The Score: A Parker Novel Read Free

wouldn't work that way. There was a clicking sound, and the guy came up with a knife. He didn't waste any time, just lunged.
    Parker had no weapons on him but his hands. They were big hands, to go with the rest of him. He moved to the left to limit the guy's knife-arc, pretended a left-hand grab for the knife, and stepped in fast, bringing the edge of his hand in under the guy's jaw.
    There wouldn't be any more air going through that throat. The knife fell, and then the guy fell.
    Parker had moved as a result of training. Counterattack should be at least as strong as attack. If someone wants to hit you, you hit him. If someone wants to rough you up, you rough him up. If someone wants to kill you, you kill him.
    But now, belatedly, he wished he'd pulled that swipe a little. He couldn't get any answers now. The clown shouldn't have reached for a knife.
    Parker went through his pockets. Cigarettes, matches, comb, small package of Kleenex, inhaler, unopened box of contraceptives, key chain with three keys on it including one to a General Motors car, nail clipper, wallet. The wallet contained seven dollars in bills, two photos of girls, an unemploymentinsurance check, and a driver's license. The check and license were both made out to Edward Owen, and the driver's license gave Owen an address in Jersey City.
    He hadn't been law, but Parker already knew that. What he'd been, he still didn't know. He put the wallet in his own pocket; maybe Paulus would know. Then he left and walked down to the next intersection and looked at the street signs. There was a streetlight there; under it Parker opened his city map and found out where he was and how to get where he was going.
    It was six blocks before he saw anybody at all.

2
    P aulus opened the door, looking wary, and then smiled a greeting when he saw it was Parker. “Come on in,” he said, holding the door wide. “We been waiting for you.” He was short, slender, balding, forty. He was wearing a thin brown suit and a thin brown tie, and he looked like a timid accountant.
    Parker stepped into the apartment, took the door away from Paulus and shut it. “The deal's off,” he said.
    They were standing in a little empty foyer with a spaceship light fixture up above and an Oriental rug below. Paulus blinked rapidly and said, “What? What? What do you mean?”
    “Somebody was following me.”
    Paulus switched to relief again, the way he'd done when he'd seen it was Parker at the door. “Oh,” he said, throwing it away. “That doesn't mean anything.”
    “It doesn't mean anything?”
    “I know all about it, Parker.” Paulus patted at his arm, trying to get him moving. “Come on in, we're all here, Edgars will explain it to you.”
    Parker didn't move. “You explain, Paulus,” he said.
    Paulus looked troubled, unhappy. “I think it would be better if Edgars told you the situ—”
    “I think it would be better if you did,” Parker told him. “He's dead.”
    Paulus now was just blank. “What? Who?”
    “Edward Owen. The guy who was tailing me.”
    “You killed him? For Christ's sake, why?” Paulus' tone was intense, but his volume had dropped, as though he didn't want any chance of somebody else in the apartment hearing him.
    Parker answered him at normal volume. “He was tailing me. I stopped him to find out why, and he pulled a knife.”
    Paulus shook his head. “I don't know, Parker,” he said. “That's a hell of a thing. I don't know what to tell you.”
    “Tell me how come you knew I was going to be tailed. Tell me why I was being tailed. And tell me whose idea it was to tail me.”
    “It was Edgars',” Paulus said, still very soft-voiced. “Owen was his man.”
    Parker glanced at the entranceway that led deeper into the apartment. “Who the hell is Edgars anyway? I don't remember the name.”
    “You don't know him, he's never worked an operation like this before.”
    “Then what's he doing here?”
    “He set this one up.”
    “Oh Christ.” Parker shook