Down for the Count: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Ten) by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page A

grab at my sleeve in the dark, pulled away, and stumbled into the outer office.
    “Grab that bastard,” Moe hissed. “Get the damn light on.”
    I tripped over something and fell on my knee, got up and reached for the door. It wasn’t locked. I threw it open, took a deep breath and a chance. I didn’t go out into the gym. I wasn’t sure I could make it if I did. The run was long, ending with a flight of steep stairs, and they might have guns. My .38 was in the glove compartment of my car. I almost never carried it, and rarely shot it. When I did, I almost always missed what I was shooting at.
    I scrambled into a corner, trying to find the desk I remembered being there. My head found it, and I bit my tongue to keep from groaning. There was plenty of noise behind me where the Stooges were running into each other trying to find a light. One of them groped his way into the outer office, found a desk lamp, and switched it on. I didn’t see which of them did the switching. I was behind the desk, trying to turn myself into a medicine ball.
    “Go on, go on, go on,” Moe said, and their footsteps told me that they had gone through the door and into the gym.
    “Find the damn lights,” Moe shouted. “Mush, get to the stairs. Don’t let him get out.”
    They ran, calling to each other, searching, and I crawled out from behind the desk and made my way as quietly as I could back to Parkman’s office. I moved past the door to his inner office and to the left into the darkness away from the dim lamp light from the outer office. “He’s somewhere,” shouted Moe. “Check the locker room, behind those mats, move stuff. Get moving. I want that shit’s heart.”
    They sounded as if they had moved across the gym, away from the office. Since they weren’t high on the list of people likely to make a bundle on “Information Please,” I figured it would take them three or four minutes to come back and check the office. Tops, I had five minutes till they decided to come back and push Parkman around a little more.
    “Parkman,” I whispered.
    “Uggh,” Parkman gasped. He was in the dim shaft of light from the lamp and looked as if he had just had a rope pulled around his neck.
    “Shut up,” I whispered. “I’ve got to get the hell out of here. Does that window open?”
    “It opens,” he whispered.
    “Where does it lead?”
    “Little roof, then a fire escape next to the movie. Move, get the hell out of here before they come back and redecorate my walls with both of us.”
    “Who do they work for, Al?” I said, standing and looking back toward the gym. Larry darted past the door on the other side of the far room.
    “Didn’t you hear for chrissake what they said? No questions?”
    “Who sent them?” I repeated. “Who was Howard’s partner?”
    “Lipparini, Monty Lipparini. There, you satisfied? You know what that information is going to get you? Get me? Now get out, get out, get out.”
    Parkman’s voice had risen with each “get out.” He was still whispering, but loud enough for the sound to carry out to the gym.
    Someone was running across the gym, toward Parkman’s office. I went to the window behind him and pulled. Nothing. I pulled again and realized it was locked. I shoved the dirty shade out of the way, not worrying any more about the noise, and pushed the metal latch with my thumb. Then I pulled the window open. The metal handle came off in my hand with two screws dangling. I threw it aside as the footsteps pounded behind me, entering the outer office.
    I ducked my head and went through the window into darkness hoping that Parkman was right about the roof and that I wouldn’t fall two floors into an alley. My feet touched the gravel-covered roof. I looked around in the dim light from the stars and the shops and stores on Figueroa and went for the curled metal of the fire escape over the edge of the narrow roof. I slipped on the pebbled surface as a familiar and not welcome sound cracked behind