The Rare Coin Score (Parker, #9)

by Richard Stark

Westlake has said that he meant the books to be about “a workman at work,” which they are, and that is why they have so few useful parallels, why they are virtually a genre unto themselves. Process and mechanics and troubleshooting dominate the books, determine their plots, underlie their aesthetics and their moral structure. A great many of the editions down through the years have prominently featured a blurb from Anthony Boucher: “Nobody tops Stark in his objective portrayal of a world of total amorality.” That is true as far as it goes—it is never suggested in the novels that robbing payrolls or shooting people who present liabilities are anything more than business practices—but Boucher overlooked the fact that Parker maintains his own very lively set of moral prerogatives. Parker abhors waste, sloth, frivolity, inconstancy, double-dealing, and reckless endangerment as much as any Puritan. He hates dishonesty with a passion, although you and he may differ on its terms. He is a craftsman who takes pride in his work.

Parker said to Lempke, “You go first. See you at Lebatard's place Saturday night.” “Right. Right.” Lempke went out, and Parker went over to the closet, got out the empty overnight bag Claire had checked in with, and put the toolkit inside it. Mainzer said, “This thing has the smell, Parker. The sweet smell. I always know.” “That's good,” Parker said. Carlow had looked at Mainzer in disgust, but hadn't said anything. Now he got to his feet and said, “I'll go now. See you Saturday, Parker.” “Right.” After Carlow had left, Mainzer said, “What is he, Parker, do you know?” “What do you mean, what is he?” “What kine of name is Carlow? Is it Jewish?” Parker looked at him and didn't say anything.

Halfway up the next flight, Atkins came across Billy Lebatard again, this time with a short, thin, older man who carried that inevitable symbol of the tourist, a camera hanging from a thong around his neck. The older man also carried a small sketch pad and a pencil, and had apparently been making some kind of drawing. The two of them hadn't been going anywhere, just standing in the corner of the landing between the mezzanine and the second floor. When Atkins came into view, Lebatard acted very flustered, but the older man paid no attention to Atkins at all. Atkins said hello to Lebatard and went on upstairs, wondering vaguely at Lebatard's reaction. He wondered idly if Lebatard might after all be homosexual, and had picked up—or been picked up by—an older man of the same type. Lebatard definitely wasn't very masculine in his looks or actions. But it was none of Atkins' business, and by the time he'd reached his room he'd forgotten about it.

Hoffman opened the door and Pat Schuyler was there, holding a small brown paper bag. They exchanged the no-trouble phrases and Schuyler handed over the paper bag, saying, “We got us a looker down in the lobby tonight.” “Is that right?” “You can see her from here.” Hoffman looked past Schuyler, at an angle down through the railing into the lobby, and nodded. “So she is,” he said. “Now what do you suppose she's waiting for?” “No old fogies like us,” said Schuyler, “I can tell you that.” “You speak for yourself,” Hoffman told him, and they grinned at each other, and Hoffman shut the door. When he turned, George Dolnick had come in from the security room, carrying his own brown paper bag. Dolnick said, “Another exciting night, eh, Fred?” “I don't think I can stand the pace,” Hoffman said. They went over to the small cleared table near the windows and sat down. They opened their bags and a harsh voice said, “Freeze.” Hoffman looked around, and a lot of masked men were coming through the wall. 4 OTTO MAINZER felt good.

The transition from Billy's called bluff to this bourse room on this Saturday night had been gradual, with the game slowly becoming one that was played for keeps, but still being a game, always a game. So she'd given Parker the same seventy-thousand story as Billy, but something about the remote strength and cold self-assurance of Parker had gotten through to her and she'd given him other things, too, that Billy had never gotten. Which simply made the game more interesting. Until the shot. It was as though a layer of mud had been abruptly washed away from the inscription on a tomb, so that she could suddenly see words she had never suspected the existence of before, telling her a truth too unbearable to support.

French had made the left. Parker looked ahead, and down the empty bright avenue he saw a neon sign saying PARK. “Head for that,” he said. “The parking garage.” “Billy went for his hardware,” French said, as though apologizing. “I figured.” “It was supposed to be quiet.” “I know.” French looked at him past Claire. “I didn't know till today you were back in,” he said. “Then it was too late. I promised delivery on this stuff.” French had to be really rattled to do so much talking. Parker said, “Later. When we're clear.” French nodded. “Right,” he said, and faced front again. Claire was still being a zombie, sitting there between them, unblinking, gazing out the windshield. The parking garage was three stories high. French drove the truck inside and stopped and Parker said, “I'll cool the attendant. Put it out of sight upstairs, leave Claire in it, come down empty-handed.” French said, “We can work something out.”

CLAIRE WAS standing beside the truck, looking puzzled. When Parker came along she said, “I have to go home now.” “Snap out of it,” he said. “We don't have any more time for that.” Calm and reasonable, she said, “We must never speak of that. Will you promise me?” “I promise,” he said. She was still crazy as a loon, but she was being quiet crazy so it was all right. “Sit down in the truck again,” he said. “But I have to go home,” she said. “They want to talk about it there,” he told her. “Better stay here.” “Oh,” she said. “Then I'll stay for a while.” She climbed back into the cab and sat there, knees primly together, hands folded in her lap. She gazed out through the windshield.

“The point is,” Parker said, “you queered an operation of mine, so I shoudn't let you walk around. But you can set it straight again, bringing your own fence in, so the question is how valuable is that. Enough to keep you breathing, but how much besides.” “Well, there's three of us,” French said. “So we split it even.” Parker shook his head. “No, there's six of us. Lempke and Mainzer and Carlow are still in, they've all got contacts that can take their shares. And they'll need it for lawyers and this and that.” “So I get a sixth?” “You get a sixth.” Parker reached out, picked up the beer can, took a swig. “Who's the fence?” French grinned. “You kidding? He's the only one keeping me alive. I give you the name I'm down the chute.” Parker shrugged. “I can afford to give you a sixth.”

French drank some beer, looked at his sandwich, and said, “I wish I'd stayed with it back in the beginning. It turned out sweet after all, didn't it?” “Up to a point,” Parker said.

After Jensen was gone, Parker released Mavis again and they went back to practicing expressions of gratitude. Around two in the morning Parker told her he was going to leave now and she said, “What about your friend?” “I'll take him along. Will you give me half an hour before you call the law?” She grinned and patted his cheek. “Do I have to call the law? Did anybody do me any damage? What do I want with a lot of cops?” “I'll look you up sometime,” Parker said, knowing he wouldn't. “Sure you will,” she said.