped in a pink baby's blanket, was ordinary enough—a Sears Model 53 bolt-action in .30-06 caliber. Three and a half feet long, seven pounds, with a five-shot magazine and folding rear sight, it would hit what it was aimed at if it hadn't been knocked around too long, but the bolt-action made It slow and cumbersome for anything but the simplest kind of hunting; no good against anything that could shoot back.

   The pistol was something else again. A Colt Python chambered for the .357 Magnum, it had an extra-heavy six-inch barrel and weighed nearly three pounds. Beaghler kept it in a felt-lined small wooden box, with a little package of cartridges; he obviously knew he had something good here. The Python would probably have an accuracy in the middle ranges that would beat out the Model 53. But even this gun wasn't being treated well enough; it should be fastened down to keep it from bouncing around, and if it was kept out in the car all the time it should be s wrapped in oilcloth or plastic. Beaghler came close to doing well, but he always missed by just a little.

   Parker went back around to the passenger seat again, and Beaghler grinned at him, saying, "Nice? Like them?"

   "You keep them in the car all the time?"

   "Sure. They're safe here, my friends keep an eye on things for me."

   Parker thought of the children down by the trailers, and of the condition of the weapons in the car, and of the doors having been left unlocked. He said, "You keep this car here all the time?"

   "Mostly. I told you, I don't like to take it into town."

   Parker nodded.

   Looking at his dashboard gauges, Beaghler said, "We might as well get started. Get it over with."

   "Good."

   They had to back around in a tight half-circle to face away from the house. The tall grass under the car made rustling shushing sounds along the axles and the front bumper—soft, but audible against the deeper tones of the engine. Parker looked out at the grass and thought about a car parked here all the time without killing the grass under it. And parked here unlocked with guns in it and children playing not fifty feet away, none of whom had ever come to this interesting-looking vehicle to investigate it. And guns left out in the air all the time without showing any signs of exposure.

   Beaghler shifted from reverse into first. "We're off," he said.

   "Yes," Parker said.

   Seven

   Beaghler braked, and they jounced to a stop. "We'll walk up from here," he said. "The farmhouse is just the other side of that hill."

   They had been driving nearly an hour. Except for one five- minute period when they'd stumbled across an overgrown old dirt road and followed it for a while, they'd traveled exclusively cross-country—through meadows and open woods and an occasional rocky dry streambed. Their general trend had been upward, into mountains that looked wild at a distance and wilder up close. But there hadn't been any heavy tangles of brush to get through, or thick woods to work their way around, or deep streams or canyons to avoid. The way had been fairly straight, the dashboard compass generally reading somewhere between northeast and southeast, and the rough ground hadn't thrown them around as much as Parker had anticipated.

   Now Beaghler had come to a stop where a shallow dry streambed they'd been following up a gradual slope split into a pair of narrow tributaries, each of them too small for the car to get into. One tributary came from a steep high heavily wooded slope to the right, the other from a more open and gentle incline straight ahead, where the trees and bushes were thinner and the ground had a loose sandy look to it.

   Parker and Beaghler both stepped out onto the stony streambed and walked around to the back of the vehicle. Beaghler opened the tailgate, and Parker said, "I'll borrow the Colt."

   Beaghler looked startled. "I was gonna offer you the rifle," he said. "You'll get a damn good shot down at him from the top of the hill."

   "I know handguns better," Parker said. While Beaghler's hands were still occupied with the tailgate, Parker reached in and took out the small box containing the revolver and its ammunition. He lifted the lid and picked up the gun, holding it pointed nowhere in particular. It was fully loaded; he could see the corners of the cartridges at the rear of the barrel. He put the box and the extra ammunition back in on the blankets.

   Beaghler meanwhile had taken out the rifle and was unwrapping it from the pink baby blanket. He looked troubled, and a little confused. He said, "You sure you don't want the rifle? It's got a real easy action on it."

   "Don't need it," Parker said, and stepped backward a pace from the vehicle, where he stood watching Beaghler, waiting for his next move.

   Beaghler gave the rifle an unhappy childish look, and then tossed the baby blanket into the vehicle with a fatalistic gesture, as though abandoning some idea. "Doesn't make any difference," he said. "Go ahead."

   "You lead the way," Parker said. "You know this territory."

   Beaghler nodded, as though he'd expected that answer, and went crunching off around the car, following the streambed. Parker followed, and the two of them headed up the tributary straight ahead, the one that climbed through dry semi-desert soil and thin trees and shrubbery toward a well-defined hilltop.

   Partway up, the streambed angled off to the right. Beaghler stepped up onto the ground, and continued straight toward the top of the hill, Parker two paces back. Once Beaghler stopped and glanced around, as though he might say something. Parker stayed where he was and watched the rifle barrel, but the pause was only for a second; then Beaghler faced front and trudged uphill again.

   It took about ten minutes to climb to the top. At a couple of spots, they had to pull themselves up by holding onto bushes, and each time Parker waited for Beaghler to move a few steps beyond before following; but most of the way the going was easy, the slope gradual and soft, the ground crumbly but not difficult to get a footing in.

   At the top, Beaghler dropped to the ground and inched up the last foot or so until he could see over the ridge-line. Then he glanced down over his shoulder at Parker and said, "There it is. Come on and take a look." He sounded tired, more tired than the climb should have made him, and the expression in his eyes was slightly disgusted.

   Parker moved up on Beaghler's right side, about four feet away, and looked over the top. What he saw was a humped and rocky treeless slope leading down to a flat plain below. The slope looked gutted and pockmarked, as though eroded by a million flash floods, and the plain contained only wild grass and small bushes. Hills were leftward, to the north, but the semi- desert plain extended away to the right, south.

   Down below was a house. It looked as though it had been brought here intact from the Kansas wheat fields, like the house in The Wizard of Oz. Two stories high, clapboard, with small windows and a front porch and a couple of obvious later additions on the rear. The thin dusty line of a dirt road stretched away eastward across the plain.

   It was the wrong house in the wrong place. But whoever had built it must have had a lot of different wrong ideas; what had he hoped to grow down there? Whatever it was he'd had in his mind, the country must have changed it for him; it had been a long time since anyone had lived in that house who cared about it. The exterior was weathered a silver-gray that was almost beautiful against the dun of the countryside. A part of the roof seemed to have caved in, and the porch didn't look too secure. Several windows were broken, and an outside doorway on one of the rear additions gaped black and doorless.

   But if no one who cared about the house had lived there for a long while, there was still someone in residence, at least at the moment. A green Ford station wagon was parked on the shadowed east side of the building, only the hood visible from up here.

   Parker nodded toward the car. "Uhl?" he asked.

   "Oh, he's there," Beaghler said. He sounded weary and angry, both together. "He's there all right," he said.

   "Let's wait awhile," Parker said. He looked at Beaghler. "Wasn't that what you were going to say now?"

   "Until we see him," Beaghler said. "I'm going to get out a cigarette."

   He hadn't smoked on the way out. Parker said, "Go ahead."

   Beaghler reached into his denim jacket pocket and took out a small cardboard box that claimed to contain Sucrets cough lozenges. Parker watched his hands and his eyes. Beaghler opened the box and said, "Want one?" He extended the box toward Parker; it contained four small hand-rolled cigarettes with twisted ends.

   "I don't smoke."

   Beaghler shrugged and took one of the cigarettes and put it in his mouth. He put the box away and shifted around to reach into his trouser pocket for a match. Parker watched his movements. Beaghler lit a match and lit his cigarette and the musky smell lifted in the air.

   Parker said, "Mind if I look at your rifle?"

   "I don't give one damn," Beaghler said. He rolled over on his back and cupped his hand around the cigarette and inhaled for a long time, with a hissing sound as he let air into his mouth around the edges of the cigarette. Then he held his breath and closed his eyes.

   Parker took the rifle, worked the bolt, and it ejected a cartridge. He picked it out of the dirt and studied it, and saw the small scratches around the casing. Inside, there would be no gunpowder.

   Parker held the cartridge in the palm of his hand. "You do this yourself?"

   Beaghler opened his eyes and glanced over at him. He took the cigarette from his mouth and exhaled; very little smoke came out. "Friend of mine," he said.

   "A good job."

   "Glad to hear it." Beaghler shut his eyes, rolled his head back, and inhaled again, the same way as before.

   Parker put the rifle on the ground so that he was between it und Beaghler, and glanced down again at the house. No one was in sight, nothing had changed.

   For a few minutes nothing happened. Beaghler lay on his back, smoking his cigarette, sometimes with his eyes closed and sometimes with them open to stare at the clouds going by overhead. Parker lay on his side, facing Beaghler, propped up on one elbow so he could keep an eye on the house down below. There was no sound anywhere, except the occasional hiss of Beaghler inhaling on the cigarette. The sky was very large up here, and the ground in most directions very empty. Parker turned a couple of times to look back down the slope they'd come up, but there was no movement back there either. Far below, sun glinted on the chrome and glass of Beaghler's ATV.

   Beaghler smoked his cigarette down to a small stub; reluctantly, he rubbed it out in the ground beside him. Then he lay for a while with his eyes closed and his hands folded on his chest as though he were dead. Still lying like that, he started to talk. He said, "You were right with what you said about Sharon. I don't know why she got her hooks in me like that. She didn't even try, I won't blame her for it, I was the one chased after her. Practically forced her to marry me. I don't know, I just kept pushing it, like it was the one thing in this world I had to have. I kept trying to knock her up, but I never did. Not till after we were married, and I could make her lay off the pills."

   He kept on talking. He talked about his three children, and his cars, and the different places he had lived. Some of it rambled, with him talking about his parents and his childhood as though Parker already knew a lot about him and would understand all the references to people and places. The general trend of it was that he seemed to be trying to describe to Parker, or maybe to himself, his need to be tough, to be more masculine than anybody else. He never said so straight out, but all of the explanations and reminiscences seemed to be on that same theme.

   Down below, there was still no sign of life from the house. Parker waited, letting Beaghler talk on, a quiet drone that disappeared toward the sky and couldn't possibly be heard even halfway to the house. The sun was warm on his back, but not too hot, and still alternated with cooling periods of cloudiness. Except for the nose of the Ford around the edge of the house, and in the other direction the sun glinting from Beaghler's ATV, there were no suggestions of the twentieth century anywhere in sight.

   Beaghler began to pause between thoughts, and the pauses got longer, and then he stopped talking entirely. Parker looked over at him to see if he'd put himself to sleep, but his eyes were open, staring up at the sky. Parker said, "What's the program?"

   A small furrow showed in Beaghler's forehead. He turned his head so he could look at Parker, and said, "What did it, anyway? What told you?"

   "Does it matter?"

   The furrow slowly smoothed out; Beaghler smiled. He seemed relieved of all care. "No, it doesn't," he said, and kept on smiling.

   Parker gestured toward the house. "What happens now?"

   "He'll show himself after a while."

   "To prove he's there?"

   "Uh-huh. Then we'd head over to the left, where there's a gully down the hill, where we could go down without being seen."

   "When do you make your move?"

   "Whenever I can. The idea is, you won't really trust me till you see him. But once he shows, he's all you'll think about."

   "But if you get a chance before that, you'll take it."

   "Sure."

   Parker looked down toward the house again, frowning.

   Then he turned back to Beaghler: "You got any other weapons on you?"

   "Knife in my hip pocket."

   "Take it out slow, and put it on the ground between us."

   The furrow came back to Beaghler's brow again, but he did us he was told, depositing a closed switchblade on the dirt. Parker put it away in his own pocket, and said, "The keys to the car."

   They were in the denim jacket, the other pocket from the cigarettes. Beaghler took them out and put them on the ground where the knife had been, and Parker put them away. Then he said, "Take it easy now," and aimed the revolver down the hill they'd come up. He fired twice, with a space in between. Beaghler twitched at both sounds, but otherwise didn't move.

   Parker watched the house; nothing happened. "Stand up and show yourself," he said. "Beaghler? You hear me?"

   "Oh," Beaghler said, and suddenly scrambled to his feet. He stood on the hilltop looking down at Parker. "I get you," he said.

   Parker was still watching the house. "Wave to him," he said. "Look at the house, not at me."

   Beaghler obediently turned and waved both arms over his head, and George Uhl came out through the doorless doorway, crouched a bit, looking up.

   Parker said, "Yell to him to come up here."

   "Come on up!"

   Uhl's voice came up, thinned by the distance: "Is he dead?"

   "Sure! Come on up!"

   "What for? You come down!"

   Beaghler didn't have a response for that one. Parker told him, "You want help carrying the body."

   "Help me carry the body!"

   "What for? Leave the bastard where he is!"

   "Damn," Parker said. "Beaghler, start down the hill. But move slow."

   Beaghler obediently started to move. Parker said softly after him, "And I mean slow."

   Beaghler nodded. His whole manner was serious and slow, and his sense of balance didn't seem very good. He inched his way down the slope.

   Parker slid backwards a few feet down the opposite slope, then got to his feet and ran to his left, staying below the brow of the hill, out of sight of both Beaghler and Uhl. A gully over to the left—but how far? And would he be able to find it from this side?

   He would; the ridge-line was swaybacked at one point, as though God's hand had one day given it an idle karate chop. Parker moved upward through fairly large stones, his feet making little avalanches in his wake, and then he could see the gully snaking down the far slope. Off to his right he caught a glimpse of Beaghler, halfway down to the flat. Uhl wasn't in his line of sight from here.

   He hurried down the gully, half running and half sliding. It twisted and turned, but tended mostly to the right. Twice he caught glimpses of the house out on the flat, and once he saw Uhl, waiting with his hands on his hips about fifteen feet this side of the house, watching Beaghler.

   The gully got broader and shallower near the bottom, reminiscent of the streambed they'd been following coming out here. Parker crouched as he hurried down, but now he could see Uhl clearly, ahead and to the right, with the house behind him. And Beaghler, almost to the bottom of the hill.

   Movement must have caught Uhl's eye. He had a gun in his hand, and all at once he was firing toward Parker. Three quick shots, and then he turned and raced for the house.

   Beaghler had flung himself to the ground, and was lying there face down with both forearms over his head. Parker dropped to his right, half lying and half sitting against the side of the gully. He braced his arm against a boulder and fired twice at Uhl. The second shot, Uhl flipped forward, dug his left shoulder into the ground, rolled completely over, got to his feet still running, and ran off to the right on an angle away from the house for half a dozen strides before realizing he was going the wrong way. Parker was just squeezing off another shot at him when he veered back in the right direction, so that one missed.

   There was no telling where the one bullet had hit, or how much longer Uhl could keep moving. Parker got to his feet again and ran down the rest of the gully and out across the flat toward the house.

   Uhl reached the building, but didn't go inside. Instead, he ran around the house toward the car. Parker ran across the flat, heading for the other corner of the house, which was nearest him.

   The Ford engine roared. Parker reached the house, ran along the side and out to the front, and saw the Ford just starting to move, making a hard U-turn to come around toward the dirt road leading away from here.

   Parker braced himself against the corner porch support. The Ford's rear wheels were spinning in the dirt, Uhl apparently having the accelerator on the floor. The car was rocking, making its tight U, picking up speed. Parker fired two shots into the driver, and knew they'd both hit home.

   The car was still moving, still accelerating, still on its tight curve; and now the horn was blowing. Uhl's foot was on the accelerator, his chest was on the horn ring. The car was coming around in its circle, shooting up double spouts of dust in its wake, moving faster every second.

   Parker ducked away to the left and the Ford smashed into the corner of the porch where he'd been standing. The roof support, old and dry, snapped like a pencil, and that whole end of the porch roof came down, crashing onto the car's hood.

   The horn was still blaring, the wheels were still spinning and gouging up dust storms, and now the engine could be heard laboring higher and higher, straining up toward the top of its scale with Uhl's foot still pressed on the accelerator. Uhl was a dark slumped figure inside the car, unmoving, past worrying about.

   Beaghler. Parker turned away from the straining Ford and hurried back down the side of the house toward the hill again. He could see Beaghler sitting on the ground back there, a few feet up the slope.

   There wasn't any more need to run. Parker strode away from the house and across the flat. Behind him, the horn brayed and the engine screamed.

   He was halfway to Beaghler when the explosion came. It wasn't very big, a flat crump sound that vibrated the ground slightly and faded at once in the surrounding emptiness. Parker looked over his shoulder and saw a line of greasy black smoke writing itself upward into the air.

   Beaghler hadn't moved. When Parker got to him, Beaghler grinned slightly, shakily, and said, "Well, you got him."

   "Yes."

   "I'm no trouble to you," Beaghler said. "You don't have to do anything about me."

   "That's the mistake I made with Uhl," Parker said.

   Eight

   Parker drove the ATV southward through scrubland, looking for a way over or around the ridge separating him from the house. The thick brush-stroke of black smoke drawn upward into the sky was his guide to where he wanted to be, but for the first twenty minutes he couldn't find a way to get there. Then the hill flattened somewhat, in an area where the trees grew thicker, and Parker worked his way through the trees as though through a labyrinth, occasionally having to back out of a spot where the trunks were too close together. He couldn't see the smoke from in here, but he maintained his direction fairly well, and when he emerged at last to where the trees were once more sparse, the smoke was up to his left and he was on the correct side of the ridge.

   Driving was easier over here, on the flats, but it still took a quarter of an hour to cover the distance back to the house. When he got there, he saw that the house too had caught fire, and both house and car were now little more than black skeletons, both still smoldering. He made a wide sweep around the spot, picked up the dirt road, and headed east.

