Read Online The Outfit 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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after it had gone in past the hedge did the other Cadillac go on down the street and around the corner. To the undiscerning eye, there was no particular connection between the two Cadillacs.
The black-top drive looped past the front of the house, then curved around to the garage at the side. The chauffeur stopped at the front door and hopped out to open the door for Bronson. Bronson climbed out and the chauffeur asked, "You want the car any more today?"
"No." It was said angrily. Where the hell was there to go? He'd just come from the funeral of a local businessman, the owner of a chain of supermarkets. Funerals. Big, dark, stone houses. Cold weather. All because of one madman named Parker. He went up the steps and into the house, and the chauffeur took the Cadillac around to the garage. Another driveway came in from behind the garage, and the second Cadillac came in that way. The two of them were put away and the five men went into the house through one of the back doors.
Bronson, passing through the main hall, found his wife in the small room behind the drawing room watching television. He stood in the doorway, feeling grumpy, but not wanting to take it out on Willa. It wasn't her fault. He said, "Hello."
"Oh, hello!" She got to her feet, a plump, pleasant-looking woman with timid mannerisms, and went over to turn the television off.
"Let it go," he said. "What's on?"
"It's just a movie. I think there might be a football game on one of the other channels." She wasn't used to having her husband home. She was grateful for his presence, but at the same time she knew he wasn't here of his own free will. What the problem that had forced him home was she didn't know – he never talked about his business with her – but she knew it had to be something serious. Every once in a while during the year he would stop in for a few days, just long enough to put in token appearances at his office downtown and at a few business luncheons or civic meetings, then he would be off again. But this time was different. This time, he was obviously angry and upset, as though it hadn't been his original plan to come at this time. And he had brought all those bodyguards with him, a thing he'd never done before. So she knew he was here against his will and she worried about it, wondering what she could do to make his stay less difficult. "I'll see if I can find that football game."
"No, never mind. You watch your movie."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure. I'm sure."
She wilted at the tone, immediately looking sheepish. "I'm sorry, Arthur."
"Oh, for Christ's sake! I'm not mad at you ."
"I know, Arthur. I-"
One of the bodyguards appeared in the doorway. "Phone, Mr Bronson."
"All right." He was grateful for the interruption. He left the room and hurried upstairs.
Could this be it? Had they run Parker down? Could he now get the hell away from this mausoleum?
At the head of the stairs on the second floor, a hall as wide as many of the rooms stretched away to his left, lawned with Persian and lined with candelabras. He walked down this hall, the carpet muffling his tread, and entered the third room on the right – his office.
The office was dominated by a desk the size of a sports car, carefully wrought of hand-carved Honduras mahogany. Books he had bought – not to read, but because they were in sets with bindings of which the decorator approved – lined the shelves on three walls. Two tall narrow windows faced the tree-lined street and the park beyond.
Bronson sat at the desk and reached out for the telephone, hoping it was the good news he'd been waiting for. He checked the movement at the last second, wanting to prolong the suspense, and made the caller wait while he unwrapped and lit a cigar. The cigar in his left hand, he reached out for the phone again.
But it wasn't good news. It was bad news, very bad news. Someone had just knocked off the Club Cockatoo.
2
The neon sign which hung out by the road was green. It said:
CLUB
The black-top drive looped past the front of the house, then curved around to the garage at the side. The chauffeur stopped at the front door and hopped out to open the door for Bronson. Bronson climbed out and the chauffeur asked, "You want the car any more today?"
"No." It was said angrily. Where the hell was there to go? He'd just come from the funeral of a local businessman, the owner of a chain of supermarkets. Funerals. Big, dark, stone houses. Cold weather. All because of one madman named Parker. He went up the steps and into the house, and the chauffeur took the Cadillac around to the garage. Another driveway came in from behind the garage, and the second Cadillac came in that way. The two of them were put away and the five men went into the house through one of the back doors.
Bronson, passing through the main hall, found his wife in the small room behind the drawing room watching television. He stood in the doorway, feeling grumpy, but not wanting to take it out on Willa. It wasn't her fault. He said, "Hello."
"Oh, hello!" She got to her feet, a plump, pleasant-looking woman with timid mannerisms, and went over to turn the television off.
"Let it go," he said. "What's on?"
"It's just a movie. I think there might be a football game on one of the other channels." She wasn't used to having her husband home. She was grateful for his presence, but at the same time she knew he wasn't here of his own free will. What the problem that had forced him home was she didn't know – he never talked about his business with her – but she knew it had to be something serious. Every once in a while during the year he would stop in for a few days, just long enough to put in token appearances at his office downtown and at a few business luncheons or civic meetings, then he would be off again. But this time was different. This time, he was obviously angry and upset, as though it hadn't been his original plan to come at this time. And he had brought all those bodyguards with him, a thing he'd never done before. So she knew he was here against his will and she worried about it, wondering what she could do to make his stay less difficult. "I'll see if I can find that football game."
"No, never mind. You watch your movie."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure. I'm sure."
She wilted at the tone, immediately looking sheepish. "I'm sorry, Arthur."
"Oh, for Christ's sake! I'm not mad at you ."
"I know, Arthur. I-"
One of the bodyguards appeared in the doorway. "Phone, Mr Bronson."
"All right." He was grateful for the interruption. He left the room and hurried upstairs.
Could this be it? Had they run Parker down? Could he now get the hell away from this mausoleum?
At the head of the stairs on the second floor, a hall as wide as many of the rooms stretched away to his left, lawned with Persian and lined with candelabras. He walked down this hall, the carpet muffling his tread, and entered the third room on the right – his office.
The office was dominated by a desk the size of a sports car, carefully wrought of hand-carved Honduras mahogany. Books he had bought – not to read, but because they were in sets with bindings of which the decorator approved – lined the shelves on three walls. Two tall narrow windows faced the tree-lined street and the park beyond.
Bronson sat at the desk and reached out for the telephone, hoping it was the good news he'd been waiting for. He checked the movement at the last second, wanting to prolong the suspense, and made the caller wait while he unwrapped and lit a cigar. The cigar in his left hand, he reached out for the phone again.
But it wasn't good news. It was bad news, very bad news. Someone had just knocked off the Club Cockatoo.
2
The neon sign which hung out by the road was green. It said:
CLUB
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