The Green Eagle Score (2 page)

“And between you and Devers?”

“I got no jealousy, Parker. You know me better than that.”

“That’s you. How does he act, you, the ex-husband, hanging around?”

Fusco shrugged. “He’s cool. What the hell, he knows the score, he knows I’m not trying to freeze him out.”

“All right. Tell me about this base. You say it’s Air Force.”

“Yeah.” Fusco leaned forward, elbows on knees, expression earnest and intent. “It’s some kind of training base, it’s all schools. They get a big turnover of people, most of them only stay two or three months.”

“What kind of planes do they have there?”

Fusco seemed surprised at the question. “I don’t know,” he said. “You want to go in by plane?”

“How do I know? I’m not sure I want to go in at all. Do you know anything about this base or don’t you?”

“Stan would be the one to tell you about that,” Fusco said. “I don’t know this military stuff, Parker.”

“You never cased it?”

“Sure I did.” Fusco’s professional pride was hurt. “I been on the base a couple times, Stan fixed me up with a fake ID.”

“How far’s the finance office from the gate?”

“Well, there’s three gates. It’s a hell of a distance from the main gate, but there’s this other one, the South Gate, it’s only like two blocks from there. It’s like a back entrance.”

“How many guards on each gate?”

“Two. Just kids, you know?”

“And the payroll’s four hundred grand?”

“Around that. Sometimes a little more, a little less.”

“How’s it come in?”

“They fly it in, the day before.”

Parker said, “Give me the sequence.”

Fusco said, “The plane comes in the day before, in the morning. The payroll’s in two metal boxes. They put it on this truck, drive it to the finance office. Then they—”

“What kind of truck?”

“Regular armored car. A tough nut, Parker.”

“All right. What next?”

“They split it up,” Fusco said, “into the payrolls for all the outfits on the base. The money and a payroll sheet goes into a small metal box for each outfit, and it all goes into their vault overnight. Then in the morning they load it all into the armored car again and drive it around the base. There’s one officer in each outfit takes care of the payroll. He signs for his box, takes it, gives out the cash.”

“What’s the overnight surveillance?”

“Two AP’s inside the building, in the room next to the vault.”

“AP’s?”

“Air Police.”

“How many people work in the finance office during the day?”

“I don’t know for sure. Maybe twenty. That’s the kind of thing Stan could tell you.”

“Maybe he should of come down here.”

Fusco grinned. “Would you listen to a kid you didn’t know?”

“I’m not sure I’ll listen to you either,” Parker told him. “What do you want from me now?”

“Come back with me. Talk to Stan, look it over, make up your mind. If you don’t like it, Stan pays your round trip. And the lady’s, if you want.”

Parker emptied his glass again, got to his feet. “I’ll let you know,” he said, and went over to the dresser to get out his other bathing-suit. While changing he said, “You registered here?”

“No. I’m at the Holiday Inn out by the airport.”

“What room?”

“Forty-nine.”

Wearing the bathing-suit, Parker went into the bathroom for a dry towel. When he came out he said, “You go back there, I’ll get in touch with you.”

“It’s solid, Parker,” Fusco said. “I’m sure of this one.”

“Take your time with the ice water,” Parker told him. “Make sure the door’s locked on your way out.”

Claire was lying face up on her chaise longue, arms at her sides, eyes closed, one knee raised. Her suit was yellow and two-piece, her skin was tanning nicely, her face was made anonymously beautiful by her sunglasses, and the men watching her looked at Parker with disgust when he sat down beside her and said, “I’m back.”

She opened one eye, nodded, and closed it again. “He’s a funny-looking little man.”

“His ideas are funny too.”

“Don’t tell me,” she said, and her body seemed to have tensed slightly, without actually moving.

“I won’t tell you,” Parker said. Claire’s one involvement in a heist had been too much for her, and now they had a deal; she would never ask him what he was working on, and he would never volunteer to tell her. It was a perfect arrangement for both of them.

She said, after a minute, “Are you going away?”

“I don’t know yet.” He put his towel down beside him on the chaise longue and said, “I’m going in and get wet.”