   Something over an hour later he came to a blacktop road which was also mainly east-west. He followed it east until he came to a town that called itself Tracy. At a pay phone in a gas station there, while the ATV's tank was being filled, he made a long-distance call to Mackey. There was no answer from his room, so Parker told the desk clerk, "Send somebody out to the pool for him. He'll be out there."

   It took a couple minutes, but abruptly there was a click and Mackey's open voice: "Yeah? Hello?"

   "Hello, it's me."

   "What? Oh, yeah." He sounded very cheerful. "How'd things go?"

   "Good. What about things there?"

   Mackey's big grin could be heard in his voice. "It's on," he said. 

   

   PART 3

   

   One

   Stan Devers was walking. It was about eleven at night, traffic on the highway was light, and as he strode along the shoulder the crunching of gravel beneath his feet gave him a kind of company.

   Lights up ahead—something useful? Yes. A motel. Devers smiled, but didn't hurry, didn't alter his pace. He had all the time in the world, unfortunately.

   It took nearly ten minutes to get to the motel, a sprawled- out complex of buildings with a swimming pool, a restaurant, and a separate bar. Devers angled across the blacktop to the office and went inside.

   There, was a girl clerk on duty at the desk. Devers walked over to her, smiling his most easygoing smile. He was twenty- eight, tall, muscular in a beach boy way, with blond hair and a pleasant square-jawed face. He'd had a string of bad luck recently, but he still looked presentable in his sport jacket and slacks, and he only took it as his due when the girl returned his smile with warmth and some obvious interest.

   Hustle the girl? No; better the original idea. He said, "Has Mr. Peabody checked in yet?"

   The smile grew doubtful. "Peabody?"

   "Henry Peabody. He might have been delayed.""I'll just check," she said, and took a minute to go through her cards. "Sorry," she said. "Not here yet."

   Devers gestured toward the leatherette sofa on the opposite wall. "I'll just stick around and wait."

   "Sure," she said.

   There were travel brochures in a metal stand near the sofa. Devers read about the Grand Canyon and other geographical celebrities, and from time to time a customer would arrive in the office and check in. Devers glanced up each time, then looked back at the photograph of the Golden Gate Bridge or whatever.

   Once a drunk came in—somewhat heavy-set, fiftyish, well- dressed, florid, drunk but under control. His speech was too careful and his walk too careless, but he carried his alcohol with the assurance of long familiarity. Devers looked at him, put the brochure ("See Great Gorge!") down on the sofa, got to his feet, and strolled over to the exit door. It was mostly glass, and he looked out at a bronze Toronado sitting out there with headlights and engine both on. But there was a woman in the passenger seat, a young redhead in a V-neck blouse, who gave him a look of flat disinterest and turned away. Devers shrugged and went back to the sofa and reached for another brochure.

   The girl made a couple of efforts to strike up a conversation, during lulls between customers: "Looks like your man is really late," that sort of thing. Devers replied with friendliness and smiles, but also with a remoteness that tended to stifle chit-chat; after a while the girl found paper work to busy herself with instead.

   He'd been there almost an hour when the second drunk came in, a carbon copy of the first, except that he was carrying a somewhat heavier load. Once again Devers got to his feet and strolled over to the exit door, and this time it was a Mercedes- Benz sedan purring away out there. And no one in the passenger seat.

   Devers stepped outside, looked both ways, opened the rear door of the Mercedes and slid inside. Sample cases, forms, all the paraphernalia of the traveling salesman were scattered around back here. Devers pulled a case up from the floor, put it on the seat, and got down on the floor himself. It was awkward and uncomfortable down there, but at the same time comforting, as though he were a kid again, playing a game. The engine throbbed throughout the car, and very little light came in and down to where Devers was hiding.

   Three or four minutes later the drunk came back out, carrying his room key. He stuffed the key in his shirt pocket, got behind the wheel, and drove slowly around the main building and through the secondary buildings, tapping the brake from time to time, apparently while looking for room numbers on the doors going by. Devers stayed where he was, and waited.

   At last the car made a slow tight turn and came to a slightly- too-abrupt stop. Devers raised himself from the floor as the drunk switched off the motor and lights. Devers' left arm came around the drunk's head, he caught the drunk's throat in the crook of his elbow, and he used all his weight to pull backward and down, using the head support atop the seatback to hold the drunk's head in position while his forearm cut off all air.

   The struggle was a short silent flurry. The most dangerous thing was that it would occur to the drunk to lean on the horn, but surprise and fear and drink combined to keep that from happening. Instead, he lunged around as best he could, flailing his arms, kicking out with his feet, scratching with his fingers against the cloth of Devers' sport-jacket sleeve. Devers kept the pressure steady, and the struggle tapered quickly away, alcohol cutting down the reserve oxygen in the body, bringing unconsciousness a little closer to begin with.

   The drunk sagged, his chin against Devers' elbow. He fluttered twice more, like a beached fish, and then he was still.

   Devers cautiously released him, a bit at a time. No movement, though the drunk's breath could still be heard—and smelled. Devers reached around him, found the room key in his shirt pocket, and got out of the car.

   It was a ground-floor unit in a two-story section of the motel. Devers opened the door, then went back and got the drunk and carried him inside. Dumping him on the bed, he shut the room door, then went through his pockets. Eighty-seven dollars in the wallet, plus credit cards. Sixty-two cents in change. Nothing else of interest.

   There were Venetian blinds over the window. Devers cut the pull cords loose and used them to tie the drunk's hands and feet. A towel made a useful gag.

   Next, the phone. Devers picked it up, and when the motel operator came on he said, "This is room three twenty-seven. I want to leave a call for eleven in the morning."

   "Eleven o'clock. Yes, sir."

   "Thank you."

   The Do Not Disturb card was in the writing-table drawer with the Gideon Bible and the postcards showing the main dining room. Devers went out, pulled the door shut and locked behind him, and hung the card over the knob. Then he went over and got behind the wheel of the Mercedes.

   It was a diesel, the only diesel automobile sold in America. The fuel gauge was three-quarters full. Devers backed out of the slot, made a U-turn, and drove out of the motel to the highway. The city he'd left was to the east; he turned west.

   A diesel accelerates slowly, but otherwise runs smoothly and quietly. Devers was impatient till he got the car up to sixty- five, but then he switched on the radio and listened to rock music while driving along.

   Check-out time back at that motel was noon. When the eleven o'clock wake-up call wasn't answered, the operator wouldn't worry much; people do that sort of thing all the time. It would probably be shortly after twelve when the manager would finally decide to unlock the door and see what the story was. Meaning that Devers had a good eleven hours to be somewhere else. At sixty-five miles an hour, there were a lot of somewhere elses he could get to.

   Four years ago Stan Devers had been an Air Force enlisted man, having been kicked out of ROTC in college because of a dislike for discipline combined with a contempt for one particular officer. He'd been a Finance Clerk, on a base where the payroll was still in cash—that kind of setup didn't happen any more—and he'd worked out a way to take the payroll one month. He'd gotten involved with a few professional thieves, and they'd done the robbery, but things had gone wrong and Devers' connection with it had become known. He'd had to leave, and had lived in various ways ever since. One of the other people in on the job, a guy named Parker, had sent him to a retired ex-thief named Handy McKay, now running a diner in Presque Isle, Maine, and McKay had gotten him in on a few jobs since. But some bad luck had happened over the last few weeks, and the end of it was Devers walking out of that city back there with nothing in his pockets but lint.

   Well, now he had a car, and eighty-seven dollars and sixty- two cents, and a wallet full of identification in the name Matthew Dawson, and several credit cards in the same name, and a good eleven hours to go someplace where he could see about changing his luck around.

   He drove west steadily until nine-thirty in the morning, and then dropped in to a little town with a diner, where he had breakfast and phoned Handy McKay. When Handy came on, Devers identified himself and said, "I'm really ready for you to have something for me."

   "As a matter of fact," Handy said, "I got a call about you just yesterday. Our mutual friend would like to see you."

   Devers smiled. He hadn't seen Parker since the Air Force job. "That would be very nice," he said.

   Two

   Lou Sternberg stepped out of the plane and went carefully down the steps toward the tarmac, turning his raincoat collar up around his neck. He preferred airports where you went directly from the plane to the terminal, through an enclosed walkway. The sun was shining and the air was fairly warm, but there was a breeze; no sense looking for trouble.

   He wasn't going to be met at the airport, which was just as well. Give him a chance to relax a bit from the trip before having any business discussions. He carried his small brown suitcase into the terminal and out the other side to the taxi stand. The driver he drew was young and long-haired and hungry-looking; he had cowboy written all over him. Unfortunate, but there wasn't much choice. Sternberg hoped the motel wouldn't be too far away.

   A short and stout man, Sternberg had difficulty getting into the back seat of most cars, including this one. He pushed the suitcase ahead of himself along the seat, then puffed and grunted himself into position, while the driver watched him alertly—even, perhaps, impatiently—in the rear-view mirror. "First Standard Motel," Sternberg told him as he shut the door behind himself, and the driver immediately flipped down the metal arm to start the meter and tromped his foot on the accelerator. The cab jerked away from the curb, snapping Sternberg's head back. He pursed his lips, and braced himself for the ride.

   He did try to keep quiet, keep his opinions to himself, but the driver was just too recklessly incompetent. After running a stop sign at the terminal exit, he began to dart and weave through fairly heavy traffic, bouncing Sternberg and his suitcase back and forth on the rear seat, until at last Sternberg leaned forward, clutched the seatback in front of him, and called, "I'm not in any hurry."

   "I am." The driver hunched over his wheel, and didn't slacken speed.

   "Perhaps I should take another taxi," Sternberg said. He could feel his emotional state becoming increasingly unstable, just what he didn't want before a business meeting.

   "Look, fella," the driver said, "I got a living to make."

   "You're in the wrong occupation," Sternberg told him. "You don't know the first thing about driving an automobile. Now either slow down to the normal traffic flow, or find me another taxi."

   The driver responded with grumbling—the words "coward" and "chicken" were mixed in with it—but he also slowed down, and the rest of the fifteen-minute journey was at least bearable.

   As they turned in at the motel, Sternberg thought he recognized Ed Mackey on the diving board over at the swimming pool; then the figure dove into the blue water. Sternberg shivered inside his raincoat.

   The fare was two dollars; Sternberg gave him two singles and a quarter, and the driver studied the money in disgust and said, "Thanks, sport."

   "I would usually give fifty cents," Sternberg said, "but I would like to encourage you to enter some different profession for which you might have more aptitude."

   The driver spun away in a cloud of bad temper, and Sternberg carried his suitcase into the office. He'd made his reservation in advance, so that was all right, but then there was trouble finding a bellboy to carry the bag to his room. "Most people have cars," the desk clerk said, as though Sternberg were somehow at fault in not having one.

   Sternberg pursed his lips. He said nothing, but his mind was full of acid comments on the continuing decline of service in America. Every time he came back, it seemed, the country had slid even further into its morass of sullen ineptitude. His little town house in London—2, Montpelier Gardens, S.W.6—was such a haven from all of this arrogant incompetence, it was a pity ever to have to leave it. But, as some unsung philosopher once said, "Don't shit where you eat." London was where Sternberg lived, with his plants and his promenades and his piano; he would never work there, never. The United States was where he earned his living, the necessary returns to the charnel house which made the London town house possible.

   At last an ill-dressed and ill-dispositioned bellboy was found, and he led the way, carrying the suitcase and room key, out of the office and around the blacktop roadway toward the rooms.

   They passed this time closer to the pool. That was Ed Mackey, now climbing up the ladder at the deep end. Mackey swept the hair back out of his eyes, looked over toward Sternberg going by in his raincoat, and waved, grinning. Sternberg touched the side of a finger to the brim of his cap in response, and moved on, leaving Mackey in his wake, standing there dripping beside the pool, hands on his hips, a big grin on his face.

   The room was, of course, a plastic replica of an Italian Line stateroom. Sternberg sighed, placed a folded dollar bill in the bellboy's flaccid hand, and firmly closed the door behind him.

   Ghastly. Drinking glasses in the bathroom were encased in little white paper bags imprinted with a message including the word "sanitized." A similar message was on the paper band bridging the toilet seat. It was like dating a sexual hysteric who can never Stop talking about her virginity.

   Motel cleanliness is next to motel paranoia; in the closet the hangers were in two sections, separable, so that the part which could be removed from the closet was useless without the part attached to the crossbar. Thus the motel protected itself from those who would rent a room only as a ruse to enable them to steal hangers.

   The air conditioner had been on, but Sternberg switched it off first thing, turned the thermostat up to seventy-three, and opened the window slightly. By the time he'd unpacked and de- sanitized everything, the air in the room had a bit of life in it. Sternberg stripped to his boxer shorts, turned down the bed, settled himself comfortably with the pillows behind his back, and opened the Anthony Powell novel he'd started on the plane. It was Magnus Donners he wanted to identify with, but he kept finding his sympathies going to Widmerpool.

   Forty-five minutes later the phone rang. It was, as Sternberg had expected, Ed Mackey: "Hello, Lou?"

   "Speaking," Sternberg said.

   "This is Ed."

   "Yes, I know."

   "I guess you want to rest up for a while."

   "If possible."

   "We're gonna have a meeting tonight. I'll pick you up at nine."

   "Fine," Sternberg said.

   "Have a good trip?"

   "As good as could be expected," Sternberg said. "I'll see you at nine," he said, to end the chit-chat. He hung up, and went immediately back to his book.

   Three

   Tommy Carpenter was dreaming. There were chains between the planets, great heavy chains holding them all together, and it was his idea to close the bottoms of the links with plastic and fill the links with dirt and fertilizer and make it all a farm, one huge long farm from planet to planet, with something different growing in every link of the chain: tomatoes, and then roses, and then watermelon, and then marijuana, and then tulips, and then corn, on and on across the universe. And it was such a magnificent idea, all he had to do was tell people and right away they all wanted to help him. A stone groove, everybody together, everybody working on the farm in the sky.

   He became aware it was a dream when he heard Noelle calling his name. He frowned and buried his face into the fur and tried to stay asleep; the dream was good, it was really good.

   But there was no holding onto it. There never was. Tommy rolled over and groaned and said, "Shit."

   "You awake, baby?"

   He felt the road vibration under his back, through the mattress and the fur. He was lying in the back of the Volkswagen Microbus, and the windows showed nighttime outside. Noelle was driving, and had been since four o'clock in the afternoon, when he'd decided to flake out for a few hours to be fresh for when they got there.

   "Tommy? You awake?"

   "Shit," he said again. "What time is it?"

   "Twenty to nine. We're almost there."

   He sat up. Small and slender, with long wavy hair that made him look like Christ's kid brother, Tommy Carpenter was twenty-four, looked sixteen, and felt eighty. "No rest, man," he said. "I feel worse than I did before."

   "It's no good when we're moving, baby," Noelle said. "I told you that before. The body just doesn't rest when the car's in motion."

   "Right, right." He scrubbed his face with his hands. "Find a phone, okay?"

   "Sure."

   His shoes were somewhere in the scramble in the back of the bus. He found one with no trouble, but then had to root around through clothing and food and all sorts of crap before he came up with the other. Shod, he crawled to the front and clambered his way into the passenger seat.

   They were traveling through the fringes of the city, residential sprawl all around them. Noelle said, "I think I got off the Interstate too soon."

   "Where the hell are we?"

   "Pretty close. There's something open."

   It was a bar. Noelle stopped and Tommy went inside. He had to ignore the hostile stares of the customers, but he was used to that; the straights never did seem to get used to the existence of freaks. He went into the phone booth, got the motel's number from Information, dialed, and was put through to Ed Mackey's room, where the phone was answered by a female voice. Tommy asked her, "Is Ed there?"

   "Second."

   The next voice was Mackey's: cheerful, tough, open. "Yeah?"

   "This is Tommy."

   "Yeah. Where are you?"

   "Somewhere in town."

   "Come on out. We're gonna meet at nine."

   "Be right there," Tommy said, and hung up, and went back out to the bus, where Noelle had opened a can of tuna fish and put together a sandwich of white bread and American cheese. Taking them, he said, "You eat already?"

   "Little while ago. We go straight on?"

   "Yeah, they're meeting at nine."

   Noelle kept driving while Tommy ate, and a few blocks later she found a small grocery store open and stopped to get a couple cold cans of Coke. Tommy washed down the tuna fish and sandwich with Coke, and was finished eating by the time they got to the motel and drove in. Tommy said, "You remember his room number?"

   "You said one thirty-seven."

   "Right."

   There was a car already in the slot in front of that unit. Tommy said, "I don't know how long I'll be."

   "There's a parking lot around front, by the restaurant. I'll wait there."

   "Fine." He gave her a kiss and got out of the bus, and she drove it away. He paused to brush crumbs off himself and organize his clothes and general appearance a little bit—smoothing down his hair with his palms—and then went over and knocked on the door numbered 137.

   Ed Mackey himself opened the door. "Hey, man," he said, grinning. "Come on in."

   Tommy had worked with Ed twice before, but this was the first time Ed had been the one to bring him in on a job. It implied more trust, more liking, a whole different level in the interpersonal relationship. Tommy was very self-aware and self-conscious as he greeted Ed and walked into the room; he was interested in what this new kind of relationship was going to be.

