Read The Outfit for Free Online Page B

easy take?"
    Jacko laughed. "Half a dozen," he said. "They pay the law and they figure that's all they got to do."
    "So here's your chance, that's all."
    "But it helps you, too, Parker."
    "So what?"
    Jacko shrugged. "I'll think it over."
    Begley said, "I'll spread the word, Parker. You can count on me."
    "Good."
    "They should have paid you in the first place the way Bronson promised. It was your money."
    Jacko said, "Maybe they didn't figure it that way."
    "They figured it wrong," said Parker. He got to his feet. To Begley, he said, 'I'll see you in a couple weeks."
    "Okay." Begley walked him to the door. "Couple more boys you know upstairs. Want to say hello?"
    "No time. Spread the word on the new face, too, will you?"
    "Sure."
    Parker went back out to the Olds. Begley stood on the porch staring after him as he drove away. He drove back to the highway and headed north again, crossing into Illinois, getting as far as Kankakee before stopping at a motel for the night. He wrote half a dozen more letters that night. This had been his routine all the way up from Georgia. Stop off to see one or two people every day along his route, and, at night, write letters to the men too far off the route for him to visit. He'd written about thirty letters so far, and seen seven people. If only a third of them took the chance he was suggesting, it would be enough. The Outfit would start to hurt.

3
    THERE WAS A LARGE poster frame beside the entrance. In it, a faggot with black wavy hair smiled above his bow tie. His eyes were made up like Theda Bara's. Under the bow tie it said: RONNIE RANDALL & HIS PIANO – EVERY NITE! Over the entrance, small spots shone on huge silver letters against a black background: THE THREE KINGS. Pasted to the glass of the left-hand entrance door was the notice: No cover, no minimum – except weekends . Covering the glass of the other door was a poster: SALLY & THE SWINGERS – EVERY FRI. SAT. SUN! The building behind all this information was low and squat, made of concrete blocks painted a pale blue. Porthole windows marched away to the right of the entrance across the front of the building, showing amber bar lights deep inside, making it look like midnight in an aquarium. Parker drove by twice, very slowly, and then parked half a block away in the darkness of a side street.
    This part of Brooklyn was a tight gridwork of two-storey row houses with Kings Highway gouging a broad black top diagonal down through it. The highway was flanked with diners, bars, small warehouses, and used-car lots. At the corner where The Three Kings stood, two right-angled grid streets intersected, with Kings Highway cutting through the intersection at a forty-five degree angle, leaving a big open space of black-top in the centre which was fed from six directions and capped by a swaying traffic light. The street lights were all too far away to light the middle, which was open, bare, and black.
    Eleven o'clock. Tuesday night. Darkness surrounded the intersection everywhere except for the pool of light in front of The Three Kings. Up and down Kings Highway were far glimpses of other neon oases, but the grid tree-lined streets were all shut up and dark.
    Parker left the Olds in a slot with plenty of room in front, so he could take off without backing and filling, and walked to the intersection. November was ending, and Brooklyn was cold with the wet bronchial cold of the harbour. Parker's breath misted around him as he walked. He was wearing a topcoat, but no hat, and he walked with his hands jammed deep into his pockets. In one of his suit pockets was the gun he'd picked up the day before in Wilmington, a short-barrelled S & W .38 Special.
    He was now ten days from Florida. Forty-seven letters had been written; twelve men had been talked to personally. Four of the twelve had said they'd been looking for an excuse like this to hit the syndicate for years. Five more had said they'd think it over, and three had copped out for one reason or