work in Chicago. A lot of the rank and file in Chicago knew about his blunder: it might make it difficult for him to be an effective administrator. They had a slot for him in New York.
That was fine by Mal. He wasn't particularly hipped on Chicago anyway. He thought he'd like New York.
Lynn went with him. She had nowhere else to go.
In New York they made him a sales manager, liquor division. Cigarettes are cheap in the District of Columbia. There's no state sales tax. Cigarettes are expensive in Canada. There's an import duty on American brands. On the other hand, Canadian whiskey is cheap in Canada, but there's an import duty making it expensive in the United States.
So the cars full of cigarettes drive north from Washington, and the same cars, now full of whiskey, drive south from Montreal. About half of the liquor cargo goes as far as New York, and the rest goes on down to Washington.
Mal was the guy who received the liquor shipments in New York. He managed the crew that sold the stuff to selected restaurants and bars and liquor stores. It was purely administrative, seeing that the right quantities went to the right places at the right times, and that nobody tapped the take. It was a job he could do, a job he could like. He fitted in well.
And Lynn stayed with him. She had nowhere else to go. But she didn't warm up, no matter what he tried, no matter how much time he spent with her, no matter how much dough he spent on her, no matter what. She was a large-as-life doll, no more. It was as though his sweating hulking panting body weren't even there.
He took to getting his satisfaction elsewhere, with Pearl and with others. He moved out completely at last, giving her enough dough to support herself, and she stayed because she had nowhere else to go. It had occurred to him finally to be afraid of her, to realize that she might one day decide, in desperate expiation, to kill him as she had killed Parker. So when he moved out he made sure she couldn't find him. She didn't object; she didn't suppose that she'd ever want to find him for anything.
The time went by and he settled into his Jife, getting used to the job and the people and the city, knowing that he was doing good work and that he would within a year or two be in line for a boost up the ladder. Keeley's Island and the estate and the eighty thousand dollars gradually faded into memory, until a guy named Stegman told him that Parker was alive and looking.
The dead man fulfilled his ambitions. He got the best hotel suite and the best professional lay. And he got them just in time.
PART THREE
Chapter 1
For Parker, it had been a cold thin trail from Stegman the cabman in Canarsie to the window of the St. David Hotel. The Canarsie thing had been a dead end. Lynn had been easy to find; she'd had a telephone listing under her own name. No reason for her not to -- Parker was supposed to be dead. But Mal was more cautious. Or he was using a different name.
So Parker had come back to Manhattan from Canarsie, to the hotel where they'd kept the room for him because he hadn't told them otherwise. He'd stripped off the clothing he'd worn for the last three days, showered and shaved, dressed again, and gone out for something to eat, and to think it over. . . .
Sitting at the table in the restaurant, he'd worked it out in his mind. He'd tried to get to Mal through Lynn, and the trail had gone cold almost before it started. So now he'd have to try it a different way. Mal was supposed to be connected with the syndicate again. Maybe he could find him through the syndicate.
He didn't like it that way. Syndicate people had a reputation for sticking together. He'd start nosing around and, the first thing, Mal would hear about it. Mal would know he was alive and looking for him. But it ought to flush him out. And otherwise the whole thing was hung up, no place to go.
He finished his meal and took a cab uptown to Central Park West and 104th Street. This was the wrong end of the
That was fine by Mal. He wasn't particularly hipped on Chicago anyway. He thought he'd like New York.
Lynn went with him. She had nowhere else to go.
In New York they made him a sales manager, liquor division. Cigarettes are cheap in the District of Columbia. There's no state sales tax. Cigarettes are expensive in Canada. There's an import duty on American brands. On the other hand, Canadian whiskey is cheap in Canada, but there's an import duty making it expensive in the United States.
So the cars full of cigarettes drive north from Washington, and the same cars, now full of whiskey, drive south from Montreal. About half of the liquor cargo goes as far as New York, and the rest goes on down to Washington.
Mal was the guy who received the liquor shipments in New York. He managed the crew that sold the stuff to selected restaurants and bars and liquor stores. It was purely administrative, seeing that the right quantities went to the right places at the right times, and that nobody tapped the take. It was a job he could do, a job he could like. He fitted in well.
And Lynn stayed with him. She had nowhere else to go. But she didn't warm up, no matter what he tried, no matter how much time he spent with her, no matter how much dough he spent on her, no matter what. She was a large-as-life doll, no more. It was as though his sweating hulking panting body weren't even there.
He took to getting his satisfaction elsewhere, with Pearl and with others. He moved out completely at last, giving her enough dough to support herself, and she stayed because she had nowhere else to go. It had occurred to him finally to be afraid of her, to realize that she might one day decide, in desperate expiation, to kill him as she had killed Parker. So when he moved out he made sure she couldn't find him. She didn't object; she didn't suppose that she'd ever want to find him for anything.
The time went by and he settled into his Jife, getting used to the job and the people and the city, knowing that he was doing good work and that he would within a year or two be in line for a boost up the ladder. Keeley's Island and the estate and the eighty thousand dollars gradually faded into memory, until a guy named Stegman told him that Parker was alive and looking.
The dead man fulfilled his ambitions. He got the best hotel suite and the best professional lay. And he got them just in time.
PART THREE
Chapter 1
For Parker, it had been a cold thin trail from Stegman the cabman in Canarsie to the window of the St. David Hotel. The Canarsie thing had been a dead end. Lynn had been easy to find; she'd had a telephone listing under her own name. No reason for her not to -- Parker was supposed to be dead. But Mal was more cautious. Or he was using a different name.
So Parker had come back to Manhattan from Canarsie, to the hotel where they'd kept the room for him because he hadn't told them otherwise. He'd stripped off the clothing he'd worn for the last three days, showered and shaved, dressed again, and gone out for something to eat, and to think it over. . . .
Sitting at the table in the restaurant, he'd worked it out in his mind. He'd tried to get to Mal through Lynn, and the trail had gone cold almost before it started. So now he'd have to try it a different way. Mal was supposed to be connected with the syndicate again. Maybe he could find him through the syndicate.
He didn't like it that way. Syndicate people had a reputation for sticking together. He'd start nosing around and, the first thing, Mal would hear about it. Mal would know he was alive and looking for him. But it ought to flush him out. And otherwise the whole thing was hung up, no place to go.
He finished his meal and took a cab uptown to Central Park West and 104th Street. This was the wrong end of the
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