   The woman who had answered the phone wasn't in the room, but three other men were, none of whom Tommy had ever met before. All three gave him neutral expressions, and he liked that; people on this side of the law seemed more prepared to accept differences between individuals.

   Ed Mackey made the introductions; the new names were Parker and Stan Devers and Lou Sternberg. They all said hello back and forth and nodded, but nobody offered to shake hands.

   Of the three, Devers was the closest to Tommy in age, probably only two or three years older. But his appearance was much straighter, more like the young guys in television commercials. Sternberg was short and fat and sour-looking, as though he had stomach trouble. Parker was big and lean and tough- looking, as though he were brooding about somebody he was mad at who wasn't at the moment in this room. Parker reminded Tommy of somebody, but he couldn't quite remember who it was.

   After the introductions, Ed Mackey outlined the job. They were going to hijack a truckload of paintings. They already had a buyer, and the price had been fixed.

   Stan Devers asked the first question: "We're going to take them while they're in transit. Where are they now? Here?"

   "No," Mackey said. "They were, and Parker and I looked them over while they were on display here. But they moved on to Indianapolis; that's where they are now."

   Sternberg said, "You studied their method of shipment?"

   "Between here and Indianapolis," Mackey said. "We figure they'll use the same system every time."

   Sternberg asked, "What was the system?"

   "One truck," Mackey said. "Plus two cars with private guards, one in front and one in back. Plus a one-car State Police escort, with a new car taking over at each new jurisdiction."

   Devers said, "Doesn't sound easy."

   Tommy had been thinking that it didn't even sound possible. He tended not to say very much at meetings like this, but to think things over and ask his questions later. Also, he'd noticed that sooner or later other people almost always raised the points he would have raised himself if he'd felt like talking, just as Devers had done now.

   The one called Parker answered Devers, speaking for the first time. He said, "I've never found an easy one yet. But we think we've got a way that'll work on this one."

   Tommy suddenly remembered who it was that Parker reminded him of. Four years ago Tommy had been living at a commune that had later fallen apart because of sexual jealousies, but which had been going pretty good when he was there, except for some trouble from rednecks in a nearby town. The commune leaders had gone to a couple of lawyers, since the local cops had been on the side of the rednecks, but nobody'd been able to do much of anything. Then one time two of the commune girls had been beaten up and raped on their way back from town, and it turned out one of them had a father in the construction business in Chicago, and the father had sent a man down to straighten things out. The man had been named Tooker, and he'd talked very quietly with a slightly hoarse voice. He never threatened anybody, but there was a general feeling in his neighborhood that somebody was going to suddenly get killed sometime in the next ten seconds. He almost never blinked, and he looked directly at whoever he was talking to, and he didn't have a heck of a lot to say. But he went into town and talked with some people there, and all of a sudden nobody was bothering the commune any more. Tooker came back to the commune and said, "You'll be okay now," and left, and there was no more trouble after that.

   Parker was that same kind. Looking at him, Tommy felt the sudden stupid urge to ask him if he knew a man named Tooker, but of course he wouldn't.

   Meanwhile, Lou Sternberg was saying, "What about money?"

   "We're being paid a hundred sixty thousand," Mackey said.

   "When?"

   "I'm getting ten grand tomorrow, for financing. Our buyer is getting up the cash, and by the beginning of next week he'll put the other hundred fifty thousand in three savings accounts in three different banks. I'll hold the passbooks. When we do the job, we trade the paintings for the cash, and split it five ways.

   Thirty thousand each, plus whatever we have left from the first ten thousand."

   Thirty thousand dollars. Tommy grinned, thinking about that number. It meant two years, that's what it meant, two years of doing nothing, worrying about nothing, rolling around the country with Noelle and just taking every day as it came.

   If it worked. If it was workable. Tommy leaned forward, listening very carefully to what everybody had to say.

   Four

   "Hold on, Brenda," Mackey said, grunting, gasping for breath. His hands clutched her waist, his bare feet were planted flat on the cold floor, his shins were braced against the side of the bed. "Hold on, baby."

   She was talking into the pillow again. That was her big thing, talking gibberish into the pillow, voice muffled, words making no sense; then the speech getting faster, the voice higher, building up to something that sounded goddam Japanese by the finish.

   "Hold on," Mackey said. Which was what he always did. He had no idea what he meant, but he always said that. Perspiration streamed down his body in the chill air-conditioned air, his muscles worked, he said it twice more, and then he was very silent for a while. Her Japanese soundtrack ran on for a few seconds without him, like a soloist after a passage by the full orchestra, and then that was silent, too.

   The next time Mackey breathed, it was long and slow, like an inverted sigh. He grinned at the back of Brenda's head, and said, "Honey, it is goddam cold in here."

   She said something into the pillow.

   *

   "Absolutely," Mackey said. Grinning, he went on standing there a couple more minutes before going in to take his shower.

   When he came out, toweling himself, Brenda was under the covers but still half-awake. "I'll be back in no time," he said.

   "Mm," she said. She gave him a lazy smile and closed her eyes.

   Mackey dressed, bent over the bed to kiss her, and went out to damp twilight. It had rained on and off all day. The clouds seemed to have moved on by now, but the dampness was still in the air.

   Mackey got into his car and drove diagonally through town to Griffith's place. Along the way, he thought about the team that had been put together for this job, and he could find no fault with it. Parker was as good as ever, from holding Griffith up for the extra thirty grand to figuring the State Police substitution gimmick. Lou Sternberg was a damned old woman about a lot of things, but he was solid and reliable, and if he agreed to take on a job, it pretty well meant the job was solid and reliable, too. Mackey considered himself lucky that this was one of the times when Sternberg was in the States looking for work.

   Tommy Carpenter was also good. A complete maniac in his own quiet way, but dependable on the job, and absolutely without fear or inhibitions or anything else. Mackey grinned at the thought of Tommy's role in the caper they'd partially worked out.

   The only one Mackey didn't already know from the past was Stan Devers, the young guy Parker had brought in. Devers was a little flashy, and Mackey hadn't entirely liked the way the guy had come on with Brenda when they'd first met one another yesterday, but when the job was being discussed he seemed serious and smart, and that was the important thing. Also, Parker recommended him, and Parker was very cautious who he worked with.

   So now the string was together, and the next thing was to get the front money and start assembling the necessary materials. Which is what Mackey was up to now.

   Night had fallen by the time he reached Griffith's place. There were no cars filling the curved driveway this time, no sound of rock music from behind the house. The house itself was mostly dark, with only a few faint lights showing from deep within, and Mackey had to ring the bell three times before at last a nearer light flicked on and through the glass pane in the front door he could see Griffith coming this way along the hallway.

   Griffith was irritable but subdued. He'd been in a bad temper ever since his run-in with Parker, but Mackey didn't mind. Griffith's snappish mood made it easier for Mackey to deal with him, made him no longer feel at a disadvantage in Griffith's presence.

   Which had helped in the dickering over payment. Mackey had handled that himself, partly because to use Parker on Griffith twice in a row could maybe cause the whole deal to fall through, and partly because Mackey wanted to show Parker that he too could handle Griffith if he put his mind to it. Griffith had started by brushing the whole problem away, insisting that of course he would pay up when the time came, but Mackey had kept at him, and Griffith's irritation had grown, and finally Mackey had worked out the bank-account method with him, plus the agreement to pay the first ten thousand before the job was done. Griffith had stalled on that last part, but Mackey had driven him to name a specific date when the ten thousand would be paid over, and in a final frustrated fury Griffith had roared out a date, and it was today. So Mackey was here.

   Griffith gave him a sour look and said, "I suppose you're here for the money."

   "I suppose you've got it," Mackey said, and wondered what he'd do if Griffith didn't have it after all.

   But Griffith said, "Yes, of course I have it. Come in."

   Mackey shut the door behind himself, and then followed Griffith through the house to his small office, where Griffith sat himself behind the desk, opened a drawer, took out a fat nine- by-twelve manila envelope, and thudded it down on the desktop. He shut the drawer emphatically, gave Mackey a mistrustful look, and said, "You realize what occurs to me."

   Mackey said, "We had our first meeting last night, at the motel. There's five of us. We didn't come together for two grand apiece."

   "What about you leaving everybody, for ten thousand? Me and your friends."

   "You I don't worry about," Mackey said. "My friends would probably come after me and kill me. Besides, I don't work that way and everybody who knows me knows I don't."

   Through the bad temper, Griffith's nervousness was beginning to show. He laid his palm atop the manila envelope, and brooded at the back of his hand. "Once I give this to you," he said, as though to himself, "it becomes real. I'm committed to it."

   "You're committed already," Mackey said. "Neither one of us wants to tell my four partners they came all this way for nothing."

   Griffith closed his eyes. His color was bad. He was really very nervous. His lips moved, as though he were lip-reading his thoughts behind his closed eyelids.

   Mackey felt sorry for the poor bastard; he wasn't used to this kind of life. "Come on," he said gently. "Take it easy."

   Griffith's eyes blinked open all at once. He looked haggard; his physical condition was deteriorating by the second. Staring at Mackey, he said, "What if you get caught?"

   "Then we're in a hell of a lot of trouble."

   "What about me?"

   "Your name won't come into it," Mackey told him. "And even if it did, there's no proof against you. All you have to do is deny it."

   "No, no," Griffith said, shaking his head, as though to say that wasn't what he'd meant at all. But then he didn't say anything else.

   Mackey frowned at him, not getting it. "What else?" he said.

   Griffith's head twitched back and forth. "Nothing. Nothing." He pushed the manila envelope suddenly across the desk; a pen rolled off onto the floor. "Here, take it."

   "Right." Mackey picked up the envelope, felt the stacks of bills inside it. "About the other money—"

   "You'll get it, you'll get it!"

   The more shrill Griffith got, the more quiet Mackey got. "I know I'll get it," he said. "The question is, when?"

   "In time, in time, that's all, you'll get it in time."

   "The paintings leave Indianapolis next Tuesday."

   "You don't have to remind me."

   "Monday's got to be the deadline."

   "All right!"

   Griffith's rage boiled around Mackey without effect. Mackey said, "So I'll hear from you on Monday. You want me to let myself out?"

   Griffith was blinking now; his hands were fidgeting with things on the desktop. "Yes," he said. He was no longer looking at Mackey, was staring at his fingers instead. "Yes."

   "So long," Mackey said. He hesitated, troubled by Griffith's emotional state, but there was nothing he could do about it. He shrugged and walked out of the room, leaving the door open behind him. He walked across the next room, opened the door, stayed in the room, shut the door again. Then he tiptoed back to the open office doorway and stood just out of Griffith's sight, listening. Maybe Griffith would make a phone call to somebody, maybe he would do something to explain why he was so nervous.

   Mackey waited two or three long minutes, but there was only silence in the room. Finally he leaned very cautiously to the side, until he could look around the doorjamb into the office.

   Griffith was still seated at the desk, his hands still on the desktop, fingers splayed out. He was trembling all over, shivering violently in every part, as though he had malaria. His head was bent slightly forward, and was also trembling.

   Mackey frowned, amazed at the man. And what was that glinting on Griffith's cheek? Mackey squinted, and it was a tear. Silently, steadily, Griffith was weeping.

   His brow furrowed with thought, Mackey turned away and moved silently out of the house.

   Five

   Griffith awoke as the plane touched down on the runway. The first jounce startled him out of sleep, and the second reminded him where he was.

   He sat up, amazed at himself, and stared out the window next to his elbow at Newark Airport in the rain. He never slept on planes, never, and yet he had slept away practically this entire flight.

   It must be because he'd been sleeping so badly at home the last few nights. He was between lovers now, and he never did sleep very well with no one else in the bed, but more important than that was this problem of the robbery. He regretted the whole affair, deeply regretted it, but there was no longer any way out. ' .

   And if Renard turned him down again, there would be no way in, either. No way to do anything. No survival at all.

   Renard couldn't turn him down, it was as simple as that. The man must understand the position, he must cooperate.

   It was four-thirty in the afternoon; even on Saturday, not at all a good time to attempt to get into New York City. Griffith took the regular bus to the West Side Airlines Terminal, and phoned Renard again from there: "I'm in New York."

   "If you insist." When irritated, Renard always sounded bored, his drawl getting longer and slower, his manner sleepier and more remote. Griffith had never heard him sound so totally bored as he did right now.

   Griffith said, "I'm at the West Side Terminal."

   "Oh, really?"

   "I'll be right up."

   "Yes," said Renard, in a jaundiced way. "I suppose you will."

   Griffith hung up, and took a cab to Renard's place: a high terraced apartment on Central Park West, facing the park. Renard had once titled his apartment, as though it were a painting: "Renard Amid the Analysts."

   At home, Griffith usually felt like a cosmopolite in exile, but in New York he felt like a visiting provincial. He knew it put him at a psychological disadvantage, and he tried to ignore the feeling or overcome it, but he never quite succeeded.

   And particularly not in the presence of Renard, whose manner was so condescending in any event. And disconcerting; he answered the door now wearing nothing but a baby-blue bathing suit and pink shawl tied with a bow at the neck. He was a tall man, but very flabby, with sagging breasts half hidden by the shawl, and rolls of flesh folding over the bathing suit at the waist all the way around. He looked like dough that had been allowed to rise too long, until it overflowed the rim of the bowl.

   "Well, you are here, aren't you?" Renard said, as though his own fatalism amused him. "You might as well come in, since you've ridden the elevator and all."

   Griffith stepped inside, feeling awkward and inept. It was as though he were the one improperly dressed, not Renard. "I didn't want to talk on the phone," he said.

   Renard gave him a tired smile left over from some happier occasion. "Dear boy, I don't want to talk to you at all, by any method. But my little desires go for naught. Come along, I'm gardening."

   Griffith followed him through the large cluttered expensive rooms of the apartment toward the terrace. Renard walked as though he were related somehow to some barnyard fowl— ducks or geese. And when he walked he held his hands up and out from his body, forearms parallel with the floor, as though he were carrying a very large invisible tray, or was about to point to interesting sights along the route.

   The terrace was brick-floored and brick-railed, twenty feet wide and extending eight feet out from the building. Most of the available area had been given over to plants of various kinds, small trees and bushes, but no flowers. To Griffith, it was ridiculous to have all these plants in pots up here when the view was of all of Central Park, stretching away to left and right across the street. They were on the twelfth floor, and the view included practically the whole park.

   But Griffith would never say anything to Renard about that. Renard cut away at him too much as it was, without provocation; provoke him, and God alone knew what would happen.

   Renard had a thick piece of carpet he moved from place to place to kneel on when working on his plants. He now adjusted this, grunting and puffing as he bent over to move the carpet, and then lowering himself as gracefully as a camel, and Griffith permitted himself the luxury of sneering at Renard's back.

   Without turning around, Renard said, "I suppose you might as well say your little piece and get it over with." He began poking in dirt with a little trowel.

   "I need money," Griffith said, trying to keep his voice calm und businesslike.

   "No." Renard half turned and gave a bright artificial smile. "There, that's taken care of. So nice you could drop in. You can find your own way out, can't you?"

   "I can't get the paintings without money first."

   Renard waggled the trowel in mild reproof. "We really have talked about all this," he said. "Right from the very beginning. Bring me the paintings, I will give you the money."

   "I have people to do it, but—"

   Closing his eyes, looking pained, Renard waggled the trowel more vigorously. "No no no, dear boy, no details. I asked you to spare me the details."

   "They insist on proof I have the money," Griffith said. "Or they won't do it."

   Renard opened his eyes again and looked mock-forlorn, like a circus clown. "How sad," he said.

   "I've agreed to open savings accounts, and let them hold the passbooks."

   "A clever arrangement."

   "But I don't have the money."

   Renard cocked his head to one side, gave Griffith a kind of sad smile, and very slightly shook his head. Bright-eyed, still smiling, he turned back to his plants.

   Griffith was letting his desperation show, and he knew it, but he didn't seem able to stop it from happening. "I've done what I could," he said. "I've mortgaged everything, I've borrowed from everybody, I've strapped myself to the wall."

   Faintly, Griffith heard Renard go tsk-tsk. But his back remained turned, his attention remained blatantly on those stinking plants.

   A picture came into Griffith's mind: Renard, going over the terrace railing, falling a dozen stories, splattering on the pavement like a pound of butter. And every plant, pot and all, flung down after him, one at a time.

   He squeezed his hands together. He had to make this work, Renard was his last chance. "I need seventy thousand," he said. "I have to have it. And I need it right away."

   Renard sighed. Sitting back on his haunches, resting his hands on his legs, he looked over his shoulder at Griffith and said, very distinctly, "I am not going to give it to you, and that is my last word on the subject." He turned away again.

   "If I don't get the money, they won't do it!"

   Renard shrugged. He worked with the trowel.

   "I'm already in debt, I've already gone too far with this thing! If they don't do it, I'm ruined!"

   No reaction at all.

   "God damn it, Jack, if they won't do it you won't get the paintings!"

   Another sigh. Renard sat back again, half turned again, said, "That would be very sad. My customer would be morose. I too would be morose. But life would go on."

   "Not my life."

   A shrug, a lift of the eyebrow—who cares?

   "Jack, I'll give you two more paintings. Your choice."

   Renard shook his head. "I want the six we discussed, and that's all I want."

   "They're all valuable, for God's sake!"

   "Leon, I will not hold stolen goods. I have a customer for the six. You give them to me, I give them to him. He pays me, I pay you. The paintings are in my possession for the maximum of thirty minutes. I will not hold stolen paintings."

