park where the slums had spread south and east to lap at the very edge of the greenery. Parker walked west on 104th till he came to the grocery store. bodega, it called itself, Spanish for grocery, in black letters on yellow, beneath the Pepsi-Cola emblem. Underneath BODEGA it gave the proprietor's name in smaller black letters. Delgardo.
Inside there was a stink compounded of roach poison, rotted flour, floor wax, old wood, humankind and a hundred other things. Two short heavy women in shiny black fingered the hard rolls. In the narrow space behind the counter a tiny fat man with a thick moustache scratched his left elbow and looked at nothing at all.
Parker pushed past the women and said to the man, "Is Jimmy around these days?"
Delgardo kept scratching his elbow. His eyes came back from infinity and studied Parker's face. "You a friend of Jimmy's?"
"Yeah."
"So how come you don't know where he is?"
"We lost touch."
"So how come I never seen you before?"
"Jimmy drove for me on that payroll job in Buffalo."
Delgardo's hands twitched suddenly, and his eyes flicked in alarm to the two women. In a quick undertone he said, "Don't talk that way."
Without lowering his voice Parker said, "You wanted to know who I was. Now you know. Now you can tell me where Jimmy is.
Delgardo fidgeted a minute, but the two women had shown no signs of interest. He fingered his mustache nervously and said, "Come in the back."
Parker followed him deeper into the store, past a greasy curtain. In the back room the stink was even stronger. Delgardo, smelling of peppers, came close to whisper, "He's in Canada. Driving, you know."
"Cigarettes?"
"Yes."
"When's he coming back?"
"Two, three days."
"Gimme pencil and paper."
"Yes. Wait here."
Parker waited, lighting a cigarette against the stink, while Delgardo went back to the front of the store. There was a flurry of rapid-fire Spanish between Delgardo and one or both of the women. They'd been stealing while he was in back.
He came back angry, and took a deep breath. He shrugged at Parker. "You know how they are."
He gave him a long yellow pencil and a greasy three-by-five memo pad and Parker wrote down the name of the hotel.
"When he comes back, he should call me there. Parker, tell him. If I'm not in, leave a message."
"Parker? You better write it down."
"It's an easy name to remember."
Parker gave him back the memo pad and pencil. Delgardo hesitated, still wanting him to write the name down, then shrugged and led the way back to the front of the store.
The two women were still there, looking silent and frightened. Two uniformed policemen were there, too, filling the store. Their expressions blank and hard, they studied Parker, and Parker said, "Wallet." He reached slowly to his back pocket. They waited, and Parker pulled out the wallet and handed it to the nearest of them.
They both read the driver's license, giving his name as Edward Johnson, and then they gave the wallet back and one of them said, "What was the business in the back of the store? Did you buy something or sell something?"
"Neither."
"Nothing like that, officers," said Delgardo hurriedly. "You know me, I don't do nothing like that." He was sweating beneath his mustache.
"Nothing like what?" one of the cops asked.
Delgardo looked flustered. Parker said, "Nothing like junk." He shucked off his jacket, rolled up his shirt sleeves, showed them his bare arms. "I don't take it, buy it, sell it or carry it," he said. "Get the broads out of here, I'll show you my legs. No needle marks there either."
"That won't be necessary," said the talking cop. "Just empty your pockets. You too, Delgardo. And let's see the pad."
He glanced at the memo pad, looked at Parker. "What's doing at the Carlington Hotel?"
"I'm staying there," Parker said.
"That isn't what it said on your driver's license."
"I had a fight with my wife."
"What was the business in the back of the store?"
"We had a Coke together," said Parker. "I'm an old
Inside there was a stink compounded of roach poison, rotted flour, floor wax, old wood, humankind and a hundred other things. Two short heavy women in shiny black fingered the hard rolls. In the narrow space behind the counter a tiny fat man with a thick moustache scratched his left elbow and looked at nothing at all.
Parker pushed past the women and said to the man, "Is Jimmy around these days?"
Delgardo kept scratching his elbow. His eyes came back from infinity and studied Parker's face. "You a friend of Jimmy's?"
"Yeah."
"So how come you don't know where he is?"
"We lost touch."
"So how come I never seen you before?"
"Jimmy drove for me on that payroll job in Buffalo."
Delgardo's hands twitched suddenly, and his eyes flicked in alarm to the two women. In a quick undertone he said, "Don't talk that way."
Without lowering his voice Parker said, "You wanted to know who I was. Now you know. Now you can tell me where Jimmy is.
Delgardo fidgeted a minute, but the two women had shown no signs of interest. He fingered his mustache nervously and said, "Come in the back."
Parker followed him deeper into the store, past a greasy curtain. In the back room the stink was even stronger. Delgardo, smelling of peppers, came close to whisper, "He's in Canada. Driving, you know."
"Cigarettes?"
"Yes."
"When's he coming back?"
"Two, three days."
"Gimme pencil and paper."
"Yes. Wait here."
Parker waited, lighting a cigarette against the stink, while Delgardo went back to the front of the store. There was a flurry of rapid-fire Spanish between Delgardo and one or both of the women. They'd been stealing while he was in back.
He came back angry, and took a deep breath. He shrugged at Parker. "You know how they are."
He gave him a long yellow pencil and a greasy three-by-five memo pad and Parker wrote down the name of the hotel.
"When he comes back, he should call me there. Parker, tell him. If I'm not in, leave a message."
"Parker? You better write it down."
"It's an easy name to remember."
Parker gave him back the memo pad and pencil. Delgardo hesitated, still wanting him to write the name down, then shrugged and led the way back to the front of the store.
The two women were still there, looking silent and frightened. Two uniformed policemen were there, too, filling the store. Their expressions blank and hard, they studied Parker, and Parker said, "Wallet." He reached slowly to his back pocket. They waited, and Parker pulled out the wallet and handed it to the nearest of them.
They both read the driver's license, giving his name as Edward Johnson, and then they gave the wallet back and one of them said, "What was the business in the back of the store? Did you buy something or sell something?"
"Neither."
"Nothing like that, officers," said Delgardo hurriedly. "You know me, I don't do nothing like that." He was sweating beneath his mustache.
"Nothing like what?" one of the cops asked.
Delgardo looked flustered. Parker said, "Nothing like junk." He shucked off his jacket, rolled up his shirt sleeves, showed them his bare arms. "I don't take it, buy it, sell it or carry it," he said. "Get the broads out of here, I'll show you my legs. No needle marks there either."
"That won't be necessary," said the talking cop. "Just empty your pockets. You too, Delgardo. And let's see the pad."
He glanced at the memo pad, looked at Parker. "What's doing at the Carlington Hotel?"
"I'm staying there," Parker said.
"That isn't what it said on your driver's license."
"I had a fight with my wife."
"What was the business in the back of the store?"
"We had a Coke together," said Parker. "I'm an old
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