"Westlake, Donald E as Stark, Richard - Parker 14 - Slayground 1.1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Westlake Donald E)

"Easy!" Parker shouted. "Take it easy, Laufman!" He knew Laufman was a second-rate driver, but he was the best they could find for this job and he did know this city.

I Laufman finally eased off on the accelerator enough so the wheel could grab, and then they started moving, the Ford lunging down the road. It was like hurrying down the middle of a snowy football field with a high gray fence on the left sideline and a high green fence on the right and the goal posts way the hell around the curve of the earth somewhere.

Far away ahead of them they saw the dot of flashing red light. Laufman yelled, "I'll have to take the other route!"

"Do it, then!" Parker told him. "Don't talk about it."

They'd worked out three ways to leave here, depending on circumstances. The one behind them they'd ignored, the one ahead was no good any more. For the third one, they should take the right at the end of the green fence, go almost all the way around the amusement park, and wind up in a neighborhood of tenements and vacant lots where they had three potential places laid out to ditch the Ford.

They had plenty of time. The end of the fence was just ahead, and the flashing red light was still a mile or more away. But Laufman was still standing on the accelerator.

Grofield shouted, "Laufman, slow down! You won't make the turn!"

"I know how to drive!" Laufman screamed, and spun the wheel without any deceleration at all. The side road shot by on an angle, the car bucked, it dug its left shoulder into the pavement and rolled over four times and wound up on its right side against a chain-link fence by a snow-covered empty parking lot.

Parker was thrown around the back seat, but wasn't knocked out. When the Ford finally rocked to a stop he got himself turned around and looked past the top of the front seat, and Laufman and Grofield were all balled up together down against the right-hand door. Grofield's head had hit the windshield, he had a red sunburst on his temple now. Laufman had no visible mark on him. Both were breathing, but both were completely out.

Parker stood up and pushed up over his head to shove the door open. It kept wanting to slam again, but he finally got it all the way open to where it would catch. Then he shoved the satchel out and climbed out after it.

It was a mess. The siren was close now, and screaming closer. There was no other traffic, no car to commandeer. Parker stood in the snow beside the Ford, its wheels now turning the way the armored car's had done, and looked around, and the only thing he- saw was the main entrance to the amusement park, on an angle across the way. High metal gates were shut across there, and ticket booths and drawings on walls could be vaguely seen beyond them. Above the gates tall free-standing letters said FUN ISLAND.

What about this side? The amusement park's parking lot, that was all, with the Ford now sprawled against its fence. Down a little way, just about opposite the Fun Island entrance, was the parking-lot entrance, flanked by a one-story small clapboard building that probably didn't contain much more than the parking lot office and a couple of rest rooms.

And the other side of the main road? Nothing but that blank gray fence, no way into the ball park along this road at all.

The only possibility was Fun Island. Parker grabbed up the satchel and ran through the ankle-deep snow and across the road and up to the gates. There were faint tire tracks in the snow, probably meaning a watchman who made occasional rounds, but there was no car here now, neither inside nor outside the gates. Parker looked back and saw he was leaving tracks of his own, but that couldn't be helped. The first thing to do was go to ground, get out of sight. Then he could see what possibilities were left.

The gates were eight feet high. He tossed the satchel over and climbed over after it, dropping on all fours on the cement inside. This area was roofed, and free of snow.

The siren screamed by, down at the corner. Going to the armored car first, and not to the wrecked Ford. That was good, it gave him another couple of minutes. He straightened, reached for the satchel, and happened to glance across the way.

There were two cars there, parked next to each other beside the small building at the parking-lot entrance. They were on the opposite side from where he'd been, and must have been there all along. One of the cars was a black Lincoln, as deeply polished and gleaming as a new shoe. The other one was a police prowl car.

Standing in front of the two cars were four men, two uniformed policemen and two bulky men in hats and dark overcoats. They were just standing there, looking over in this direction at Parker. One of the policemen had a long white envelope in his hand, as though he'd just gotten it and had forgotten he was holding it.

Parker was the first to break the tableau. He grabbed the satchel, turned, jumped over the turnstiles, and ran off into Fun Island.



Two


TWO WEEKS ago Parker had come out to look at the operation and see if it was feasible. The man who was selling it to him was named Dent, and a long time ago he'd been in this kind of work himself. But he was an old man now, with blue-white parchment skin, and long since inactive. Partly inactive; he and his wife traveled around the country in a blue Ford pulling a trailer, what was now called a mobile home, and they stopped here and there at trailer camps around the country, and Dent kept his eyes open. His body had aged but his mind was as good as ever, and from time to time he saw jobs that were there to be done, things he would have done himself in the old days. And now he called this man or that man, younger than himself, and told them the job, and if they liked it they paid him for it. A kind of finder's fee.

Dent had met Parker at the airport, with his blue Ford but without his wife or his trailer. "Good to see you," he said, in his uncertain old man's voice, and they shook hands, and Parker sat be,side him in the Ford while Dent drove. Dent drove carefully, maybe a little too slowly, but mostly well.

And he felt like reminiscing. "What do you hear from Handy McKay?" he said.

"Still retired," Parker said. He wasn't good at small talk, but he'd learned over the years that most people needed it, to give them a feeling of assurance about who and where they were. Like a dog circling three times before lying down, people had to talk for a while before saying anything.