   "I'm going to."

   Another mocking little expression, and Renard turned away again.

   Griffith was at a loss. He stood there looking at Renard's fat back, covered by the pink shawl, and he wished there was some way to make all of this un-happen, to get back out of it again.

   Renard had come to him in the first place because he'd known Griffith was in bad financial shape. Renard had a customer for six paintings currently in a tour of modern art. If Griffith could get his hands on them, Renard would pay sixty- live thousand dollars for the six.

   From there, it had very quickly grown out of control. Why be content with stealing the six? Why not take the whole lot of twenty-one, and find customers of his own for the other fifteen? Unlike most stolen goods, which sell at less than the equivalent over-the-counter price, there tended to be a certain romantic cachet to stolen art; a painting certifiably unshowable frequently demanded and received a higher figure than if it were being sold through normal channels by its legitimate owner.

   Through other people in the dealer world, Griffith had contacted Mackey, and at first things had seemed to be simple and safe. Mackey would do the job for one hundred thirty thousand, exactly twice what Renard was paying for only six of the paintings. Griffith would give Mackey Renard's sixty-five thousand when the job was done, and pay him the rest over the next year or so, as money came in.

   But then Mackey's friend Parker had shown up, and the complications had started. Griffith had allowed Parker to drive him up another thirty thousand because there was still plenty of slack left over in the fifteen paintings he'd be keeping for himself. But then it turned out they wanted a guarantee of the existence of the money. Griffith had promised them he had it, because by then the thing was so real and necessary to him that he didn't want them getting cold feet and quitting on him. Also, Griffith had been very rich for the last several years, until the recession, and he retained the belief that money could always be gotten somehow.

   But maybe it couldn't. He had pawned, he had mortgaged, he had borrowed, and he was still seventy thousand dollars short of the amount. And he knew them now, Mackey and Parker; they wouldn't do it without a guarantee of the money.

   And if it didn't happen? Griffith's financial position had been shaky before this; now that he'd borrowed so much, committed himself to this thing so deeply, there was no other way out. He had to get the paintings, he had to get the robbery done, or he was finished.

   He had been silent for quite a while, staring at Renard's back, thinking. Now Renard turned his head again, and something he saw in Griffith's face seemed to startle him; maybe even frighten him. He straightened up on his knees, and held the trowel more prominently. And his voice was much gentler than usual as he said, "Well, you really are desperate, aren't you?"

   Griffith didn't know what it was Renard had seen or supposed, but he was quick enough to take advantage of it. "Yes," he said. "I need the money."

   Renard seemed to consider. Resting a forearm on the brick railing, he mused out at the park. Finally, still looking out that way, he said, "You could borrow it, of course."

   "I've borrowed everything I could. There's nobody left to loan to me."

   Renard cocked an eye at him. ''Well, that isn't precisely true," he said.

   Griffith shook his head. "I don't know what you mean."

   "I do know some people who would loan to you. But they're somewhat dangerous to deal with."

   "Who?"

   Renard looked out at the park again, frowning slightly. "Well, I don't quite know what to call them. I suppose they're connected with the Mafia somehow."

   "They loan money?"

   "Yes. All you want."

   Griffith wasn't following. He knew there was something that hadn't yet been said, but he didn't know what it was. He said, "What's the hook? What's the problem?"

   "Their interest," Renard said thoughtfully. He gave Griffith a frank look and said, "They charge two percent a month."

   "My God!"

   Renard nodded judiciously. "Yes, that is too steep," he said. "Forget it."

   "No, wait." Griffith was thinking hard; two percent of seventy thousand dollars was fourteen hundred dollars. One month was all he'd need the money for. Fourteen hundred dollars wasn't a terrible price to pay. "I could do it," he said. "I have to do it."

   Renard studied him again. "Are you sure?"

   "I don't have any choice."

   "You want me to call them."

   "Yes."

   "Well, it's up to you, of course."

   Griffith said nothing. Renard considered him for a few seconds more, then sighed and hoisted himself to his feet. "I'll be a few minutes," he said. "Enjoy the view."

   Griffith didn't enjoy anything. He stood there on the terrace, breathing as though he'd run up the twelve floors from the street. He stared out at the park, but didn't really see it; all he saw was the numbers he owed, the numbers he needed, the numbers he was surrounded by.

   When Renard came back, he had a piece of paper with him. He also had his normal style back, without that moment of seeming gentleness and concern. "You go on and see these people," he said. "They're waiting for you."

   For some reason, it was important to Griffith that he not open the paper and read what it said in Renard's presence. He took it, stuffed it away in his trouser pocket as though it had no particular importance, and said, "Then I'll let you know when I have the paintings."

   "Yes, you do that," Renard said, and glanced toward his plants.

   "I'll let myself out."

   "Mm-hm."

   Griffith felt a sudden moment of rage, so strong that he actually did see red at the corners of his vision. Without another word, he turned away, stumbled slightly on the threshold going into the apartment, and hurried through the soothing rooms and out.

   He was down on the street before he took out the paper again and read what was written on it, in Renard's unnecessarily curlicued hand: "Boro Hall Realty, 299 Atlantic Ave. Bklyn."

   Brooklyn. Griffith was disgusted, and so was the cabdriver he got. "That's wonderful," the driver said, and slapped down his meter bar as though he'd like to thump Griffith down through the pavement into the ground.

   It was a silent miserable nerve-racking half-hour trip, the cabby trying to make time through heavy traffic, Griffith tense and nervous anyway at the idea of whom he was to be borrowing money from. And at the end of the trip, it was almost anticlimactic to have Boro Hall Realty be a flyblown shabby little storefront outfit on a grubby fourth-rate block. Was this where Griffith would be given seventy thousand dollars, in this hole- in-the-wall with the ads for cheap apartments Scotch-taped to its dusty windows?

   Half afraid this whole trip was a cruel joke on Renard's part, Griffith paid the driver and went inside, where a heavy-set middle-aged woman with a bust you could have set a checkerboard on gave him a pseudo-bright look and said, "May I help you?"

   Hesitantly, his mind full of the practical-joke idea, he said, "My name is Leon Griffith. I believe I'm supposed to see somebody here?" And he couldn't help making it a question at the very end.

   But she said, "Oh, yes, we've been expecting you. Mr. Smith will see you. Through that door there."

   He went past half a dozen empty scarred desks to the door at the rear of the room, and through it into a small crowded seedy office reeking with the aura of poverty. The thin fiftyish man at the desk had the look of a failed lawyer: shiny suit, wrinkled tie, dandruff on his shoulders, watery eyes behind bent- rimmed glasses. And yet, when he glanced over at Griffith in the doorway, there was something unexpected in his face, some assurance or confidence that didn't go with his appearance or his surroundings.

   Griffith gave his name again, and the man at the desk smiled, more in personal satisfaction than in greeting. "Come on in," he said. "I'm Mr. Smith. Sit down."

   I shouldn't be here, Griffith thought. I should get out of here. But it was too late for that, it had been too late for months now.

   "You come well recommended," Mr. Smith said. He was pulling forms out of drawers. "If you'll fill these out—"

   They seemed to be ordinary loan application forms: name, occupation, income, bank accounts, references. In silence Griffith filled them out, and then pushed them across the desk toward Mr. Smith, who went through them slowly and carefully. Griffith sat there, watching Mr. Smith read and wondering what the man was thinking. Nothing showed in his face at all.

   Finally Mr. Smith nodded and put the forms down and said, "Well, you seem fine, Mr. Griffith. Now, you understand the terms of the loan?"

   "I think so."

   "Two percent per month."

   "Yes."

   "With a minimum of six months' interest."

   Griffith said nothing. He stared at Mr. Smith.

   "You didn't know that?"

   "No." Six months' interest: eighty-four hundred dollars. Almost ten thousand dollars.

   Mr. Smith's smile was sympathetic. "In that case," he said, "I imagine you also didn't realize the first six months' interest is taken in advance."

   "In ad—" Griffith shook his head, unable to understand.

   "If you borrow seventy thousand dollars," Mr. Smith said, being gentle and friendly, "you'll actually receive sixty-one thousand six hundred. But of course your interest is paid for the first six months."

   "But I need seventy."

   "In that case," Mr. Smith said, "I suggest you borrow eighty. That way, you'll receive in cash seventy thousand, four hundred dollars."

   "How much—uh, how much interest?"

   "Nine thousand, six hundred dollars."

   An incredible amount. Griffith licked his lips. Faintly, he said, "And then I have to pay the principal in six months?"

   "No no, not at all. So long as you continue to pay the interest, you don't have to worry about the principal."

   "Sixteen hundred dollars a month?"

   "That's right."

   "Every month, as long as I want, until I pay the principal."

   Mr. Smith nodded.

   Griffith saw the doom opening up in front of him. Almost two thousand dollars a month. It would keep him off-balance, keep him from getting very far ahead, probably keep him from ever paying off the balance.

   Ever? God, no. He'd have to get the eighty thousand together sometime. Within a year, anyway. Somehow or other. Once this current mess was straightened out, he'd be able to work on the problem of the loan.

   Mr. Smith said, "Do you want to go ahead?"

   Nervously, Griffith nodded. "Yes," he said.

   Six

   The show closed in Indianapolis at eight p.m. on Monday. It was ten after the hour when the last visitor trailed out and the guards could lock the door and turn the gallery over to the moving men, who came streaming in with their wooden boxes and plastic padding and clipboards and trolleys and canvas gloves, und went to work dismantling the display.

   Nearly two dozen men were now distributed through the three rooms of the temporary gallery, more than had been in here at any one time all day. There were five uniformed and armed private guards. There were eight local moving men, working under the supervision of two experts in art transportation imported from New York. There were two suited and sober representatives from the insurance company, and two men from the government-associated foundation sponsoring this tour. The local museum official who had been the foundation's Indianapolis contact was present, for no particular reason, and so was one plainclothes city detective.

   The packing job was brisk and efficient, but it still took a long time for each individual piece. A painting was carefully taken off the wall and laid face down on a bed of clear air-filled plastic padding in a shallow wooden box. More padding was put around the edges, and another layer of it on top, and then the lid of the box was fastened in place with bolts and nuts. The name of the painting was already inscribed on the lid and sides of the box, and now that same name was checked off on two clipboards, one held by a man from the foundation and the other by a man from the insurance company. Next, the box was carried over and stacked near the door to the loading platform outside, to wait for all the rest of the paintings to be stowed away and ready for transit. During the time this packing was being done, no one left the gallery and no one attempted to enter it.

   Three hours were spent in crating the paintings, the last one being finished just before eleven-thirty. When that part was done, one of the art-transportation experts reported the fact to one of the foundation men, who passed the news on to the city detective, who got on the phone and called headquarters to say they were ready for the next phase in the operation.

   Which was loading the truck. On a short-term lease from a major nationwide moving and storage company, the truck was a heavy-duty red Mack cab and a long silver Fruehauf trailer with a step-down behind the rear axle. The interior walls and floor of the trailer were completely padded in dark green, and lengths of rope attached to hooks in the walls could be strung across to fix any amount of cargo in place. The driver, a union man who did no work other than operating the truck, had been sitting in the cab outside the loading platform since a little after ten, listening to an Indianapolis pop music station on his transistor radio and reading the latest Travis McGee. He was called back briefly from the Florida coast by the sound of the loading-platform doors opening, but when he saw in his left-side rear-view mirror that it was just the moving men starting to bring the boxes out, he went right back to his book.

   The trailer doors were shut and locked, and one of the foundation men had the key. He unlocked the doors, and as they were being opened, a patrol car of the Indianapolis city police came down the side street next to the loading platform and stopped nearby. The city detective jumped down from the platform and went over to talk to the cops in the patrol car.

   The local moving men had unloaded this truck at the beginning of the show here in town, but this was only their second experience with this trailer and this cargo, so they followed the instructions of the two art-transportation experts, loading the crates in the exact sequence and exact positions they were told, lying portions of the load with specific ropes in specific ways, so I hat when they were finished, the trailer would be loaded in precisely the way it had been when it had brought the paintings into town ten days ago.

   While the truck was being loaded, the patrol car remained parked nearby, and the five guards stood around on the loading platform watching the work and the surrounding darkness. Indianapolis goes to bed early on a week night, and this was a side street; traffic had just about stopped happening.

   Because of the care that had to be used, and the specific blueprint that had to be followed, it took over an hour to load the paintings onto the truck. It was nearly one in the morning when at last the trailer doors were shut and the foundation man locked them and called up to the driver to switch on the burglar alarm—a siren that would wail like a coyote if anyone tried to open the trailer without the key in the foundation man's possession.

   Two of the guards now walked away around the corner, coming back a minute later in a pair of identical dark green Plymouths rented by the foundation, like the truck, for the duration of the tour. A second guard got into the front seat of each Plymouth, and the remaining fifth guard climbed up into the cab of the truck with the driver. The two insurance men got into the back seat of one of the Plymouths, and a foundation man and art-transportation expert got into the back of the other, leaving one foundation man and one expert, who would travel separately and arrive in St. Louis an hour or so ahead of the main party, to make sure everything was ready at that end.

   This particular road show was now traveling from its fifth to its sixth city, but most of the people involved in it had shepherded other touring art displays over the years, and the method was by now standard and routine. They had done so far everything exactly as they had done it in the trip coming to Indianapolis, and the trip before that, and the trip before that.

   The local moving men now departed, and so did the two advance men. The city detective got into the back seat of the patrol car, and the truck driver started his engine, turned his wheel with mighty lunges of his shoulders, and the rig moved slowly out away from the loading platform and into the street. The patrol car rolled out in front of it, and the Plymouth containing two guards, one foundation man and one expert came second. Then the truck, followed by the other Plymouth, with the last two guards and the two insurance men.

   The four-vehicle fleet traveled slowly over to Meridian Street, and stayed on Meridian till the ramp to Interstate 70. They took 70 west, and as they approached the city line, one of the cops in the patrol car radioed to State Police Headquarters, just a mile or two ahead, to the south of the highway.

   The State Police had been alerted ahead of time, and were waiting for the call. By the time the convoy reached the city line, a State Police car was there, waiting to take over from the city cops, who took the Morris Street exit to make their turnaround and go home.

   The vehicles were maintaining a speed of forty-live miles an hour, way under the permissible limit but the maximum permitted by both the foundation and the insurance company. With two hundred fifty miles of road between downtown Indianapolis and downtown St. Louis, it would take nearly six hours to make the run; they should expect to pull in and be ready to start unloading by seven in the morning. Unpacking and hanging the paintings on the walls would take a good four hours, which would still leave plenty of leeway for the one o'clock press preview and the four o'clock cocktail party. Everything was going along according to schedule.

   It was seventy-five miles to Terre Haute, and another ten beyond that to the Illinois border. The first State Police car was replaced by a second at Cloverdale, about halfway to Terre Haute. There was very little traffic this late at night, mostly other big rigs on long hauls, some of them moving even more slowly than the convoy, but for reasons of weight, not insurance.

   There was a hundred-sixty-five-mile swing across the State of Illinois from Terre Haute, Indiana, to St. Louis, Missouri. The Illinois State Police took over escort duty at the town of State l.lne, and four different cars would guard them on their way, a new one taking over at about every forty miles.

   At four-thirty in the morning Illinois Highway Patrol car S- S62, Trooper Jarvis driving, Trooper Mac Andrews accompanying, drove up onto route 70 from U.S. 40 at Bluff City. Trooper MacAndrews was in radio communication with the car currently escorting the art shipment, and knew they would reach mile marker 93 in approximately ten minutes. An official- use-only U-turn was down by that marker; Trooper MacAndrews informed the other car that they'd await them in that U- turn.

   It was a two-minute run to the U-turn, and when they got there a car was sitting in it. "What the hell is that?" Trooper MacAndrews said. There wasn't supposed to be any civilian use of the U-turns at all, including parking.

   "Fifty-eight Chevrolet," Trooper Jarvis said. "Busted-up old clunker, shouldn't be on the road at all. Prob'ly broke down, I hey shoved it in here."

   "Not supposed to be in here," Trooper MacAndrews said.

   "We'll check it out," Trooper Jarvis said, making the turn to stop beside the Chevrolet, and damn if there wasn't a couple screwing on a blanket next to the car.

   "Son of a bitch!" Trooper MacAndrews said.

   The bare ass of the boy stopped humping when the light hit it, and he stared over his shoulder in astonishment at the car two yards back of his feet. He was as shaggy and hairy as a mountain goat.

   "One of them hippies," Trooper MacAndrews said.

   "We'll see about this," Trooper Jarvis said grimly, and carefully put on the emergency brake before getting out of the car.

   While the troopers were climbing out of their vehicle, the boy was climbing off the girl. The girl squinted in the light and shielded her eyes with her hands, like an Indian scout, but made no attempt to shield anything else.

   The troopers walked forward, hitching their gun belts, frowning in judicious disapproval. The boy was squatting now beside the girl, squinting up with a hopeful little grin on his face, as though somehow prayer would keep this from turning into a bad situation. His trousers and underpants were wrapped around his right ankle, but he was otherwise dressed.

   The girl was sort of dressed, too. From the waist up she was covered by a thin shirt that showed she didn't wear a bra, and the area of her waist itself was covered by her bunched-up skirt. Below that, though, she was the nakedest thing Trooper MacAndrews had ever seen. Her legs were spread and one knee was lifted, and Trooper MacAndrews had never even seen his wife as clearly and frankly as that. He wanted very much to stare at that crotch, in fascination rather than lust, but with an effort of will he stared at the boy's eyes instead. They were blinking, watery, hopeful, hopeless, apologetic, pleading, and a few other things.

