Read Online The Man With the Getaway Face by Richard Stark - Free Book Online
Authors: Richard Stark
Tags: General Interest, Fiction, General, Suspense, Mystery & Detective, Suspense fiction, Crime, Detective and Mystery Stories, Hard-Boiled, Criminals, Parker (Fictitious character)
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the stakeout and after a while she'd given in. He'd spent the day and part of the evening at various spots on route 9 working out the state trooper beats. They talked it over for a while, and then Parker said, "Let Skimm take over Thursday. I want to show you the doublecross."
Handy nodded. "I've been thinking about that."
Then they went out to a nearby bar and drank some beer. After a while they split, and Parker went back to the motel. He was in bed by one o'clock.
Chapter 2
PARKER slowed as he neared the toll booths, and fumbled in his pocket for change. The toll booth structure was pale stucco with a green California Mission roof. It should have been on a road in Italy or Spain, rather than at the eastern end of the bridge from Perth Amboy to Staten Island.
The fare was fifty cents. Parker handed over two quarters, and went three-quarters of the way around the circle, then straight for about a hundred yards on cracked concrete, and took a right turn. This was 440, headed towards St George, where the ferries docked.
The road was four lanes wide, made of concrete, with a centre mall. But it looked abandoned. Old breaks had been lumpily covered with blacktop, and the more recent breaks had been ignored. Bushes and weeds grew wild on the mall, and the land to either side of the road was scrub.
"This is the way she'll come," he said to Handy. "After the job, she'll take the dirt road back of the diner, just the way she says. But she'll turn right instead of left, and come up just the way we did, up 9 and over 440 to the Outerbridge Crossing. She can take it easy along here, she's out of New Jersey."
Handy twisted around in the seat and looked behind them. "We're the only ones on the road."
"This route doesn't get much play. On a Monday, around noon, we'll have it all to ourselves."
"You're sure this is the way she'll come?"
"She's got to. It's the most direct way."
"What about those other two roads? Back there by the bridge, at the circle?"
Parker shrugged. "They don't go anywhere. This is the way to the ferry. There's what I want, up there."
He hit the brake, and the Ford slowed. At an angle off to the right was a cross street, or the beginning of a cross street. When this road was built, the curbs were put down with provisions for cross streets in the future, when Staten Island would be as big as Brooklyn.
The curb curved back on either side, and concrete started off to the right, going into the scrub about ten feet and stopping. Beyond was a gravel road for about a hundred feet, and beyond that a dirt road that curved back towards the main road but didn't come all the way. From 440, though, all you could see was the concrete starting out and then the gravel going off into the bushes.
Parker slowed the car, turned the wheel a little, and stopped just at the edge of the gravel. "Right here," he said. "The way I told you. We cut her off into this thing, take the dough, and go on to the ferry. Monday, around noon, we'll have ten or fifteen minutes before another car shows up. Besides, we're already in New York State."
They got out of the car. Handy tramped back and forth on the concrete, looking the situation over. He peered down at the gravel part, and stood there a minute, poking at his teeth with a wooden match. Then he shook his head and turned back.
"You know what bothers me?"
"What?"
"Skimm." Handy left the match in his mouth while he dug out a cigarette, talking around the match. "If he's on the outside and she figures to cross him, too, okay, then it'll work out like you say. But if she's sweet-talked him over, I don't like it. Skimm's no dummy. He'll try to think the way we think, and he'll come up with the idea they should stay away from Staten Island."
"Do you think he's in?"
Handy took time to light the cigarette and throw the match away. "I don't know. I've known Skimm twelve years. I've worked with him four, five times. I always figured Skimm was a little guy who didn't have much brains but
Handy nodded. "I've been thinking about that."
Then they went out to a nearby bar and drank some beer. After a while they split, and Parker went back to the motel. He was in bed by one o'clock.
Chapter 2
PARKER slowed as he neared the toll booths, and fumbled in his pocket for change. The toll booth structure was pale stucco with a green California Mission roof. It should have been on a road in Italy or Spain, rather than at the eastern end of the bridge from Perth Amboy to Staten Island.
The fare was fifty cents. Parker handed over two quarters, and went three-quarters of the way around the circle, then straight for about a hundred yards on cracked concrete, and took a right turn. This was 440, headed towards St George, where the ferries docked.
The road was four lanes wide, made of concrete, with a centre mall. But it looked abandoned. Old breaks had been lumpily covered with blacktop, and the more recent breaks had been ignored. Bushes and weeds grew wild on the mall, and the land to either side of the road was scrub.
"This is the way she'll come," he said to Handy. "After the job, she'll take the dirt road back of the diner, just the way she says. But she'll turn right instead of left, and come up just the way we did, up 9 and over 440 to the Outerbridge Crossing. She can take it easy along here, she's out of New Jersey."
Handy twisted around in the seat and looked behind them. "We're the only ones on the road."
"This route doesn't get much play. On a Monday, around noon, we'll have it all to ourselves."
"You're sure this is the way she'll come?"
"She's got to. It's the most direct way."
"What about those other two roads? Back there by the bridge, at the circle?"
Parker shrugged. "They don't go anywhere. This is the way to the ferry. There's what I want, up there."
He hit the brake, and the Ford slowed. At an angle off to the right was a cross street, or the beginning of a cross street. When this road was built, the curbs were put down with provisions for cross streets in the future, when Staten Island would be as big as Brooklyn.
The curb curved back on either side, and concrete started off to the right, going into the scrub about ten feet and stopping. Beyond was a gravel road for about a hundred feet, and beyond that a dirt road that curved back towards the main road but didn't come all the way. From 440, though, all you could see was the concrete starting out and then the gravel going off into the bushes.
Parker slowed the car, turned the wheel a little, and stopped just at the edge of the gravel. "Right here," he said. "The way I told you. We cut her off into this thing, take the dough, and go on to the ferry. Monday, around noon, we'll have ten or fifteen minutes before another car shows up. Besides, we're already in New York State."
They got out of the car. Handy tramped back and forth on the concrete, looking the situation over. He peered down at the gravel part, and stood there a minute, poking at his teeth with a wooden match. Then he shook his head and turned back.
"You know what bothers me?"
"What?"
"Skimm." Handy left the match in his mouth while he dug out a cigarette, talking around the match. "If he's on the outside and she figures to cross him, too, okay, then it'll work out like you say. But if she's sweet-talked him over, I don't like it. Skimm's no dummy. He'll try to think the way we think, and he'll come up with the idea they should stay away from Staten Island."
"Do you think he's in?"
Handy took time to light the cigarette and throw the match away. "I don't know. I've known Skimm twelve years. I've worked with him four, five times. I always figured Skimm was a little guy who didn't have much brains but
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