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Stegman looked back at him. “I don't see no gun,” he said. “I don't see no weapon.” Parker held up his hands. “You see two of them,” he said. “They're all I need.”
Mal hung up, and turned around to face the room, but there wasn't any bar in it. Thirty-two dollars a day, and no bar. He turned back and called room service. Two bottles, glasses, ice. They'd be right up. It was barely seven o'clock. He had an hour to kill. He paced the room, disgusted. A hundred dollars for a lay: that was disgusting. Parker coming back from the dead: that was disgusting. Getting screwed up this way with the Outfit: that was disgusting. Even the room was disgusting.
“I'm looking for a girl,” said Parker. She smirked at him. “What do you think I am, big boy—a watermelon?” Parker picked up his beer glass, looking at the cool wet ring it left on the bar. “I'm looking for a particular girl,” he said. She arched a brow. She plucked her eyebrows and painted on new ones, in the wrong place, so that when she arched a brow it came out wrong, like a badly animated cartoon. “A hustler? I don't know them all, baby.”
“You might call me a regional manager. With another gentleman—” “Fairfax.” Mr. Carter nodded, smiling. “Resnick told you quite a bit before he died, didn't he? Yes, Mr. Fairfax. He and I manage the New York interests of the organization.” “All right, then who runs the whole thing? You said you knew what the decision would be. Who'd make the decision?” “A committee would—” “One man, Carter. You go up high enough, you always come to one man.”
“You're an annoyance, Parker,” said Bronson's heavy angry voice. “You're an irritation, like a mosquito. All right. Forty-five thousand dollars is chickenfeed. It's a small account, for small punks with small minds. To get rid of the mosquito, all right—I'll swat you with forty-five thousand dollars. But let me tell you something, Parker.”
I'll be on the platform. No bill over a hundred, none under a ten. If it's stuff you printed yourself, you better send two expendable men. If you send more than two, the mosquito will drain your blood.” “Talk big, Parker,” said Bronson. “What's the name of this subway stop?” “It's the end of the line.” “For you too, Parker.” Bronson hung up.