   "Well, now," Trooper Jarvis said.

   Trooper MacAndrews had nothing to say. Trooper Jarvis was older, and more used to dealing with the public. Trooper MacAndrews simply observed, but just the boy.

   "Uh," said the boy. His nervous grin flashed on and off, on and off, like a busted neon sign.

   "I wonder, boy," Trooper Jarvis said, "if you realize just how many laws you're breaking out here."

   "Well, uh— We were just, we kind of—" The boy grinned nervously some more, and said, "We just got excited, I guess, and we wanted to screw."

   The word "screw" said in front of the half-naked girl startled Trooper MacAndrews more than he would have guessed. He found himself enraged by the boy, and wishing there was a reason to paste him one. He was also troubled by a physical change in himself that he couldn't entirely understand; he didn't lust after the goddam girl, he knew he didn't, so why—? She looked filthy, anyway, and she was probably diseased, and no more than twenty, and utterly depraved. He couldn't possibly want her.

   Trooper Jarvis, meantime, was saying, "Easy with the language, boy. Don't make it tougher on yourself."

   The boy decided to try bravado: "Well, it isn't against the law to screw, is it?"

   "It is on the public highway," Trooper Jarvis told him. "And In any case, this U-turn here is for official use only. You can't come in here at all, much less come in here to . . . uh, fornicate."

   "I'll check out the car," Trooper MacAndrews said. He needed to get away from that girl for a few seconds.

   Trooper Jarvis nodded, and kept frowning at the boy.

   As Trooper MacAndrews moved away, the boy started the Inevitable this-is-the-first-time-can't-we-just-forget-it number. Well, maybe they could and maybe they couldn't. Partly it would be determined by what, if anything, Trooper MacAndrews found in their car. And he was inclined to believe he would find either liquor or marijuana, and most likely marijuana.

   The girl's body was too close to the right side of the car for comfort, so Trooper MacAndrews walked around to the left. It was a two-door model, with busted glass in the side windows und Kentucky license plates; amazing it was permitted on the road in any state in the Union. Trooper MacAndrews shook his head in disgust as he walked up to the driver's door and opened it, and looked in at the man crouched on the floor on the right- hand side. He was big, crowded in there, and he looked very mean. So did the pistol in his hand, which was pointing straight at MacAndrews' head.

   "One move," the man said, "and you'll never live again."

   

   PART 4

   

   'One

   Parker watched the state cop slowly absorb the situation. His own gun was tucked away neatly in its regulation holster, and he didn't have a prayer of either slamming the door or ducking out of sight before Parker could put a bullet in his head.

   "Just stand right there," Parker said softly. "Wait it out, everything'll be okay."

   Matching Parker's quiet tone, the cop said, "I don't know what your game is, mister, but you're making a big mistake if you—"

   "All set!"

   Stan Devers' voice. Parker said to the cop, "Straighten up and look at your partner."

   The cop's brow was furrowed, more in perplexity than alarm. He had been half leaning forward, still in the position of having just opened the car door, but now he slowly straightened and looked over the top of the car toward his partner. Parker watched his face, and saw him take in what had happened over t here. The two troopers had been first distracted, and then separated, and were now both under control.

   "Keep your hands away from the car door," Parker said, "and back up three paces. Straight back, slow and easy."

   The trooper looked angry, affronted. "You're going to regret this, my friend," he said, his jaw tight, but he backed up three paces and stood there obediently waiting for what would happen next.

   Which was that Devers appeared, in a State Police uniform, a gun in his hand. He wore the uniform well, and he was grinning. "Okay," he said to Parker. "I've got him now."

   Parker at once shifted position, lifting himself up out of the awkward crouch on the floor, twisting around so he could open the passenger door and step out onto the gravel.

   Noelle was just to his left, dressed now and folding the blanket. She was a very serious girl, methodical and humorless almost all the time, and her expression was intent as she squared off the corners of the blanket on each fold.

   Off to the right, Ed Mackey, in another State Police uniform, was holding a gun pointed at the second trooper while Tommy Carpenter manacled his hands behind his back with his own cuffs. Tommy was also dressed again by now, and being fast and serious. Mackey didn't look as good in a uniform as Devers; even though it was the right size for him, it gave an impression of having been made for a slightly different species of creature, like the overalls on the monkey in the circus who rides the tricycle.

   Parker looked at his watch; they still had about four minutes. He said to Mackey, "Everything all right?"

   "Just fine," Mackey said. "This guy's sensible, you can tell by looking at him."

   What Parker could tell by looking at him was that the second trooper was even madder than the first. But he was controlling it, and he looked smart enough to go on controlling it. So long as everybody stayed alert and didn't give him any openings.

   Devers was bringing the first trooper around to join them, and Noelle was tossing the blanket in the car. Then she shut the passenger door, and hurried around to the driver's side to get behind the wheel and take the Chevrolet away from there. Her part of the job was finished; after unloading the Chevy, she'd wait up in Springfield with the Volkswagen Microbus for Tommy to rejoin her when everything was over with.

   "Done," Tommy said, and stepped away from the second trooper. He moved over to take care of the first trooper the same way.

   Parker walked over to the second trooper, who looked at him and said, "You'd be smart to give this up right now."

   Parker ignored that. He said, "What's your name?"

   "Trooper Jarvis."

   "First name."

   "Robert."

   "They call you Bob?"

   Trooper Jarvis' eyes narrowed. "Some people do," he said, being reluctant about it.

   "All right, Bob. Take it easy." Parker walked over to the first trooper, as Tommy finished handcuffing him. "What's your name?"

   This one was younger, and was still feeling more insulted than angry. And also more insulted than scared, which might be trouble. It was better to deal with a man who understood the situation. Instead of which, this one was getting on his high horse. After a quick glance over at Trooper Jarvis, he said angrily, "You don't need my name."

   Time was getting tight. This one would follow Trooper Jarvis' lead, so the hell with him. Keep Jarvis reined in and you'd have them both. "That's all right," Parker said. He motioned with his revolver. "Start walking that way."

   "Maybe I'd rather not."

   A mule, and stupid. Parker was deciding whether to use words or the gun butt when Tommy Carpenter kicked the trooper in the rump hard enough to make him hop, and said, "Move your ass, or I'll whip it into the next county."

   Country boys understood one another. Glaring around in all directions, the anonymous trooper started to move.

   Now Tommy led the way, with Jarvis and the other trooper behind him, and Parker bringing up the rear. Back at the U-turn, Noelle was driving off, accelerating the Chevrolet like a stock- car racer, while Mackey and Devers were getting into the Highway Patrol car. Mackey would drive, and Devers would operate the radio.

   Ahead of Parker was their other car, a two-year-old Dodge sedan, also equipped with a police radio, on which they'd heard these troopers arranging when and where to meet the art convoy. Griffith's first ten-thousand-dollar payment had bought this car and its radio, and the old Chevrolet, and the State Police uniforms, and the Reo cab waiting up ahead, and everything else— with a few dollars left over.

   The Dodge was a four-door, so there was no trouble getting the troopers into the back seat. They sat awkwardly, because of their hands behind their backs, but there was room for them to make themselves fairly comfortable.

   Tommy drove, and Parker sat beside him, half turned and watching the two troopers, his revolver showing atop the seat- back. He didn't expect to have to shoot anybody, and didn't want to shoot anybody, but it was a good idea to remind them both—particularly the one without a name—that the possibility was still there.

   The Dodge had been left on the center grass strip of the highway, just beyond the U-turn, out of sight of the troopers when they arrived. It was facing toward the U-turn, the same direction that the paintings would be coming. Once everybody was in place in the car, Tommy took right off, driving in the same style as Noelle. When they passed the U-turn, all Parker could see was a State Police car with two troopers inside it.

   They'd traveled another mile or two down the road when the police radio began to talk. A somewhat hoarse voice said, "Five-six-two?"

   "We're here." That was Stan Devers' voice. "Is that you I see coming?"

   Tommy, hunched over the wheel of the Dodge, grinned and said, "Right on time."

   Parker nodded, but kept his eye on the back seat, where both troopers were tensing up a little, particularly the one without a name. They would finally be understanding what was happening now, and one or the other of them just might decide to be moronic. While the radio kept talking in two voices, saying idle things while the switch of responsibility was being made, Parker said over it, "Bob, why don't you talk to your partner? Explain to him how it would be better to stay alive and hope to be a witness at my trial."

   "Neither one of us is stupid," Trooper Jarvis said coldly. "We know when to bide our time." And beside him, the anonymous trooper could be seen to relax and give up his dreams of kicking Tommy in the head, opening the door with his teeth, and dashing to the nearest headquarters for help.

   "That's good," Parker said, being careful to talk exclusively to Jarvis. There was no point tensing the other one up again.

   "The only question is," Jarvis said, "how stupid you people are."

   "We won't kill you unless you push it," Parker said. "That answer the question?"

   "Partly."

   The radio had stopped talking; the switch had been made, and Mackey and Devers were now out front of the convoy, leading it down the road.

   Grinning, Tommy said, "I like things neat. Neat and sweet and organized."

   "Then you won't mind jail," the anonymous trooper said.

   Nobody reacted. His remark just sat there, being ignored by everybody, even Trooper Jarvis. Slowly, the anonymous trooper blushed. He blinked, he stared defiantly out the window, he pretended he wasn't blushing, he even bit the insides of his cheeks to make it stop, but he was blushing.

   It was another several miles to the exit for U.S. 51. Vandalia was to the south, but they turned north, following in the wake of Noelle, who would be taking 51 and 29 up to Springfield. But the people in the Dodge weren't going that far. They weren't going even as far as Ramsey; a few miles short of that town they turned off on a small road to the right, toward the Kaskaskia River.

   Just about now, Mackey and Devers would be stopping the convoy and explaining to everybody that they'd just received word on their radio about a bad accident up ahead, short of the Hamburg exit, blocking the entire road. They would have to make a detour, around through Ramsey and Hillsboro, rejoining the Interstate again at Greenville. If anybody in the convoy had a road map to follow, it would all look sensible, and not too much of a delay.

   If there was trouble, Devers would get on the radio and say, "Is this Tobin?" Then Parker and Tommy and Lou Sternberg would get out of this part of the country as quickly as they could, leaving Devers and Mackey to work things out as best they could for themselves.

   About half a mile in the side road, a small dirt track led off to the right. Tommy nosed the car in there, and stopped, leaving the engine and lights on.

   "We get out here," Parker said. "But we're very slow and careful about it."

   Jarvis would be getting out on Tommy's side, leaving Parker to take care of the excitable one. But there wasn't any trouble, and when both troopers were out they were marched into the woods to the right of the car, put in seated position with their backs against trees, and then tied there with their belts through both elbows and around behind the tree.

   "I'll see you two again," the anonymous trooper said. He sounded grim and dangerous, but it was just to soothe his ego.

   Tommy laughed at him. "You wouldn't know me if you fell over me. How can you tell one hippie from another?"

   "That hair's all a disguise," the trooper said, loud and angry. "Don't you think I figured that out? I know what you really look like, I've been studying your face."

   Tommy roared with laughter, clutching a tree to hold himself up. Parker looked at the other trooper, Jarvis, and saw him being expressionless and aloof. He would know, as Parker did, that his partner had just said something incredibly stupid, whether he was right or wrong. If he was wrong, he'd made a fool of himself, and if he was right, he'd just asked to be killed.

   Still laughing, Tommy said to the trooper, "Man, you are something else. You're a trip and a half. I'd like to keep you around in a cage, poke you with a stick every once in a while, and Just listen to you talk."

   Quietly, Jarvis said, "But that's what we're going to do to you." Said without his partner's bluster, it was an effective re- murk.

   Tommy lost all his humor. He stood glaring at Jarvis, and even in the dim shine from the car headlights Parker could see him thinking about doing some kicking. There was no point in that, and no need for it; Parker said, "Come on, it's time."

   Tommy looked over at him, his eyes glinting slightly. "Right," he said, his voice flat, and followed Parker through the trees back to the car.

   They switched roles now, Parker getting behind the wheel to do the driving, and Tommy sliding in on the passenger side. They'd left the motor running, and Parker shifted into reverse, made a tight U-turn, and drove back out to the two-lane main road. Instead of turning either left or right when he got there, he angled almost directly across the blacktop, moving slowly, and steering to the left for the last few feet so as to put the right front wheel in the ditch. Now the rear of the car jutted out diagonally into the road, its headlights visible in the direction the convoy would be coming from.

   Tommy said, "Can we get it back out of the ditch later?"

   "Yes," Parker said. He switched off the motor but left the lights on, and got out of the car. Tommy also got out, and they walked back across the road and then down along the shoulder southbound, their way illuminated by the Dodge's headlights. They walked about two hundred feet, and then Parker stopped and looked back, judging the distance. "This should do it," he said, and led the way off the road and in among the trees.

   The two of them went ten or twelve feet in from the road, and then stopped and waited, leaning against tree trunks and looking out toward the road. Tommy said, "Just so no Good Samaritan shows up before they get here."

   "We checked it out well enough," Parker said. "There's no traffic on this road before seven, seven-thirty."

   "You never know," Tommy said. "You never know who's gonna get drunk and go visit Aunt Tillie."

   Parker said nothing to that. It was true, and it was the variable in any situation, the unexpected civilian walking into the middle of somebody else's plan. But there was never any way to prepare for it, so all you could do was hope it wouldn't happen. Or, if it did happen, hope you could absorb it without lousing things up.

   They waited about five minutes, neither saying anything more, and the first they knew of the convoy's arrival was when a dim red light began to flicker on the branches over their heads. Mackey and Devers, having seen the apparent accident ahead of them, had switched on their overhead flasher, would now accelerate away from the rest of the convoy, and come to a stop next to the Dodge, finishing at a slight angle so that the two vehicles, the patrol car and the Dodge, would completely block the road.

   Headlights, out through the trees. Parker felt Tommy tense up beside him; the boy was surprisingly good and cool for his age, but everybody tenses.

   The police car went by, red light turning. Tommy whispered, "Come on, come on."

   And here came the rest. The first Plymouth went by, and then the truck, slowing down, and finally the second Plymouth; its brake lights made a red pool on the road surface, to match the turning red light sliding along the tree branches up above.

   Now Parker and Tommy moved out closer to the road. The second Plymouth had come to a stop just beyond where they'd been waiting, and in the Christmas-tree array of rear lights on the truck the four men inside the Plymouth could be seen in silhouette, their heads turning as they talked to one another, undoubtedly about the accident up ahead.

   Ed Mackey came trotting back past the truck toward the Plymouth. In motion, he looked more sensible in the uniform. He hurried to the driver's side, and as the driver rolled his window down, Mackey called, loudly enough to be heard by everyone inside the Plymouth, "Looks like we got somebody under the car up there. We're gonna try to roll it off him."

   The driver said something. It was probably an objection to doing anything with an injured man before proper medical attention could show up, because Mackey answered, "Out here? This time of night? Our first job is get that car off him and stop him bleeding to death. Come on."

   Four men got out of the Plymouth: two in front wearing uniforms, and two in back wearing civilian clothes. Mackey shouted to them to hurry it up, and all five went trotting away past the truck.

   Parker and Tommy came out onto the road and walked quickly to the car. The driver had shut his door behind him, but the other guard had left his open; Parker slid in on that side, reached over to the steering column, and turned the key to shut off the engine. With the louder growl of the truck cab closer to them, the people from this car wouldn't hear the Plymouth's engine cutting out. Parker took the keys, got out of the car again, and slipped the keys in his shirt pocket.

   Tommy was at the rear of the truck, looking around the corner toward the Dodge. As Parker came around the front of the Plymouth, Tommy turned his head and grinned at him, his face yellow and red in the truck lights. "They're all out," he said.

   Parker stood behind him and looked around the corner of the truck. Up ahead, twelve men were milling around in the Dodge's headlight glare. Mackey and Devers were both shouting at everybody now, trying to keep them all moving, not give any of them a chance to look under the Dodge and see nobody there. Mackey was shouting, "Stand along the side of the car! Against the car! We've all got to work together here, God damn it! Get against the car!"

   They were doing it, ten of them lining up along the side of the Dodge, facing the car, their backs to Mackey and Devers. Mackey was standing back a ways, shouting at them as a group, while Devers worked in closer, moving individuals into place; it was as though Mackey were the shepherd and Devers was his dog.

   Parker moved out from behind the truck and walked along next to it, Tommy following behind him. Five private guards, four civilian passengers, one truck driver, all lining up beside the Dodge. Parker's revolver was in his hand now, and he walked smoothly, neither hurrying nor making any attempt to be unobtrusive. Things were under control now.

   Mackey put the lid on. He took the revolver out of the holster at his right side, aimed it away at the woods, and fired once. The sound of the shot wasn't particularly loud in the open air, but it cut through the noise and confusion as though a radio had been switched off. Ten startled silent faces turned to stare. Devers quickly backed away, drawing his own gun. Parker and Tommy moved up on either side of Mackey, both with pistols in their hands. And Mackey shouted, "Everybody stop! Stay right where you are."

   The switch was too fast. It was four against ten, but the ten were too confused by the sudden change, it would take a few seconds for them to understand that the police officers were something other than police officers, and the few seconds were all that would be needed. Confused men don't make any moves, and when the confusion was over, the new status quo would already be a fixed situation.

