The Outfit by Richard Stark

first week of the month. If the Outfit had men covering him at either airport to be sure he wasn't tapped he, Strand, had never seen them. The amount was always the same – seventy-five grand – it never varied by a nickel.
    Parnell was only a driver, and was afraid to hit the Outfit anyway so he just filed the information away in his head for a rainy day. Then, a little more than a year later, Strand fell off an elevated subway platform and died, so even if Parnell did pull the job there wouldn't be any way for the Outfit to trace the leak.
    Then Parnell got the go-ahead letter from Parker. He'd worked with Parker three times, the last time five years ago, and got along with him better than with most. Nevertheless, he felt no particular kinship with Parker nor any responsibility towards him. He would have ignored the letter if it hadn't been for his sister's late husband.
    But Strand had given him a setup and Parker had given him a reason to use it. With $75,000 he could build his own car again and take it to France and Italy the next summer for the races. All of his earnings from the jobs with Parker, Jacko, Handy McKay, and the rest of them went into his racers, which is why he could never save enough to quit. Besides, he didn't want to retire, not from either of his occupations, because he enjoyed them both in the same way.
    Seventy-five grand.
    He thought at first about doing the job himself. It would be a one-man operation with no trouble at all, but, when he thought it over, he changed his mind. He wasn't a heavy, he was a driver. So he got in touch with a heavy he knew, Kobler, and gave him the details of the score. Kobler agreed to come in, and they worked out the cut. Parnell would get 25 per cent for fingering the job, Kobler would get 50 per cent for pulling it off, and Parnell would get another 25 per cent for driving the getaway car. Kobler hadn't liked the idea of giving Parnell 50 per cent of the take without Parnell doing a 50 per cent job like actually running the operation with him, but he didn't mind at all paying out 25 per cent to the finger and 25 per cent to the driver. Who cared if it was the same man both times? So they came to an agreement on the last day of the month.
    Each moved out of his apartment. Parnell moved out of town altogether – down to the stopover city, where he found a furnished room three traffic lights from the airport, a distance of 2-6 miles. He sent the address to Kobler, whose move had taken him only across town to the apartment building facing the one where Eric LaRenne lived. Kobler had found out what Eric LaRenne looked like, and now spent every morning staring out of the window at the street, waiting for LaRenne to emerge wearing a brown suit. LaRenne usually wore grey pants and a flannel shirt, so there'd be no question when the day of the job came along.
    It came on a Tuesday, the fifth. Kobler watched LaRenne appear, wearing a brown suit, turn left, and then right at the corner at the far end of the street. As son as LaRenne was out of sight, Kobler made his phone calls. His first call was to the airline, reconfirming Robert Southwell's seat on the 1.50 pm flight for Miami. He had reserved a seat on the 1.50 flight for every day until the tenth, using a different alias for each day, to be sure he would get on the flight with LaRenne. The girl confirmed Robert Southwell's reservation. He thanked her and broke the connection. Then he called Western Union and sent a telegram to Parnell: " Arriving airport 5.20 Southwell ."
    Kobler got dressed and packed his suitcase and briefcase. The suitcase had clothing and toilet gear in it; the briefcase contained a Ruger Blackhawk.357 Magnum revolver loaded with .38 Short Colt cartridges. Unlike most men in the business, Kobler didn't get rid of his gun after each operation and order a new one for the next job. He'd had the Blackhawk since 1955, when they had first come on the market, and he intended to keep it until he was forced