The Man With the Getaway Face by Richard Stark Page A
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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take your licence away without half trying. I wouldn't have to fool around with you."
"Take my licence away for what?"
"For the time you gave Parker three Magnums and the Positive."
Lawson started. "You know about that?"
"Parker told me. So let's quit fooling around?"
"Maybe I better call Skimm," said Lawson. He was suddenly very nervous.
Parker gave him the number, and then sat down in the client's chair during the phone call. Skimm was home, and Parker had already told him the right answers. Lawson talked with him briefly, and then hung up.
"You ready to deal?"
"Sure." Lawson grinned, his lips wet. "But I ought to know who I'm dealing with," he said.
"Flynn. Joe Flynn."
"I don't think I've heard of you."
"I've always worked out around the Coast before this."
"And where's this job? Here in Jersey?"
Parker shook his head. "Youngstown, Ohio," he said. "You'll read about it in the papers."
Lawson opened a drawer and took out a pencil and notepad. "What do you need?"
"Three guns. Medium size -.32's or.38's."
Lawson nodded. "I'll look around. Anything else?"
"Two trucks. Semis."
"Tractor-trailers!" Lawson frowned, and tapped his pencil point against the notepad. "That's a tricky one. There isn't so much market in those big ones any more. That'll probably cost you."
Parker shrugged. "If it costs too much, we'll steal our own."
Lawson tapped the pencil faster against the notepad. "You've still got the registration to worry about. And the cover."
"Don't need them," Parker said. "Just the trucks."
"Stripped?"
"It doesn't matter."
"Oh. That isn't so tough, then. I know one already, if it isn't sold. Down in North Carolina. I'll check on it for you." He wrote on the notepad again. "Anything else?"
"Some place to get some work done on one of the trucks."
"Engine or body?"
"Body."
Lawson nodded. "I think I know the place for you. Anything else?"
"No." Parker got to his feet. "That's all we need. You can leave messages with Skimm."
Lawson ripped the top page from the notepad, stuffed it in his side pocket. "You ought to leave something with me. Sort of a drawing account."
Parker took out his wallet, peeled off four fifties, and dropped them on Lawson's desk.
Lawson picked them up and grinned. "You want a receipt? You know, for tax purposes?"
"No," Parker said. "Leave the word with Skimm."
"Will do."
Parker went back downstairs in the green elevator and walked back to the Ford. It had a parking ticket on it. He threw the ticket into the gutter and drove away, back to Hudson Boulevard and then to the Pulaski Skyway and down 9. Because of the trooper, and not wanting to be near the diner too soon before the job, he turned on 1 when it branched away to the right. At New Brunswick, he turned left on 18, then right at Old Bridge, heading down towards Spotswood. But before he got there he turned left up a winding dirt road.
The land here was red clay and white sand mixed together, with a fuzz of wild grey grass and here and there thick-trunked trees. The road seemed to end shortly but Parker went up an overgrown slope, and the dirt road angled sharply around a tree and then dropped away down the dip into a kind of cup.
Down in the indentation stood a grey farmhouse, nearly invisible on days the sun didn't shine. Someone had once tried to make the land grow something beside wild grasses and occasional trees. But the farmhouse was slowly rotting away now, becoming a part of the land. It couldn't be seen from any road, and most people in the area probably didn't even know it existed. The dirt road leading in was sometimes used as a lovers' lane, but those people never even came in very far. They didn't care what was over the slope; they just wanted not to be seen from the road.
When Parker had first come, the road had been impassable. The turn around the tree at the top of the slope had been choked with underbrush and dead branches. They would not have cleared it until the day before the job, but now there was
"Take my licence away for what?"
"For the time you gave Parker three Magnums and the Positive."
Lawson started. "You know about that?"
"Parker told me. So let's quit fooling around?"
"Maybe I better call Skimm," said Lawson. He was suddenly very nervous.
Parker gave him the number, and then sat down in the client's chair during the phone call. Skimm was home, and Parker had already told him the right answers. Lawson talked with him briefly, and then hung up.
"You ready to deal?"
"Sure." Lawson grinned, his lips wet. "But I ought to know who I'm dealing with," he said.
"Flynn. Joe Flynn."
"I don't think I've heard of you."
"I've always worked out around the Coast before this."
"And where's this job? Here in Jersey?"
Parker shook his head. "Youngstown, Ohio," he said. "You'll read about it in the papers."
Lawson opened a drawer and took out a pencil and notepad. "What do you need?"
"Three guns. Medium size -.32's or.38's."
Lawson nodded. "I'll look around. Anything else?"
"Two trucks. Semis."
"Tractor-trailers!" Lawson frowned, and tapped his pencil point against the notepad. "That's a tricky one. There isn't so much market in those big ones any more. That'll probably cost you."
Parker shrugged. "If it costs too much, we'll steal our own."
Lawson tapped the pencil faster against the notepad. "You've still got the registration to worry about. And the cover."
"Don't need them," Parker said. "Just the trucks."
"Stripped?"
"It doesn't matter."
"Oh. That isn't so tough, then. I know one already, if it isn't sold. Down in North Carolina. I'll check on it for you." He wrote on the notepad again. "Anything else?"
"Some place to get some work done on one of the trucks."
"Engine or body?"
"Body."
Lawson nodded. "I think I know the place for you. Anything else?"
"No." Parker got to his feet. "That's all we need. You can leave messages with Skimm."
Lawson ripped the top page from the notepad, stuffed it in his side pocket. "You ought to leave something with me. Sort of a drawing account."
Parker took out his wallet, peeled off four fifties, and dropped them on Lawson's desk.
Lawson picked them up and grinned. "You want a receipt? You know, for tax purposes?"
"No," Parker said. "Leave the word with Skimm."
"Will do."
Parker went back downstairs in the green elevator and walked back to the Ford. It had a parking ticket on it. He threw the ticket into the gutter and drove away, back to Hudson Boulevard and then to the Pulaski Skyway and down 9. Because of the trooper, and not wanting to be near the diner too soon before the job, he turned on 1 when it branched away to the right. At New Brunswick, he turned left on 18, then right at Old Bridge, heading down towards Spotswood. But before he got there he turned left up a winding dirt road.
The land here was red clay and white sand mixed together, with a fuzz of wild grey grass and here and there thick-trunked trees. The road seemed to end shortly but Parker went up an overgrown slope, and the dirt road angled sharply around a tree and then dropped away down the dip into a kind of cup.
Down in the indentation stood a grey farmhouse, nearly invisible on days the sun didn't shine. Someone had once tried to make the land grow something beside wild grasses and occasional trees. But the farmhouse was slowly rotting away now, becoming a part of the land. It couldn't be seen from any road, and most people in the area probably didn't even know it existed. The dirt road leading in was sometimes used as a lovers' lane, but those people never even came in very far. They didn't care what was over the slope; they just wanted not to be seen from the road.
When Parker had first come, the road had been impassable. The turn around the tree at the top of the slope had been choked with underbrush and dead branches. They would not have cleared it until the day before the job, but now there was
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