   Mackey made it more of a sure thing by leaning on them while they were still bewildered: "The first man that moves is dead! Turn around, face the car. Turn around, God damn it, I don't care which one of you I kill!"

   They all turned around, shuffling, bumping elbows into one another, staring at one another with shocked faces. Each man obeyed because the men flanking him were obeying, and very quickly all ten were facing the Dodge.

   It was a good situation, but it couldn't be held forever. While Parker and Mackey stood guard, Tommy and Devers frisked the ten men, starting at the outside ends and working toward the middle, searching for nothing but weapons. It turned out that only the five guards were armed, with a holstered revolver each. The five revolvers were taken away and thrown into the ditch.

   Next, they had to be immobilized. Lengths of cord were in (hp trunk of the Dodge. Tommy got them out, and he and Devers went down the line tying wrists.

   By now, the first shock and bewilderment were over, and several of the men were starting to get verbally tough: "We'll get you for this." "You won't get away with this." That sort of tiling. Which was fine; so long as they bled off their hostility and embarrassment that way, they wouldn't cause any serious trouble.

   After four of the men had been tied, Mackey holstered his revolver and went to help, leaving Parker the only one still holding a gun. If all ten of them were simultaneously to start running now, several of them would surely get away. But there was no way for them to plan a move together, and none of them wanted to be the only one running, so nothing happened.

   The next step looked like something from a prisoner-of-war movie. All ten were herded across the road to the beginning of t he side road Parker and Tommy had driven down before. Then Parker got into the Dodge, backed it out of the ditch, turned it around, and followed slowly as Mackey and Devers marched the ten men down the side road in the shine of the Dodge's headlights. The uniforms on Mackey and Devers and on the five guards helped to reinforce the prisoner-of-war idea.

   Tommy meanwhile had swung up into the cab of the truck. Originally Mackey was to have driven the truck away at this stage, but when it turned out that Tommy, among his other unexpected abilities, had experience driving big rigs, the jobs had been switched around, Mackey being a more believable and intimidating figure than Tommy when holding a gun on somebody. Now Parker saw in the rear-view mirror Tommy swing the truck out past the front Plymouth and accelerate away.

   They didn't go very deep into the woods with their ten prisoners before tying them to trees with their belts in the same style as the two troopers. Mackey stood guard on the dwindling untied group while Parker and Devers did the work. Then all three went back to the Dodge, Parker driving, the other two in the back seat with their change of clothing. Parker backed the

   Dodge out to the road, and he and Devers moved the two Plymouths into the side road, just deep enough to be invisible to anyone driving by. Devers was down to socks and T-shirt and uniform trousers by now, and kept up a muffled yelling of "Ouch, ouch, ouch" as he ran back along the stony dirt road with Parker to the Dodge. Parker got behind the wheel again, Devers slid once more into the back, and Parker drove north.

   He caught up with the truck, doing about fifty, just before the town of Oconee, and stayed behind it the next few miles to the gas station south of Pana with the For Lease sign huge in its window.

   False dawn was a blurred gray line far to the east, but the land was still dark. When Parker stopped the Dodge and switched off its headlights, and when at the side of the station Tommy did the same with the truck, the blackness in contrast was at first almost total. Parker opened the car door and the interior light went on, but it showed almost nothing away from the car. He stepped out onto the tarmac, aware of Mackey and Devers doing the same, both of them now in their regular clothing, and when the doors were slammed the night was complete again.

   The bulk of the station itself was the only guide. Parker walked carefully around it, not wanting to trip over any unseen curbs, and came to the second bulk of the truck. He touched the metal side of the trailer, and he could almost feel the paintings inside it: canvas, wood, oils. Kirwan and the department store on Mother's Day; Beaghler and the six statuettes from San Simeon; and the third try was beginning to work out.

   But just beginning. There was still a lot to do.

   Yellow lights came on—dim, but enough to see by. They were the parking lights of a dark green Reo truck cab with red lettering on the doors: Great Lakes Long Haul Moving, Kenosha, Wisconsin 552-6299. The Reo was tucked in close beside the station building, facing the road; Tommy had come to a stop with his own cab very close to it, so the Reo's parking lights now shone on the length of the truck.

   Lou Sternberg climbed carefully down from the driver's sent of the Reo. He was still dressed too warmly for the weather, Including the same billed cap as before, but now instead of the raincoat he was wearing a short brown leather jacket with a zip- up front. The jacket and cap, with green work pants and heavy shoes, converted him from a short stout accountant to a short stout truck driver. He came around to meet the others at the front of the Reo and said, by way of greeting, "Damp tonight. Hell on the sinuses."

   "Should remind you of home," Tommy said.

   Sternberg gave him a look of disapproval. "Have you ever been in London?" He was taking a pack of sugarless gum from his jacket pocket.

   "Naw," Tommy said. "Too damp for me."

   "Don't talk about what you don't know about." Sternberg unwrapped one piece of the gum.

   Parker said, "Let's go."

   Sternberg nodded. "Right." He put the gum in his mouth, stuck the wrapper in his jacket pocket, and led the way around to the back of the Reo cab. Parker followed him, while the other three went off to do other things. They'd rehearsed all this, but never with this little light.

   At the rear of the cab, on the flat greasy surface where a trailer would be hitched, there were instead two ladders tied down with lengths of rope. Working silently, Parker and Sternberg untied them and tossed the ropes into the cab. Then they carried the ladders over to the stolen truck, one on each side.

   The others had gotten the rest of the equipment from the trunk of the Dodge: spray cans of red enamel and large cardboard stencils, each sheet two feet by three and containing just one letter.

   It was difficult working in the dark. Mackey and Devers on one side, Parker and Tommy on the other, they fixed the stencils on the trailer sides with masking tape, while Lou Sternberg went about the process of unhitching the trailer from the Mack cab that had brought it here. He finished separating all hoses und wiring, and drove the Mack cab out of the way, just as the stencils were all put up; in the dim glow of the Reo's parking lights, the cut-out letters could dimly be read: GREAT LAKES, stretching most of the length of each side of the trailer.

   Tommy and Devers, being the lightest, stayed up on the ladders and did the spraying, while Parker and Mackey dragged each ladder backward across the tarmac. At the same time, Sternberg was putting the Reo cab in position, though he didn't try to connect it to the trailer while the spraying was still going on. Instead, he climbed down from the cab with a Wisconsin license plate and a screwdriver, and switched the rear plate on the trailer.

   The sky to the east was getting lighter. A car went by, southbound, without pausing, and a minute later a pickup truck went past heading north. The stencils were pulled down from the sides of the truck and packed away again with the empty spray cans in the trunk of the Dodge. Sternberg began attaching the Reo cab to the trailer while Mackey took a short crowbar and popped open the trailer's rear doors.

   Immediately a siren sounded, loud and abrasive, a one-tone buzzing too loud to shout over. But they'd expected that, been planning for it. While Parker and Mackey put the ladders in the truck, stuffing them in among the tied-down crates, Devers traced the siren to its source and cut the wires. The silence after the noise seemed a kind of sound of its own, swelling and falling.

   Tommy had kept out one spray can of paint, and was now spraying the doors of the Mack cab, removing the company name. The red he was spraying on didn't match the original red of the body exactly, but it didn't matter; used trucks often enough have a former company name painted out in a sloppy way.

   Sternberg finished hitching cab and trailer together as Parker and Mackey reclosed the trailer doors. They wouldn't shut as neatly as before, but by slamming them they could be made to stick.

   The Mack cab engine started with a roar, and then the headlights flashed on. Tommy backed it around in a tight U, and Parker studied the right side of the trailer as the headlights swept across it. There had been a very little running of paint, not much. Not enough to worry about. With a cab of a different make and a different color, with a different license plate on the hack, and with a company name spread across both sides, it was no longer the same truck. Sternberg had registration papers for the cab that would hold up if necessary. There was no way to pass an inspection of the trailer except to avoid one, and the way to do that was to keep ahead of pursuit. Move fast, and keep moving.

   All the lights of the truck switched on, and Sternberg climbed down from the cab to walk around and make a quick inspection. It would be stupid to get stopped for a missing light, and then be arrested for grand larceny.

   The Mack cab had finished making its turn, and now bounced out from the gas station tarmac to the road, and headed north. It was about forty-five miles to Springfield. Tommy would leave the Mack cab there, near the railroad station, and then connect up with Noelle and the Volkswagen Microbus. The two of them would head straight west into Missouri, crossing the Mississippi at Hannibal, and then turning north into Iowa. They planned to spend tomorrow night in Davenport, and then take Interstate 80 east the next day. They had friends in Cleveland, and would get there sometime Thursday night. Mackey would phone them there before Sunday.

   Sternberg finished walking around the truck and climbed back up into the cab. He started the engine and made a sweeping turn to take him out onto the highway just a minute behind Tommy, though he wouldn't be able to travel as fast. He too went north, but it would only be for a few miles; at Pana he'd turn east on State Highway 16, take that over to Interstate 57, and head straight north to Chicago. He'd put the truck in a safe place there and wait for Mackey to call him with the arrangements for turning everything over to Griffith.

   Parker and Mackey and Devers stood and watched the

   truck move away. After it left, there was still enough light to see by, with the eastern horizon graying almost to blue. Mackey nodded in satisfaction. "We did it," he said. Parker said nothing. He turned away and walked over to the Dodge, and a second later the other two followed him.

   Two

   Mackey came in with a newspaper. "It says here they've got his," he said.

   Parker was lying on top of the made bed, dressed except for shirt and shoes. He sat up and said, "Let's see that."

   "I don't feel like I'm got," Mackey said, grinning, and handed over the newspaper. "I'm going to go wake up Stan."

   Parker nodded, and looked at the paper as Mackey went out again. The robbery was the number two story on the front page, lop left, with something at the UN on the right and a shipping strike in the middle. The headline was, MILLION DOLLAR ART TREASURES HIJACKED, which was already inaccurate. The story was a breathless and slightly garbled account of the robbery, padded with descriptions of some of the stolen paintings. The main story was continued on an inner page, but at the bottom of the front-page column was a separate box with its own headline: THIEVES CAPTURED. "Illinois State Police," the Item read, "announced this afternoon the capture of a part of the gang of art thieves near Galesburg. Also found was one of the vehicles used to transport the stolen paintings. Police anticipate a speedy round-up of the rest of the gang."

   Parker looked at his watch: five to six. He got off the bed and went over to switch on the television set, and stood there waiting for the six o'clock news to come on.

   When Parker and Mackey and Devers had driven away from the gas station early this morning, they'd headed due south, winding up here in Nashville around noon. They'd taken three rooms at this motel and settled in to catch up a little on their sleep. Six hours wasn't enough, but it would have to do. They'd left the Dodge back in Illinois, and the car they were driving now was clean, but it was still better to keep moving, get where they were going, finish the job as soon as possible.

   If things weren't already loused up.

   A war movie was coming to an end on television; the bomber crippled, everybody wounded, all sagging across the French sky toward the Channel, with inter-cut shots of the nurse and the old man staring upward.

   Mackey came back in, with Devers trailing after him, yawning and stretching and rubbing his eyes. Grinning, Mackey said, "What do you think of that paper? Show it to Stan."

   "I don't like it," Parker said, and told Devers, "It's on the bed."

   Mackey's grin turned puzzled. "What's the matter? They grabbed the wrong people, that's all. There's none of us going to Galesburg."

   Parker said, "Galesburg is about twenty-five miles from Davenport. I figure they got Tommy and the girl."

   Devers, standing over by the bed with the paper in his hand, said, "I think you're right. And the vehicle they got was the Volkswagen."

   Mackey .said, "Then why do they say Galesburg? Tommy was getting out of Illinois, going up on the Iowa side."

   Devers said, "We pulled the job in Illinois. It's the Illinois State Police making the announcement." He patted the paper. "They got a lot of things almost right here, so maybe they got the town almost right, too. Galesburg could be where the announcement came from."

   "We'll see what the news says," Parker said. On the set, the bomber had landed and the commercials were on.

   Devers came over, carrying the newspaper, and all three stood there watching the set. It was a long three minutes of commercials and station identification before the news came on, and then the first two items were international and the next one it local thing concerning Nashville. But the fourth was the robbery and the capture. "The two suspects," the announcer said, "In last night's daring art robbery in downstate Illinois, captured early this afternoon in Davenport, Iowa—"

   "Damn," Devers said.

   "—have been transferred to the Illinois state capital at Springfield."

   Film showed of the Volkswagen Microbus, with troopers and men in civilian clothes all over it. The announcer's voice said, "The suspect's vehicle, believed to have been used in removing at least some of the twenty-one paintings valued at nearly three quarters of a million dollars, is being gone over carefully for evidence which could lead to the capture of the rest of the gang and recovery of the stolen artworks. Police say the suspects, twenty-four-year-old Thomas Clark Carpenter and twenty-one-year-old Noelle Kay Brassell, deny any connection with the robbery, but that a positive identification has been made by Illinois State Troopers Robert Jarvis and Floyd MacAndrews, who were briefly held prisoner by the gang in the course of last night's robbery."

   Mackey said, "I bet Tommy's regretting that boot in the ass about now."

   The announcer was finished with the robbery news. As he went on to something else, Devers said to Mackey, "How much can we count on them?"

   "Tommy?" Mackey looked surprised at the question. "One hundred percent," he said. "Tommy won't admit anything, and he won't talk about us."

   Parker switched off the television set. "What about the girl?" he said.

   Mackey shrugged. "I don't know her. But Tommy trusts her, so what the hell?"

   Devers said, "I've seen men trust women before."

   Mackey looked worried, but seemed to be trying not to show it. He said, "What does she know anyway?"

   "Anything that Tommy knows," Devers said.

   Parker said, "She knows our names and faces, but she doesn't know where to find us. She knows what city we met in, she knows we were getting paid by an art dealer."

   Devers said, "Does she know Griffith's name?"

   Mackey frowned. "I'm not sure," he said. "Nobody ever said it in front of her, but Tommy knows it. Would he mention the name to her? What for? And would she remember it?"

   Parker said, "We leave here now. We get to Griffith tomorrow morning, we make the arrangements for the switch, we get our money out of the banks. She's a strong girl, if she does break down, it won't be for a day or two. We'll have time to get out from under if we keep moving."

   "God damn it," Mackey said. "I counted on Tommy. How'd he manage to get himself picked up?"

   Parker had stepped into his shoes, and now he shrugged on his shirt. "Let's go," he said.

   Three

   The smell of dew was crisp and clean in the morning air. The sun was an orange circle just above the treetops, and small birds hopped on the wet lawn stretching away from the patio toward the bamboo hedge. The smashing of the windowpane made a quick sharp noise in the silence, and was gone without an echo.

   Parker tossed the rock away toward the grass and reached through the hole in the window to unlock the French doors on the inside. Behind him, Mackey and Devers were looking carefully to left and right, but there were no neighbors close enough to have heard, and at seven-thirty in the morning no mailman or delivery boy likely to be arriving around at the front of the house.

   They'd phoned Griffith nearly an hour ago, from the edge of town, and had gotten no answer. They had come here and found his car in the garage, but no one had come to the door in response to their ringing of the bell or knocking on the windows. So now they were going in, to find out what the story was. Had Griffith left for some reason, or was he hiding?

   Glass shards crackled under Parker's feet as he stepped into the dim room. No light showed anywhere in the house, and there was no sound other than that made by Parker and Mackey and Devers.

   Mackey, standing beside Parker just inside the doorway, said softly, "If that son of a bitch skipped out on us—■"

   "We're screwed," Devers said.

   Parker said, "He's got no reason to run out. Not without the paintings."

   "But what if he did?" Mackey's voice was low, but angry. "We don't have any buyer lined up, except Griffith."

   "We'll worry about that if we have to," Parker said. He walked across the room and through the doorway on the other side, Mackey and Devers following him.

   They found Griffith upstairs, in the tub, in the bathroom connecting with the master bedroom. The water was cold, and a dusky rose in color. The lower half of Griffith's face was underwater, but the top half was as white as plaster. His eyes were closed, and his hair looked as though it had been glued to his scalp in handfuls.

   The three of them crowded into the small room to look at him. Mackey said, irritably, "God damn it. God damn it to hell."

   Devers reached down into the water and took one of Griffith's thumbs, and lifted his forearm up into the air. The ragged gash in his wrist, flanked by the shallower hesitation cuts, flowed coral-colored water, but no blood. Devers sounded more dismayed than angry when he said, "What did he do this for? What the hell got into him?"

   "That," Parker said, and pointed at the folded newspaper on the closed toilet lid.

   Mackey picked up the paper. "Right," he said. "Here it is." He handed it to Parker.

   This was a different newspaper, but the wording in the separate box was just about the same: part of the gang caught, with a vehicle that had carried at least a part of the stolen paintings. Galesburg was mentioned. It was the same garbled story as in the paper in Nashville, it apparently having been released just barely in time to make most afternoon papers, but not in time to do full coverage on it or check the details.

   Devers and Parker looked at the paper together, and Devers said, "He thought it fell through."

   "Why the hell didn't he wait?" Mackey was getting angrier by the second, glaring at the body as though he might push its head the rest of the way under.

   Devers said, "He must have been tight for cash. We really must have strapped him when we made him put the money in savings accounts."

   "No reason to kill himself." Mackey was sulky.

   Parker said, "We search."

   Mackey raised an eyebrow at him. "For what?"

