"Westlake, Donald E as Stark, Richard - Parker 11 - The Rare Coin Score 1.1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Westlake Donald E)

"In other words, I don't matter."

"Right."

She nodded. "Fine by me," she said. "It just took me by surprise, that's all."

There was nothing to say to that, so Parker faced front and got out his cigarettes. He lit one for himself while she was starting the engine, and then sat back and watched Indianapolis slide by. It was a little after midnight of a Wednesday night and the streets were deserted. They were also very wide and very brightly lit, so it was like driving through a recently abandoned city, except that here and there neon lights flashed in the windows of closed drugstores and supermarkets. Parker watched all that emptiness outside the windshield, and it seemed to him this should be a good town for a late-night haul.

It was good to be thinking right again. His mind had snapped into shape two days ago, the instant he'd heard Handy McKay's voice on the telephone, and he'd been cold and solid and sound ever since.

The conversation had been brief, once the astonished and disgruntled divorcee had been gotten rid of. Handy said, "Ran into a pal of yours the other day. Lempke."

That was a good name. Parker hadn't worked with Lempke in years, but he remembered him as reliable. He said, "How is he these days?"

"Keeping busy. He wanted to look you up sometime."

"I'd like to see him."

"You could try a friend of his at the Barkley Hotel in Chicago."

Parker, understanding that the friend was Lempke himself under an alias, said, "Maybe I will. What's the name?"

"Moore. John Moore."

"Got it. You still retired?"

'Still and forever. Drop in sometime."

"I will," Parker said, knowing he wouldn't, and hung up.

The conversation with Lempke was even briefer. Not identifying himself, Parker said, "I was talking to Handy the other day. He said we might get together."

"Not me," said Lempke. "But a fella named Lynch might register at the Clayborn Hotel in Indianapolis on Wednesday. That might be something for you, if you're interested."

"Thanks for the tip," said Parker, and on Wednesday he'd arrived at the Clayborn Hotel in Indianapolis, registered under the name of Lynch, and waited.

Now the waiting was done. He was surprised to be met by a woman, but with Lempke in it the job could still be good. The name she'd dropped--Billy Lebatard--meant nothing to him, and was unlikely to be another name of Lempke's, since Lempke knew enough not to use his own initials on new names.

The woman drove at a fast and steady pace south-westward away from the center of town. The avenue narrowed, grew less brightly lit, more residential. There were no hills anywhere, nothing but flatness. Parker noticed the woman glance at him out of the corner of her eye as the cops went by.

What did she expect him to do? Flinch, put his hands over his face, jump from the car and start running, pull out a pistol and bang away?

He threw his cigarette out of the window, shut his eyes, and waited for the ride to stop.




Three