“I’ve had enough for a while. I’ll stay in the sun.”

He walked down across the sloping hot sand to the water. Two tanned women in white bathing-suits, coming out together, pulling off their bathing-caps and shaking out blonde hair, looked at Parker through their lashes, trying to upstage one another, but he ignored them both. There was a time when women had been a brief antidote for the itch to work, but now that he had Claire the quick anonymous lay was no longer necessary. He walked on past them and into the water, and when it was thigh-deep he stretched forward into a breaking wave, rode the trough and up the face of the next one, and rolled over to coast with the motion of the sea.

He kept one eye on the beach, not wanting to lose his orientation. The ocean here could turn bad all at once, and he wanted always to know where land was. Just yesterday a young couple had been caught in some kind of backwash, the waves refusing to ride them in but instead keeping them imprisoned out there, slowly pulling them away until they’d had to call for help, and fresher swimmers had gone out after them and towed them in to where they could stand. Parker respected the sea, as he respected any powerful opponent, and was in no hurry to challenge it.

Was he going to join Fusco in challenging the United States Air Force? On the face of it it didn’t seem sensible, but every job seemed impossible before it was done. This one was being presented to him by a professional he’d known for years, so even though Fusco was recently out of prison Parker had to think about his proposition, he couldn’t dismiss it out of hand.

And maybe Fusco really did have something. He was still a pro, with a pro’s eye and a pro’s judgment, so maybe up there in upstate New York with the ex-wife and the payroll clerk and the United States Air Force there was a workable job to be done after all.

And if it could be, if the details could be found, the right string put together, all the dangers thought of and defended against, if they really could walk into that Air Force base and walk out with the payroll, what a sweet one that would be.

It wouldn’t cost anything to take a look. If it didn’t feel right he didn’t have to stay. Claire would be here, he could come back, rest again, relax again, wait again for somebody to come along with an offer that sounded better.

All right. He rolled over, drifted lazily in to shore, walked up the beach in the sunlight to where Claire was lying now on her stomach, propped up on her elbows as she read a paperback book.

Parker sat down beside her, put his sunglasses on, leaned back on his chaise longue with his face in the sun, and said, ”I’m going away for a while.”

Still looking at the book, she said, “I knew.”

“It may just be for a day or two. If I’m not back in two days figure me to be gone for a couple weeks at least.”

“Or maybe for ever,” she said.

He looked at her, but her eyes were still on the book. He said, “I’m not walking out on you.”

“Maybe not on purpose,” she said. “I’ve known men like you before.”

She might have been talking about her airline pilot husband, who wound up smeared like raspberry jam across some mountaintop. Parker didn’t like the analogy.

“You’ve never known anybody like me before,” he said. “I only walk where the ice is thick.”

“You walk on ice,” she said. “That’s what I mean.”

“That’s a surprise? You knew that all along.”

“I know.”

“Then why this?”

She turned her head, looked at him through the green lenses of her glasses. After a minute she shook her head and looked back at the book. “I don’t know. No reason.”

“All right.” He faced front again and said, “The room’ll be paid for a month. If I’m not back by then, there’s a package in the hotel safe, enough to carry you for a while.”

“If you’re not back in a month, I shouldn’t wait any more, is that it?”

“Right.”

“You won’t be contacting me at all.”

“Probably not. I might, if there’s a reason, but I won’t just to say hello the weather’s fine.”

“I know,” she said.

Parker got to his feet. “Don’t get too much sun.”

“I’ll be going in in a while,” she said.

Parker took his towel and walked across the sand to the hotel. He looked back when he reached the door, but Claire wasn’t looking at him. Her head was down on the book now, and her hands were covering her face. Parker went on into the hotel.

”Stan,” said Fusco, “this is the fella I told you about. Parker, Stan Devers.”

It was raining in New York, drizzling down on the airport in the darkness, cold and wet and a million miles from the heat of Puerto Rico. People with intent faces were hurrying by, bumping into each other, carrying luggage, in a hurry, not happy. In the middle of the brightly lighted floor Parker and Fusco and Devers made an island that the bustle eddied around, the hurriers managing to miss them without quite seeing them.