   "A lot of things. For a note, in case he left a note with our names in it. For something to tell us the name of his buyer."

   "If he had one," Devers said.

   Parker said, "If he was that tight for cash, he had a way to (urn those paintings over right away. At least some of them."

   Mackey said, "What about the bank accounts? We've got the passbooks."

   "Not a chance," Parker said.

   Devers said, "Let's get out of here."

   The three of them moved next door to the bedroom, where Devers switched on the overhead light. Mackey said to Parker, "Why not? I'm a pretty good hand with signatures. I could do a line Leon Griffith before the bank closes this afternoon. And I walk in with Griffith's ID."

   Parker said, "He opened the accounts three days ago. A man comes in with fifty thousand in cash to open a savings account, they're going to notice him at the bank. They'll remember him three days later. You don't look like Griffith."

   "All that money," Mackey said. "Wasted."

   "All our work wasted, too," Devers said. "Unless we can find a buyer."

   "And soon," Parker said. "I don't want to be here any longer than I have to."

   Devers said, "I'll start in here."

   The three of them separated into different parts of the house, and spent the next hour searching. There was no note, and no clue to Griffith's buyer—if he had a buyer—in any of the obvious places: his office, his bedside table. But they kept searching anyway, as outside the day got brighter, and soon they didn't have to turn lights on any more when they entered a room.

   Parker and Mackey met near the front hall. They both had fingertips black with dust, and Mackey was even more irritable than before. "Not a goddam thing," he said. "And where the hell else is there to look?" "The basement."

   "That's a goddam waste of time, and you know it." "We'll do it anyway," Parker said.

   Mackey grimaced. "Yeah, I know," he said. "Just so we can say we did everything." "Come on."

   They walked down the hall together. Mackey said, "Lou isn't gonna be happy when he hears about this." "Nobody's happy about it," Parker said. Devers was coming the other way, a piece of paper in his hand. He looked excited, but in a muted and guarded way. He said, "Take a look at this."

   Parker took the paper, and he and Mackey read it together. It was lavender stationery, thick, good quality, with a purple letterhead in Edwardian script:

   Jacques Renard 302 CPW

   The letter was handwritten, in clear but rather overly fancy printing. It was dated a month earlier, and it read:

   Leon, dear,

   So lovely to hear from you. Unfortunate, of course, the news your letter brought. Dear boy, we are all of us biting the bullet these days, and praying for happier times.

   Although a direct transfusion just wouldn't be possible from these limp old veins, it might be that some sort of business arrangement might be worked out between us, if you're interested. Should you be traveling in these woods, why not rap upon my trunk?

   As ever, Jack

   Doubtfully, Mackey said, "Maybe. Sounds more like a brush-off. Like Griffith tried to tap this guy, and the guy didn't want to be tapped, but was letting Griffith down easy."

   Parker said to Devers, "Why do you think this is it?"

   "Because it was in the kitchen," Devers said. "Hidden in a cookbook."

   Mackey said, "Hidden? Maybe he just used it for a book- murk."

   Parker said, "I saw other letters from Renard in the office."

   "That's right," Devers said. "In the office. Not in the kitchen."

   Mackey looked at the letter again. "That's some address," he said. "Three-oh-two CPW. What the hell is CPW?"

   "Central Park West," Parker said. "Renard is in New York."

   

   IS0

   Four

   The man who opened the door was tall and flabby, an unhealthy- looking combination. He was wearing white slacks and a white peasant blouse with yellow and red decorations around the scoop neck and short sleeves. He was barefoot and standing on the balls of his feet, as though he were a ballet dancer prepared at any instant to go up on point.

   Parker said, "Jacques Renard?"

   The man looked at Parker and Mackey and Devers, the three of them practically filling the small foyer in front of the elevator doors, and he gave a little smile which combined sardonic humor with a touch of nervousness. "I'm not at all sure how I should answer that," he said. "Who shall I say is calling?"

   Parker said, "Friends of Leon Griffith."

   "Leon?" Wariness came into the man's eyes. "I must say you don't look like friends of his."

   Mackey, as usual, was made irritable by impatience. He said, "Let's get off the dime. If you're Renard, we want to talk about some paintings. If you aren't him, tell him we're here."

   The man gave Mackey a jaundiced look. "My, my," he said, "aren't we impulsive. Leon usually talks about paintings himself."

   Mackey said, "He couldn't come this time."

   "Pity. I'd rather speak to friends of mine than friends of his."

   Parker said, "He's dead. You want us to stand here in the hull and tell you about it?"

   The man looked startled. "Dead?" Then fright showed on his face, and his left hand gripped the edge of the door as though he might slam it. "Did you—?"

   "Suicide," Parker said. "Slit his wrists in the bathtub. Money worries. Are you Renard or not?"

   "Good God. I never thought he'd—" Releasing the door, the man stepped back a pace, saying, "Come in, come in."

   The three of them stepped into the apartment, and the man shut the door. They were in a square vestibule hung with paintings. An arched doorway on the right led to a room full of early American furniture; beyond it, a terrace could be seen, plied with plants.

   "I am Renard, of course," the man said, turning toward them from the door. "I knew Leon was troubled about money, but—" He gestured toward the room on the right. "Won't you go in? Do sit down."

   They all went into the room. Mackey and Devers sat down, but Parker and Renard remained on their feet. Parker said, "We were getting some paintings for Griffith. Now that he's dead, we'd like to find the buyer he had in mind."

   "Ah, I see." Renard smiled around at them, having gotten his composure back. "May I offer you anything to drink?"

   Parker said, "The main thing is the buyer. We had the idea maybe you were him."

   Renard looked doubtful. "A buyer? I deal in art, of course, but I'm only marginally a collector."

   "The idea we have," Parker said, "is that you and Griffith had a business deal together, where he'd get these paintings for you and maybe you'd sell them to somebody else."

   Renard smiled vaguely, as though trying to think. "That does seem unlikely," he said. "So many intermediaries. I normally do my purchasing myself. If you could tell me exactly what paintings we're talking about, perhaps it would refresh my memory."

   Mackey said, "Come on, Renard, you know what we're talking about."

   Renard lifted an eyebrow at him. "Do I, Mr.—?" He glanced smilingly at Parker. "I'm afraid you have the advantage of me."

   "I'm Edward Latham," Parker said.

   "Mr. Latham." Renard bowed his head.

   Parker pointed first at Mackey, then at Devers. "That's Mr. Morrison, and Mr. Danforth."

   "Gentlemen." Renard smiled around at them all.

   Parker said, "The paintings we're talking about are twenty- one pictures that weren't available until this week."

   "Well, I just don't know." There was some mockery now in Renard's puzzled frown. "It really doesn't ring any sort of bell at all."

   Parker frowned back. Renard acted as though he were lying, and enjoying doing it—but why? To get more specific about the stolen paintings could be dangerous, if Renard turned out after all not to be Griffith's buyer. Parker believed that Renard was the one they wanted, but he couldn't be absolutely sure, and there was no way to make himself sure other than to get the story from Renard. Why was Renard being so coy?

   Devers suddenly said, "Well, maybe we made a mistake. Anyway, there's other buyers."

   Parker knew that Devers' idea was to push Renard into making up his mind, but he doubted it would work. He wasn't surprised when Renard turned a bland face to Devers and said, "That is a fortunate thing, isn't it? That there are always other buyers. And other sellers, as well."

   Parker said, "Maybe you weren't the buyer Griffith had in mind, but you might be interested anyway."

   "Oh, I don't think so," Renard said. Behind all his expressions—puzzlement, friendliness, and now polite regret—lurked the same glint of mockery.

   Parker said, "You're a dealer in paintings, aren't you? How do you know you don't want to buy these before you find out what they are?"

   Renard gave him a sudden flat look, as though to say there'd been enough fooling around. He said, "Do you have photos of the merchandise?"

   "No."

   "Reputable dealers carry photographs of the paintings they wish to sell. Are these paintings on display anywhere?"

   Mackey said angrily, "You know damn well they aren't."

   Renard turned an unfriendly face Mackey's way. "I don't know anything at all," he said. "My ignorance is utterly invincible. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me—"

   All at once, Parker understood what was wrong. He said, "Renard, we aren't law."

   Renard was amused at that. "Really?" he said.

   Mackey frowned at Parker. "What the hell?"

   Parker told him, "Renard thinks we're cops. He thinks we came here to trap him into talking about his deal with Griffith."

   Mackey pointed at himself in disbelief. "Me a cop? Nobody's that stupid."

   "Perhaps I'm the one who isn't stupid," Renard said. "The three of you come here full of hints and suggestions, without ever saying anything out in the open. And there are three of you, one to ask the questions and two to witness my answers. Now who's stupid?"

   "You are," Mackey told him.

   "Wait a minute," Parker said. To Renard he said, "We aren't law. We're the ones who hijacked the truckload of paintings."

   "Hey," Mackey called. "Take it easy."

   Parker told him, "Renard doesn't have any witnesses."

   "But you still do," Renard said. "Why on earth should I believe you?"

   Parker said, "Will you talk to me alone?"

   Renard looked very suspicious. "I'm still not sure we have anything to talk about."

   "We'll see." Parker turned to the other two. "You wait downstairs. Give me ten minutes."

   "Good," Devers said, getting to his feet.

   Mackey stayed seated. "Anybody with a brain in his head could see we aren't cops," he said.

   Devers grinned at him. "You did a pretty good imitation the other night," he said. "Come on, let's go."

   Grumbling, Mackey got to his feet. He and Devers left the room, and Renard went with them, to make sure they got into the elevator. Parker strolled over to the open terrace doorway and stood looking out at Central Park far below.

   Renard came back a minute later. "Why don't we go out there?" he said. "The air is better."

   The two of them stepped out onto the brick floor of the terrace, and Renard gave Parker an arch look, saying, "You wouldn't have a tape recorder hidden on your person, would you?"

   "No."

   "Nevertheless . . ." Renard switched on a small plastic radio sitting on the window sill, and Vivaldi rippled out amid the plant leaves. Renard turned the radio up, and spoke over it: "You don't mind if I'm cautious, do you?"

   "Just let me know when you feel safe enough to talk."

   "Why don't you stand near the radio, and I'll stand over here."

   They shifted positions, and Parker said, "You satisfied now?"

   "I think so." Renard looked sharper and less playful now. "I want you to know," he said, "I still think you're a policeman."

   "I'm not. We have the paintings. You were the buyer, weren't you?"

   Renard pursed his lips. He said, "Didn't Griffith pay you ahead of time? Are you trying to collect twice?"

   "Griffith was to pay us when we delivered. He killed himself when he read about the two that were caught."

   "Premature, eh? But Leon was around looking for cash just recently. Why did he need it beforehand if he wasn't going to pay you till afterward?"

   "We needed proof he had the money." Parker took the three passbooks from his jacket pocket and handed them across. "Take a look."

   Renard frowningly studied the passbooks, and finally looked up with hesitant belief on his face. "Rather clever," he said. "I take it the idea was he'd withdraw the money when you Have him the paintings."

   "Right." Parker reached out for the passbooks.

   Renard handed them over. "These are useless now, of course."

   "I know." He put them away in his pocket again.

   "The next question, naturally, is how you happened to come to me. Surely Leon didn't mention my name."

   Out of another pocket Parker took the letter Devers had found and handed it over. "We searched Griffith's house and found this."

   Renard read the letter as though he'd never seen it before. "Hmmmm," he said, as though acknowledging the seriousness of something he'd been ignoring up till now. "This could be somewhat incriminating, couldn't it?"

   "Maybe."

   "It's the original, I see.' Renard smiled brightly. "You don't mind if I keep it."

   "No. I'm not law, like I said."

   "I must admit I'm beginning to believe you." Renard started ripping small pieces from the letter and throwing them over the terrace railing. "You see? I'm littering in front of you."

   "All right," Parker said. "So now let's talk. We've got the paintings, and you're the buyer."

   "Not precisely." Renard was still ripping the letter, throwing one small piece at a time out into the air; a fitful breeze took the pieces this way and that. "I was the buyer for six of the paintings," he said. "Only six. What Leon planned to do with the others, I really couldn't say."

   "What were you going to pay for the six?"

   Renard hesitated slightly, then said, "Fifty thousand."

   "No. You were going to pay more."

   "Was I?"

   "You'll pay me more."

   "I doubt it," Renard said. Only a third of the letter remained in his hands.

   Parker said, "You saw those passbooks. Griffith was going to pay us one-fifty for the whole batch. We'll make the same deal with you."

   Renard shook his head. "Definitely not."

   "They're worth more than twice that."

   "But I don't want them. I only want the six."

   Parker considered pushing the issue, but something in Re- nard's manner told him the man wouldn't budge. He really didn't want the other fifteen paintings, not at any price.

   But he did want the six. Parker said, "All right, we'll sell you the six. Which ones?"

   "Have you paper and pencil?"

   "Yes." Parker took out a notebook and ballpoint pen. Renard gave him six titles, and he wrote them down, then put the notebook and pen away and said, "Sixty thousand. That's still less than you were going to pay Griffith."

   Renard offered a faint smile. "Is it?" He shrugged. "I always have been too generous," he said, "that's my great failing. Very well. In honor of poor Leon's memory, sixty thousand."

   Five

   Lou Sternberg met Parker at O'Hare International. He had a disgusted look on his face, but he gave the standard greeting: "Have a good flight?"

   "Yes." Parker meant nothing by the word; it was simply a sound that ended that topic.

   They walked down ramshackle corridors forever, as though In somebody's troubled dream, and came out at last to a rainy night, with small lights reflecting off the wet blacktop. Sternberg opened his black umbrella, and pointed: "I'm parked over that way."

   It was still a fairly long walk. In addition to his umbrella, and his usual raincoat and cap, Sternberg was wearing rubbers on his shoes, and a gray scarf around his neck. It was impossible to tell if he was disgusted by the job going sour or by the rain.

   The car was a rental Chevrolet. Sternberg unlocked it, and Parker got in. Sternberg backed in, closing the umbrella as he came, and maneuvered awkwardly to get the umbrella into the buck seat without poking anybody's eye out.

   Neither of them spoke till Sternberg had the car moving cautiously toward the terminal exit. Then he said, "You see where Tommy got off?"

   Parker looked at him. "When?"

   "Heard it on the radio coming out." Sternberg grinned and shook his head. "The advantage of being a hippie," he said. "So many organizations came out on Tommy's side, so much talk about police harassment, they had to let him go. If they'd had him in there for running a red light, they could have beat on him for a month. But a felony gets too much publicity."

   Parker frowned and said, "What about the troopers' ID?"

   "Who's going to believe two cops against one long-hair kid? You look at Tommy, now; would you believe he was a heist- man?"

   "The girl, too?"

   Sternberg nodded. "Both of them, free as air." Ahead of him, a taxi failed to yield the right of way; Sternberg had to hit the brakes hard, and the rear end would have skidded on the wet pavement if he hadn't moved the wheel slightly. "They let any damn body drive," he said.

   Parker waited till they were clear of the terminal before saying, "Our situation is bad."

   "I got that idea from your call. Trouble with Griffith?"

   "He's dead. Killed himself when he thought we'd been caught."

   "Good Christ." Sternberg frowned out at the traffic through the moving windshield wiper, as though the answer to some question might be found written on the side of a passing truck.

   "We found one guy Griffith was dealing with, in New York. But he's only interested in six paintings."

   "For how much?"

   "Sixty thousand."

   "Twelve thousand apiece." Sternberg shook his head, his expression bitter. "Well, it wasn't worth the trip," he said, "I can tell you that much."

   "It wasn't for any of us."

   "I came farther."

   Parker shrugged.

   Sternberg grumbled a minute, then turned and said, "What about the rest of them? Fifteen of the damn things."

   "We talked it over," Parker said. "Mackey and Devers and me. We've got to give them up."

   Sternberg looked both shocked and disgusted. "Give them up? There's ninety thousand riding there!"

   "Nobody to collect from."

   "What about insurance companies?"

   "You want to stick around and deal with them?"

   "God damn it," Sternberg said, and glowered out at the traffic.

   "Neither do the rest of us," Parker said.

   "I hate insurance companies," Sternberg said. "They're goddam thieves."

   "I know."

   "We'd be lucky to get twenty cents on the dollar."

   "More likely to get picked up in a trap," Parker said. "Besides, what do we do with the paintings while we dicker?"

   "So we give them back."

   "And take our twelve thousand," Parker said, "and go home."

   "Christ." Sternberg shook his head. "This has not been a good year for me," he said.

   Parker said nothing.

   Six

   Parker was on a deck chair by the lake, letting the sun dry his body. Summer was nearly here, and the empty houses around the lake were beginning to fill up; motorboats droned most of the time now, and curious faces were starting to be everywhere. Soon it would be time to take Claire and go somewhere else until the fall.

   This was Claire's house, but she'd picked it with Parker in mind. For most of the year, the area around the lake was as good as a ghost town, with the privacy that Parker preferred and had always found before this in resort hotels. Only in the summer did the place take on the look and feel of a normal community, surrounding him with the questions and prying that the straight world thought of as natural.

   It was only too bad the art heist hadn't worked out as well as it should. He and Claire would use up Renard's twelve thousand and more during their two months away from the house.

   Parker heard the sliding door open, and turned to watch Claire walk across the lawn from the house. He enjoyed watching her; she kept being new, and that was a rare thing in a woman.

   She said, "There's someone on the phone for you."

