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When a fresh-faced guy in a Chevy offered him a lift, Parker told him to go to hell. The guy said, “Screw you, buddy,” yanked his Chevy back into the stream of traffic, and roared on down to the tollbooths. Parker spat in the right-hand lane, lit his last cigarette, and walked across the George Washington Bridge.
The 8 A.M. traffic went mmmmmm, mmmmmm, all on this side, headed for the city. Over there, lanes and lanes of nobody going to Jersey. Underneath, the same thing.
Office women in passing cars looked at him and felt vibrations above their nylons.
He washed his face and hands in cold water without soap, because there wasn't any hot water and there wasn't any soap.
“You could check.” “I could say I'd check. Then you'd get out of the car, and I'd mind my own business some more. And I'd tell my drivers, they see you around again, they should jump on you with both feet.“ He shrugged. “You know that as well as I do.”
He stood only because he wanted to stand, not because it was possible,
Mr. Carter nodded, gazing over Mal's head at the opposite wall. “You betrayed your associate for profit,” he said. “Not always a reprehensible action, if there was a sensible motive. And this time there was a sensible motive. You wanted to repay us for your blunder.”
He looked at her. “Do I look like law?” She laughed. “Not much. That's one thing you're not. But maybe you want to give her a bad time. Maybe she gave you athlete's foot once or something.”
“Wait. Let me talk to the bartender again. I'm supposed to tell him whether you're straight or not.” “Sure.” He went out of the phone booth, and it suddenly seemed a lot cooler in the bar. He caught Bernie's eye, and motioned at the phone. “She wants to talk to you again.” Bernie nodded and came back down the bar. On the way by he said, “Stick around a minute, huh?” Parker nodded. Two guys down at the end of the bar by the door were definitely not looking at him.
He could look out at the street, and let his fifteen-cent cup of coffee cool. It was a Park Avenue coffee shop, and expensive. Pastrami on rye, eighty-five cents, no butter. Like that.
He knocked, clenching his other fist impatiently, and after a minute a shadow showed on the glass and a woman's voice called, “Who is it?” “I've got the coffee.” After a puzzled second, she said, “What coffee? I didn't order any coffee.” “From the shop downstairs,” he said. “The boss said the beauty parlor.” “But I didn't order any coffee.” “Lady,” he said, “they give me the order for the beauty shop.”
Parker put the gun down and picked up the phone. “All right,” he said. “He's dead. I've got your name and phone number. In five minutes I'll have your address. In twenty-four hours I'll have you in my hands. Yes or no?” “In twenty-four hours you'll be dead! No lone man can buck the organization.” “I'll be seeing you,” Parker said.
He stood there, watching back to where the cops would come if they came, and five minutes occurred one by one.
