The Man With the Getaway Face by Richard Stark
Authors: Richard Stark
Tags: General Interest, Fiction, General, Suspense, Mystery & Detective, Suspense fiction, Crime, Detective and Mystery Stories, Hard-Boiled, Criminals, Parker (Fictitious character)
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"This is my last job, you know."
"Yeah. That's the thing. I need it too." Parker looked at Stubbs and shook his head. "I've got to hold on to this beetle for two weeks. I've got to put him on ice."
Handy considered that. "What about the farm?"
"What farm?"
"Outside Old Bridge. Where we're supposed to meet after the job. You been out there yet?"
"Not yet."
"We could stash him there, maybe."
Parker thought about it. So many things to watch. The job, Alma, the state trooper, and now Stubbs. But he didn't have anything else on the fire. "That's a bad way to work it. To hang around the hideout before the job."
"Do you figure we're going there after it?"
"That's right. I forgot about Alma." Parker shrugged. "All right. We'll put him on ice out there."
Handy stood up, and waved the automatic at Stubbs. "Come along."
Stubbs said, "Listen, what are you trying to pull?"
"Look," Parker said. "Look at him, he wants to argue."
Handy turned to Stubbs. "How's your kneecaps? In good shape?" Stubbs caught the message. He got to his feet and shut up. They took him downstairs and back to the Ford. They drove over to 9 and headed south, Parker driving, with Stubbs beside him and Handy in the back seat.
On the way Parker asked, "How'd you get me?"
"That letter you got," Stubbs said. "I looked up that Lasker fella in Cincinnati, and he left a forwarding address. I went there and hung around till I saw you."
"He left a forwarding address," repeated Parker. He shook his head and kept driving. He didn't know if this was Handy's last job, but he knew it was Skimm's.
PART TWO
Chapter 1
PARKER left the car off Hudson Boulevard in Jersey City and walked two blocks to the office building. There were two elevators, but only one of them was working. An ancient angular Negro with a loose vacant smile operated it. Its metal sides were painted green, and there were grease smears on the doors.
Parker got out on the third floor and tuned left. A sign on the fourth door down read: "Eastern Agency Confidential Investigations." He pushed the door open and went into a small green reception room. On one wall was a certificate stating that James Lawson was a licenced private investigator.
A bleached blonde, looking secondhand, sat at the grey metal desk, talking on the phone. When Parker came in she said, "Hold on, Marge." She pressed the telephone to her hard breast and looked at Parker.
"Doctor Hall to see Lawson," Parker said.
"One moment, please." She told Marge to hold on again, and got up and went to the door of the inner office. She had stripper's hips, big and thick and wrapped in a tight black skirt. She went through into the inner office, and in a minute she came back. "Go right on in, Doctor."
"Thanks," said Parker.
She went back to her desk and her phone call, and Parker went through to the inner office and closed the door.
James Lawson was small and balding. He looked like the kind of man who was worried about being out of condition, who kept promising himself he'd start going to a gym but never went. He looked across his wooden desk at Parker. "I don't think I know you."
Lawson wasn't a man to trust with the new face. "Parker sent me. Him and Handy McKay."
"So you can name-drop," said Lawson. "Doctor Hall, and Parker, and Handy McKay. Parker's dead."
"No, he ain't. Him and Handy and Pete Skimm and me are working on a job. You want to call Skimm?"
Lawson shook his head. "I don't call anybody," he said. "Where'd you get the Dr Hall from?"
"Parker. He said I should call myself Doctor Hall, and then you'd know what was what."
"How come he didn't come himself?"
"He can't show himself in the East. He ran into trouble with the Outfit."
Lawson nodded. "I heard something about that, too. But I also heard he was dead."
"He wasn't, the last time I talked to him."
Lawson chewed on a knuckle. "You look okay," he said, "and you sound okay. But I don't know you."
"Do you think I'm law? If I was law, I wouldn't play games. I could
"Yeah. That's the thing. I need it too." Parker looked at Stubbs and shook his head. "I've got to hold on to this beetle for two weeks. I've got to put him on ice."
Handy considered that. "What about the farm?"
"What farm?"
"Outside Old Bridge. Where we're supposed to meet after the job. You been out there yet?"
"Not yet."
"We could stash him there, maybe."
Parker thought about it. So many things to watch. The job, Alma, the state trooper, and now Stubbs. But he didn't have anything else on the fire. "That's a bad way to work it. To hang around the hideout before the job."
"Do you figure we're going there after it?"
"That's right. I forgot about Alma." Parker shrugged. "All right. We'll put him on ice out there."
Handy stood up, and waved the automatic at Stubbs. "Come along."
Stubbs said, "Listen, what are you trying to pull?"
"Look," Parker said. "Look at him, he wants to argue."
Handy turned to Stubbs. "How's your kneecaps? In good shape?" Stubbs caught the message. He got to his feet and shut up. They took him downstairs and back to the Ford. They drove over to 9 and headed south, Parker driving, with Stubbs beside him and Handy in the back seat.
On the way Parker asked, "How'd you get me?"
"That letter you got," Stubbs said. "I looked up that Lasker fella in Cincinnati, and he left a forwarding address. I went there and hung around till I saw you."
"He left a forwarding address," repeated Parker. He shook his head and kept driving. He didn't know if this was Handy's last job, but he knew it was Skimm's.
PART TWO
Chapter 1
PARKER left the car off Hudson Boulevard in Jersey City and walked two blocks to the office building. There were two elevators, but only one of them was working. An ancient angular Negro with a loose vacant smile operated it. Its metal sides were painted green, and there were grease smears on the doors.
Parker got out on the third floor and tuned left. A sign on the fourth door down read: "Eastern Agency Confidential Investigations." He pushed the door open and went into a small green reception room. On one wall was a certificate stating that James Lawson was a licenced private investigator.
A bleached blonde, looking secondhand, sat at the grey metal desk, talking on the phone. When Parker came in she said, "Hold on, Marge." She pressed the telephone to her hard breast and looked at Parker.
"Doctor Hall to see Lawson," Parker said.
"One moment, please." She told Marge to hold on again, and got up and went to the door of the inner office. She had stripper's hips, big and thick and wrapped in a tight black skirt. She went through into the inner office, and in a minute she came back. "Go right on in, Doctor."
"Thanks," said Parker.
She went back to her desk and her phone call, and Parker went through to the inner office and closed the door.
James Lawson was small and balding. He looked like the kind of man who was worried about being out of condition, who kept promising himself he'd start going to a gym but never went. He looked across his wooden desk at Parker. "I don't think I know you."
Lawson wasn't a man to trust with the new face. "Parker sent me. Him and Handy McKay."
"So you can name-drop," said Lawson. "Doctor Hall, and Parker, and Handy McKay. Parker's dead."
"No, he ain't. Him and Handy and Pete Skimm and me are working on a job. You want to call Skimm?"
Lawson shook his head. "I don't call anybody," he said. "Where'd you get the Dr Hall from?"
"Parker. He said I should call myself Doctor Hall, and then you'd know what was what."
"How come he didn't come himself?"
"He can't show himself in the East. He ran into trouble with the Outfit."
Lawson nodded. "I heard something about that, too. But I also heard he was dead."
"He wasn't, the last time I talked to him."
Lawson chewed on a knuckle. "You look okay," he said, "and you sound okay. But I don't know you."
"Do you think I'm law? If I was law, I wouldn't play games. I could
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