   That would be Mackey. "Thanks."

   As Parker got to his feet and draped the towel over his shoulders, she said, "I took it on the bedroom phone."

   "Right." He padded barefoot across the lawn to the house, and went through the sliding doors into the bedroom, where the telephone receiver was lying on the bed. He picked it up: "Hello?"

   "I'm here." Mackey's voice.

   "Fine."

   "I called our friend, and he wanted to meet tonight."

   Mackey was in New York with the six paintings for Renard in the back of a stolen pickup truck. The rest of the group had separated, Sternberg to Boston and Devers to Los Angeles and Tommy and Noelle to Cleveland, leaving Parker and Mackey to finish the deal with Renard and send them their cash.

   And Renard apparently wanted to make the switch right away, tonight. "That's good," Parker said.

   "How long will it take you to get here?"

   "An hour and a half," Parker said. Looking through the glass doors toward the lake, he saw Claire walking this way. "Make it two and a half," he said.

   

   Seven

   Parker sat in the passenger seat and watched the dark side streets go by. Mackey was driving the small truck, a red Ford Econoline van, with the six paintings stacked in the back, still in their protective crates, and covered by a tarp.

   It was a little before midnight, and they were following Second Avenue south through Manhattan. Until 34th Street they'd been in pretty heavy traffic, but then most of it had peeled off for the Midtown Tunnel to Queens and Long Island, and the rest had dropped off one by one until now, south of 14th Street, they were just about alone. Two cruising taxis, dome lights lit, and one slow-moving police car were quickly left behind.

   Parker said, "This is a beautiful setup for a hijack."

   Mackey grinned at him in the dark. "From Renard? You kidding?"

   "This isn't his kind of neighborhood."

   "He needed a place we could drive the truck into." Mackey raised his right hand to make a limp wrist, and spoke in an exaggerated falsetto. "This place is owned by a friend of his."

   Parker glanced over his shoulder. There was no partition between him and the cargo area. He said, "I'm going to get in back."

   Mackey looked thoughtful. "You really think Renard might pull something?"

   "No. But I'm running a string of bad luck."

   Mackey shrugged. "Go ahead, then."

   Parker slid out of the seat and worked his way back past the paintings to the rear doors. They had small square panes of glass in them, he could see the two empty cabs jockeying for position a block back. Turning the other way, he could look over the tops of the painting crates and past Mackey's shoulder at the street in front. He had to stand crouched, bracing his back against the side wall. In that position, he took his revolver from under his jacket and held it loosely in his right hand—a .38 Special Colt Agent with a hammer shroud, a new gun that had only been fired five times, for sighting-in.

   When Mackey made the right turn onto the side street, Parker kept turning his head back and forth, watching front and rear, waiting for movement from anywhere. It was a narrow street, reduced to one traffic lane by the solid row of cars parked on each side. Midway down the block the unlit lumberyard sign could be seen, but not clearly read; the streetlights were widely separated, and little light reached the street from the tenement windows.

   It was a block of mixed residences and businesses. Besides the lumberyard, contained in a fairly narrow five-story building, there was a liquor store, a Spanish grocery, a dry cleaner's and a children's-wear store scattered amid the brick and stone tenements, all of them closed.

   There were no pedestrians moving, and no other cars in motion. Mackey reached the lumberyard, turned, and came to a stop facing the closed corrugated garage-type door. He honked once, according to the agreed instructions, and immediately Renard himself appeared in the headlight glow from the office door just to the right. He was squinting and blinking in the light, and looked very nervous. He gave a jerky wave of the hand, went back inside, and a few seconds later the electrically controlled garage door began to slide up.

   Parker, resting his gun hand on top of the crates, peered forward into the lumberyard building. An empty concrete floor extended well back, flanked on both sides by deep bins full of wood. Toward the back were stacks of sheetrock and building materials, and along the rear wall was the bench saw. No one was in sight.

   Parker turned around to watch the street again. Still nothing. The truck moved completely into the building and stopped, and the garage door could be heard coming down again.

   "Looks okay," Mackey said.

   Parker looked to his left, through the glass toward the office. The three men who came running out of there were all carrying handguns, and none of them was Renard.

   "Reverse! Get us out of here!"

   But it was too late; the door was sliding down over the exit. Mackey shifted into reverse and tromped on the accelerator, and the truck squealed backward and slammed into the bottom of the door, which had come down just far enough to cover the truck's rear windows. The door stopped moving, and the truck engine stalled when Mackey's foot was knocked off the accelerator by the jolt.

   Parker had been knocked off his feet. He got up quickly behind the crates again, and Mackey was staring out the front of the van, clawing for his own gun and shouting, "Which way are they coming?"

   "On the right."

   Mackey shoved open the door beside him on his left, looked to his right, and three or four shots smashed the right side window, punched into Mackey, and drove him backwards out the door he'd opened and onto the concrete.

   Parker waited. They'd been driving with the windows shut, but now with one window smashed and the opposite door open he could hear voices from outside:

   "You get him?"

   "We all got him."

   "See is he dead. Harry, get that faggot out here."

   Someone ran across the front of the van. Parker saw his head through the windshield, but did nothing.

   "He's dead!"

   "There was supposed to be two of them. Where the hell's the other one?"

   Parker waited, the revolver atop the crates, pointing toward the front of the van.

   "He come in alone."

   "Renard? Where the hell is—? Get him over here, will you?"

   "I don't—I don't want to be—" That was Renard's voice, terrified out of its wits.

   "Shut up. There was supposed to be two of them, right?"

   "They said—he said—"

   "Well, only one showed up. Harry, George, go on outside, keep an eye open. They might have had an idea about this."

   "Right."

   "Can I go now?" Renard again.

   "Let's just see about the merchandise first. Maybe they were cute, maybe the second man has the stuff."

   "What am I supposed to—"

   "Get in there. Take a look, see is it all there."

   "I don't want—"

   "Get in there."

   Parker crouched behind the crates. He felt the van rock slightly on its springs, metal scraping against metal up behind his head where door and truck were jammed together, and then Renard, twitching and terrified, was making his way around the passenger seat and into the cargo area.

   Parker let him get all the way in, let him start to lift the tarpaulin; then he stood up and leaned forward, pushing the revolver into Renard's face, whispering, "You scream and we're both dead. But you first."

   Renard went white, and began to slump toward the floor. Parker reached his other hand over, grabbed Renard by the hair, yanked upward hard. The pain cut through Renard's need to faint, and his eyes got their focus back again. He stared at Parker like a bird staring at a snake.

   A voice from outside: "Is it all there?"

   Parker whispered, "Tell him it'll take a minute." When Renard did nothing, Parker shook his head by the hair to attract his attention. "Tell him! It'll take a minute."

   Still staring at Parker, Renard called over his shoulder, "It'll take, uh— It'll take a minute."

   "Why?"

   "You have to check inside one crate."

   "I have to check inside one crate," Renard called.

   "Well, snap it up."

   With the hand holding his hair, Parker pressed Renard down till he was kneeling beside the crates. Parker crouched facing him, let go of his hair, and whispered, "What is this? This isn't your idea."

   "I didn't want to have anything—"

   "Keep it down. And forget that other stuff; just tell me what's going on."

   Renard licked his lips, and gave the crates a frightened, resentful look. "This is all Leon's fault," he whispered. He was being petulant through the fear.

   "Griffith? He's dead."

   "He needed money." Now the resentful look was turned toward Parker. "For you people."

   "And?"

   "He wanted to borrow from me. I couldn't do it, I, uh . . . My own financial situation wasn't—"

   Parker shook his head in impatience. "What happened?"

   "I sent him to some people I knew. To loan him the money."

   "Mob money."

   "I don't know, I—" Renard glanced over his shoulder toward the front of the truck. "I suppose so."

   "After Griffith killed himself," Parker said, "they came to you to get the money back."

   Renard nodded.

   "And you gave them us instead."

   "They wanted you. They wanted the paintings."

   From outside, the leader's voice called, "Renard, what the hell are you doing?"

   "Tell him you need help."

   Renard's eyes widened. Shrilly, he whispered, "I don't want to die!"

   "Nobody does. Tell him you need help."

   The van rocked on its springs again. Somebody was leaning his elbows in on the passenger seat, looking around the edge of the seat toward the darkness at the rear of the truck. The only light source was still the van headlights, illuminating the interior of the lumberyard but leaving the cargo area of the truck almost totally dark.

   "Renard? What's going on?"

   Parker pressed the revolver barrel into Renard's side.

   "I—I need some help here. With the, uh, with the crates."

   "For Christ's sake."

   From the voice, it was the leader himself climbing in over the passenger seat, coming this way. Parker waited, his left hand on Renard's right arm, his right hand holding the gun.

   "What's the problem?"

   Parker raised himself, extending the revolver out at arm's length across the top of the crates to be sure the other guy saw it in the poor light in here. Barely alcove a whisper, he said, "The problem is, you're dead if you open your mouth."

   The guy was a professional: heavy-set, medium height, wearing a dark zippered jacket and dark shirt. He was about forty, with a heavy jaw line and eyes that didn't waste time with surprise. He looked at Parker and said, "So there you are. You come along after all."

   Parker said, "Call to someone to come drive the truck forward. Say it's so you can open the rear doors."

   "And if I tell you to go to hell?"

   "You'll go there first. Call to Harry."

   The guy looked puzzled. "Harry? Why?"

   "Because it's a name I know."

   The puzzlement lasted a few more seconds, and then he nodded and said, "Yeah, I see. I call a name that doesn't match anybody out there, then they know there's something up. I didn't think of that, but it's a good one." He turned his head away and yelled, "Harry!" The sound was huge in the confined space back here, and Renard winced from it as though he'd been slapped on the forehead.

   From outside a muffled voice called back, "What?"

   "Come drive this truck forward a little, so we can open these doors!"

   "Right!"

   Parker whispered, "Don't get yourself killed."

   The guy gave him a flat look. "Not me," he said. "You."

   His voice trembling, Renard said, "I'm in the middle. I don't want any of this."

   They both ignored him. They kept watching one another's eyes, and a minute later Harry climbed into the driver's seat and called back, "You need any help back there, Al?"

   A1 was facing the rear of the truck. Without turning, without moving his eyes from Parker's, he called, "No, everything's fine. Just move the truck."

   They all waited, Renard trembling, crouched back against the side wall like a reluctant referee between the other two. Harry started the engine, and the truck lunged forward, then moved more slowly, then stopped. "That okay?"

   Parker could hear a whirring sound. The garage door. Going up or down?

   Al called, "Yeah, that's fine. Go on back out front." He was still watching Parker, and he seemed to be smiling a little.

   Parker fumbled behind himself for the inside latch, found it, pressed down, shoved backward. With a grinding sound, both doors popped open, and Parker jumped backward to the concrete, as Al ducked behind the crates, shouting, "He's going out the back! Get him!"

   The bottom of the garage door was a foot from the floor, and still going down. Parker fired at a moving figure to his right, wasted a shot at the interior of the truck, and leaped to his left. Coming around the corner of the truck, he found an open- mouthed Harry just climbing out. Parker fired, Harry fell on the body of Ed Mackey, and Parker jumped over the both of them, ran around the front of the truck, and found A1 and two others blocking the only exit, through the office. Renard wasn't in sight, but he didn't matter anyway.

   Two shots were fired at him, but Parker had ducked back against the front of the truck again. He spun back, swung around the open driver's side door, put a foot in the middle of Harry's back, and stepped into the seat behind the wheel. Harry had left the engine running; Parker shifted into drive, accelerated to the far end of the long room, slammed on the brakes to stop just before running into the bench saw, shifted into reverse, put the accelerator on the floor, and twisted around in the seat to watch the garage door rushing this way, seen through the open rear doors. Renard, still in the back of the van, was screaming and waving his arms the other side of the crates, but Parker ignored him.

   Parker was braced, one arm around the seat, the other hand on the steering wheel for guidance, both feet pressed flat on the floor, but it was still a jolt when the van crashed into the metal door. Renard was flung off his feet into the door, and the six crates slid rasping after him, thumping indiscriminately into Renard and the door.	\

   The corrugated metal had bent, but it hadn't broken. Parker shifted into drive again, and the van spurted forward, the crates and Renard spilling out onto the concrete in its wake.

   The garage door wasn't going to give. And now that the crates were all over the place back there it was impossible to get another clear run at it anyway. And the open floor area was too narrow to turn the truck around in. Parker reached the far end, skidded to a stop an inch from the bench saw again, shifted into park, and looked back through the truck to see the three men running this way. He fired twice, hit nobody, and they all scattered.

   They had the front, with the only way out. This was a solid concrete block wall back here, extending twenty-five feet up to the ceiling. There were lumber bins all the way up on both sides, with ladders and walkways. But he wasn't going up; he wasn't about to tree himself.

   Directly ahead of him through the windshield was the bench saw, and to the left of it three cardboard boxes full of the bits and pieces of wood left over from sawing. Parker put his gun away under his jacket, opened the truck's glove compartment, and found four pieces of paper in it: the vehicle registration, a Master Charge receipt for a gas purchase, and two rental forms on flimsy pink onionskin. He rolled the papers into a tube, lit one end, bent it down to get the flame going good, and then rolled the left window down and tossed the burning paper into the nearest cardboard box.

   "Hey, you!"

   A voice from the front end of the room. Al. Parker glanced back and saw no one; they were keeping under cover. He called, "What?"

   "We don't care about you. It's just the paintings we want."

   Even if that had been true in the beginning, it wouldn't be true now. But Parker needed time, and the way to fill it was with talk. He called, "Prove it, then."

   "Sure, Mac. What do you want us to do?"

   "Open the garage door." Parker looked at the cardboard box. It was only half full, and he couldn't see the paper inside it. There'd been a wisp of dark smoke at first, but nothing now.

   "What do you think, we're crazy? What if a cop car goes by, sees all this shit all over the floor?"

   Another voice yelled, "You couldn't back that truck out anyway."

   Had the paper gone out? Maybe he should rip off some of the lining of his jacket, use that. He called, "What do you want me to do?"

   "Just walk out," Al yelled, with elaborate innocence. "We don't care about you, like I said. Just the paintings."

   "How can I believe you?" Was that smoke? White smoke this time.

   "Why should we care about you? We never saw you before. We're not killers, pal, we're just here for the paintings."

   The second voice called, "Yeah, we're art lovers."

   Smoke was coming from the cardboard box, but it was too slow to build. Parker opened his jacket, ripped a panel of lining out of the left side, while he called back, "Come out and put your guns down. Then I'll walk out."

   "Oh, no, Mac. Now you want us to trust you, and we don't have to. All we have to do is wait you out."

   The cloth didn't want to burn. Was it some goddam fiberglass or something?

   The second voice yelled, "Or starve you out. We got all the time in the world."

   The lining caught all at once, and Parker was holding a handful of flame. He leaned way out of the window, and tossed it into a second of the cardboard boxes.

   "What the hell!"

   "What's he doing?"

   Shots were fired; Parker pulled his arm back inside. They were yelling at one another back there, and a few more bullets hit the truck.

   Smoke puffed up from the second box, and then a fist of orange flame.

   Parker shifted into reverse, angled back to the left, shifted into drive, moved up till the truck body covered the burning boxes from the three guys at the other end of the room. Parker slid out on the right side, grabbed a couple of one-by-twelves leaning against the wall beside the bench saw, laid them flat over the second box, with a space between. The flames shifted at once to smoke, but with smaller flames still working underneath. The fire wouldn't go out, but now it would give plenty of smoke.

   They were still yelling back there, and still firing an occasional shot, but they couldn't seem to find anything coherent for them all to do. Smoke billowed up toward the ceiling, spread out through the air, and now the first cardboard box was also flaming up.

   Parker kept most of his body covered by the front of the truck, and reached in through the driver's window to push the gear lever one notch from park to reverse. The truck at once began to roll backward, at about five miles an hour, and Parker walked along with it.

   The place was filling with smoke. Already his eyes were burning, it was hard to keep from blinking, hard to make out details in what he was seeing. He moved to his left, to the right side of the truck, and saw one of them hurrying forward from cover, assuming Parker to be at the wheel, and that therefore it was safe to come up on the right side of the truck.

   Parker dropped him with one shot, moved out to his left, crouched, and made a run straight for the office door. Behind him, the van bumped into one of the crates, pushed it sluggishly a few feet, and stopped.

   Al appeared in the office doorway, blinking in the smoky air, pushing his gun out ahead of himself. He and Parker both fired, both missed, and then Parker ran into him in the doorway and Al went crashing back into the customers' counter. Parker shot him, turned around, and fired twice at the last one, running this way from cover on the opposite side of the garage door. The guy dropped behind a crate and fired back, but there was no reason to worry about him now; the street door was to Parker's back, with nothing between him and it except Al, sitting dazed on the floor, clutching his stomach and looking at nothing at all.

   The entire rear wall of the building was aflame, writhing orange ribbons up the face of the concrete block, fire leaping from bin to bin. There was a growing crackling roar, and a quickly building heat. Parker stared at the six crates in the firelight; the other fifteen had been given back with an anonymous tip, and now these six were gone for good. Forever.

   Parker turned away. When he opened the street door a wind shoved it open the rest of the way, pushed against his body, rushed past him to feed the fire. He went out, looked both ways, turned right, started walking.

   Two blocks later he heard the sirens, but they came to the fire from a different direction, and didn't pass him. A block after that he found an empty cab to take him to where he'd parked his car.