Richard Stark - Ask the Parrot

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright 2006 by Richard Stark

All rights reserved.

Mysterious Press

Hachette Book Group USA

237 Park Avenue

New York, NY 10017

Visit our Web site at www.mysteriouspress.com.

First eBook Edition: June 2008

ISBN: 978-0-7595-6964-5

BY RICHARD STARK

The Hunter

The Man with the Getaway Face

The Outfit

The Mourner

The Score

The Jugger

The Seventh

The Handle

The Damsel

The Rare Coin Score

The Green Eagle Score

The Dame

The Black Ice Score

The Sour Lemon Score

Deadly Edge

The Blackbird

Slayground

Lemons Never Lie

Plunder Squad

Butchers Moon

Comeback

Backflash

Flashfire

Firebreak

Breakout

Nobody Runs Forever

W hen the helicopter swept northward and lifted out of sight over the top of the hill, Parker stepped away from the tree hed waited beside and continued his climb. Whatever was on the other side of this hill had to be better than the dogs baying down there at the foot of the slope behind him, running around, straining at their leashes, finding his scent, starting up. He couldnt see the bottom of the hill any more, the police cars congregated around his former Dodge rental in the diner parking lot, but he didnt need to. The excited yelp of the dogs was enough.

How tall was this hill? Parker wasnt dressed for uphill hiking, out in the midday October air; his street shoes skidded on leaves, his jacket bunched when he pulled himself up from tree trunk to tree trunk. But he still had to keep ahead of the dogs and hope to find something or somewhere useful when he finally started down the other side.

How much farther to the top? He paused, holding the rough bark of a tree, and looked up, and fifteen feet above him through the scattered thin trunks of this second-growth woods there stood a man. The afternoon sun was to Parkers left, the sky beyond the man a pale October ash, the man himself only a silhouette. With a rifle.

Not a cop. Not with a group. A man standing, looking down toward Parker, hearing the same hounds Parker heard, holding the rifle easy at a slant across his front, pointed up and to the side. Parker looked down again, chose the next tree trunk, pulled himself up.

It was another three or four minutes before he drew level with the man, who stepped back a pace and said, Thats good. Right theres good.

I have to keep moving, Parker said, but he stopped, wishing these shoes gave better traction on dead leaves.

The man said, You one of those robbers Ive been hearing about on the TV? Took all a banks money, over in Massachusetts?

Parker said nothing. If the rifle moved, he would have to meet it.

The man watched him, and for a few seconds they only considered one another. The man was about fifty, in a red leather hunting jacket with many pockets, faded blue jeans, and black boots. His eyes were shielded by a billed red and black flannel cap. Beside him on the ground was a gray canvas sack, partly full, with brown leather handles.

Seen up close, there was a tension in the man that seemed to be a part of him, not something caused by running into a fugitive in the woods. His hands were clenched on the rifle, and his eyes were bitter, as though something had harmed him at some point and he was determined not to let it happen again.

Then he shook his head and made a downturned mouth, impatient with the silence. The reason I ask, he said, when I saw you coming up, and heard the dogs, I thought if you are one of the robbers, I want to talk to you. He shrugged, a pessimist to his boots, and said, If youre not, you can stay here and pat the dogs.

I dont have it on me, Parker said.

Surprised, the man said, Well, no, you couldnt. It was about a truckload of cash, wasnt it?

Something like that.

The man looked downhill. The dogs couldnt be seen yet, but they could be heard, increasingly frantic and increasingly excited, held back by their handlers lesser agility on the hill. This could be your lucky day, he said, and mine, too. Another sour face. I could use one. Stooping to pick up his canvas sack, he said, Im hunting for the pot, thats what Im doing. I have a car back here.

Parker followed him the short climb to the crest, where the trees were thinner but within a cluster of them a black Ford SUV was parked on a barely visible dirt road. Old logging road, the man said, and opened the back cargo door of the SUV to put the rifle and sack inside. Id like it if youd sit up front.

Sure.

Parker got into the front passenger seat as the man came around the other side to get behind the wheel. The key was already in the ignition. He started the car and drove them at an angle down the wooded north slope, the road usually visible only because it was free of trees.

Driving, eyes on the dirt lane meandering downslope ahead of them, the man said, Im Tom Lindahl. You should give me something to call you.

Ed, Parker decided.

Do you have any weapons on you, Ed?

No.

Theres police roadblocks all around here.

I know that.

What I mean is, if you think you can jump me and steal my car, you wouldnt last more than ten minutes.

Parker said, Can you get around the roadblocks?

Its only a few miles to my place, Lindahl said. We wont run into anybody. I know these roads.

Good.

Parker looked past Lindahls sour face, downslope to the left, and through the trees now he could just see a road, two-lane blacktop, below them and running parallel to them. A red pickup truck went by down there, the opposite way, uphill. Parker said, Can they see us from the road, up in here?

Doesnt matter.

Theyll get to the top in a few minutes, with the dogs, Parker said. Theyll see this road, theyll figure Im in a car.

Soon well be home, Lindahl said, and unexpectedly laughed, a rusty sound as though he didnt do much laughing. Youre the reason I came out, he said.

Oh, yeah?

The TVs full of the robbery, all that money gone, I couldnt stand it any more. Those guys dont get slapped around, I thought. Those guys arent afraid of their own shadow, they go out and do what has to be done. I got so mad at myselfIll tell you right now, Im a cowardI just had to come out with the gun awhile. Those two rabbits back there, I can use them, God knows, but I didnt really need them just yet. It was you brought me out.

Parker watched his profile. Now that he was talking, Lindahl seemed just a little less bitter. Whatever was bothering him, it must make it worse to hold it in.

Lindahl gave him a quick glance, his expression now almost merry. And here you are, he said. And up close, I got to tell you, you dont look like that much of a world-beater.

He steered left, down a steep slope, and the logging road met the blacktop.

T he name on the town sign was Pooley, and it wasnt much of a place. One minor intersection was controlled by a light blinking amber in two directions, red in the other two. A gas station stood on the corner there, along with a shut-down bank branch, a shut-down bar, and a shut-down sporting goods store. Twenty houses or so were strung along the two narrow roads of the town, three or four of them boarded up, most of the rest dilapidated. An old man slept in a rocker on a porch, and an old woman a few doors down knelt at her front-lawn garden.