Devers stuck out his hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr Parker.” He was a pretty beach boy, muscular and smiling and self-confident, with a clean strong jawline and curly blond hair. His handshake was self-consciously firm, and he was in civilian clothing, in threads a little too good for somebody who’s supposed to be living on Army pay. He made Parker think of the kind of insurance salesman who peddles his policies on the golf course, except this specimen wasn’t quite old enough for that yet.

“I’ve got a car outside,” Devers said.

Fusco had explained to him on the way up that the fastest way to get to Monequois from New York was to drive. There was local airline service, but it was slow and unreliable. That’s why Devers had been contacted to drive down and meet them at Kennedy Airport.

They started now toward the exit, Devers leading the way through the crowd, saying over his shoulder, “It’s about a five-hour drive, so if you want to make any kind of stop now, go right ahead.”

“We’ll stop on the way,” Parker said.

“Fine.”

The doors opened for them and they went out to moist cold air. There was a roof over this area, but everything was wet just the same, glistening with a clammy sheen of moisture. A Carey bus was picking up passengers to the left, and a stream of taxis was inching along the ramp, letting out arriving passengers and picking up new ones.

Devers had illegally parked his car, a two-year-old maroon Pontiac, in a loading zone just to the right. He unlocked the trunk and stowed the luggage while the others got into the car. Fusco started to get in front but Parker stopped him, saying, “Sit in back. I want to talk to your boy.”

“Sure thing.”

Devers showed surprise for just a second when he got into the car and saw Parker in the front seat with him, but all he said was, “The longest stretch’ll be getting out of this damn city.” He started the engine, cut off a taxi, and they rolled down the ramp into the rain.

Devers was a good driver, if a little fast and cocksure. He out-distanced most of the cabs he met while circling around Kennedy Airport and out on to Van Wyck Expressway, and from there on he maintained a steady seven or eight miles above the posted speed limit. It was just a little after midnight now, and traffic was pretty light once they moved away from the airport. Devers stayed on good roads all the way, Grand Central Parkway and the Triborough Bridge and then over to the Major Deegan Expressway, and despite the rain they were only about half an hour getting to the beginning of the Thruway at the New York City line.

Parker waited until then, until Devers was on the Thruway and settled in for the straight run north, the tires whining on the wet concrete, the wipers ticking back and forth, and then he said, “What are your payments on a car like this?”

Devers was surprised at the question. He looked at Parker, seemed about to ask him why he wanted to know, but then shrugged and looked back at the highway and said, “I don’t know exactly. I paid cash.”

Parker nodded, and looked out the window, and when a minute later Devers asked him if he minded a little music he said no. Devers found a rock-and-roll station, but he kept the volume down and the tone control toward bass, so it wasn’t bad. Most of the time, the beat of the music worked against the pace of the windshield wipers.

They stopped at the Ramapo service area near Sloatsburg. Sitting in a booth over a late dinner, Parker said, “That’s a good-looking suit you’ve got.”

Devers smiled in pleasure, glancing down at himself. “You like it?”

“Where’d you get it? Not in Monequois.”

“Hell, no. Lord & Taylor, in New York.” Devers spoke like a man justifiably proud of his store.

Parker nodded and said, “You go there much?”

“I got a charge account there,” Devers told him. “Lord & Taylor and Macy’s, between the two I can get anything I want.”

“I guess so,” said Parker, and went back to his meal.

When they went out to the car, the rain had stopped. The Pontiac glittered in the lights from the restaurant, looking almost black. This time Parker had Fusco get in front while he sat in back. Devers glided them back out to the almost-deserted Thruway, took it up a little above seventy, and turned on the radio again. It was a different station now, but it was playing the same music.

Nobody talked. The dashboard lights were green, the night outside the windows was rarely punctured by headlights. From time to time Parker saw Devers looking at him in the rearview mirror; the boy kept studying him, with curiosity and respect and some puzzlement.

Parker shut his eyes and listened to the night whine by under the tires.