The Frumious Bandersnatch

by Ed McBain

  TAMAR GUESSED she should have felt honored.

  This was just like a summit meeting.

  Yasir Arafat was smiling. So were Saddam Hussein and George W. Bush. All three of them were smiling—or at least their eyes were—but only Arafat was talking. Tamar figured he was the leader of the gang, the one who’d told her his eyes were brown. She could still see that his smiling eyes were brown. He was the same dude, all right.

  “We have the money,” he told her. “Everything went off without a hitch.”

  No wonder he was smiling.

  The other two nodded in agreement. They were still smiling. George Bush had nice tits; Tamar wondered which one she was sleeping with.

  “I’m telling you all this,” Arafat said, “because I want to warn you again not to do anything stupid.”

  Do anything stupid! She was still handcuffed to the radiator!

  “We’re going to count the money now. If it’s all here, we’ll drop you off someplace, and you’ll be home before you can spell your last name,” he said, and she wondered if that was an ethnic slur.

  “Okay, fine,” she said. “Thank you,” she added.

  For nothing, she thought.

  “So be a good girl, honey,” Hussein said, smiling, and all three jackasses went out of the room.

  She heard the lock clicking shut behind them.

  OLLIE STOPPED for a snack after he was relieved at a quarter to five, and then walked crosstown to his piano teacher’s apartment, right here in the Eight-Eight. He had called her early Sunday morning to ask if she could get him the sheet music to Al Martino’s “Spanish Eyes”…

  “Not the one the Backstreet Boys did,” he cautioned.

  …and she had promised she would try. Now, at seven minutes to six on this Monday night, the fifth of May, Ollie climbed the steps to the fifth floor and rapped on the door to apartment 53. He was glad he couldn’t hear the sound of a piano inside. This meant her previous student had already left. Helen Hobson’s apartment was tiny, and if she was still giving a lesson when he arrived, he had to wait outside in the hall.

  She was smiling when she opened the door for him. A woman in her late fifties, rail thin and wearing her habitual green cardigan sweater over a brown woolen skirt, she said, “Well, Detective Weeks, you’re right on time this evening.”

  “Always a pleasure to come here,” Ollie said, which was the truth.

  “Come in, come in,” Helen said, and stepped aside to let him by.

  The grand piano always came as a surprise in this small apartment. Walking toward it behind his teacher, Ollie always felt as if he was being led onstage at Clarendon Hall. Sitting beside her on the piano bench, he always felt as if he was about to begin playing a duet with Arthur Rubenstein or Glenn Gould or one of those guys.

  “Well, I got it,” Helen said, turning to him and beaming.

  For a moment, Ollie was puzzled. Then he realized…

  “ ‘Spanish Eyes’?” he asked, his own eyes brightening.

  “Yes, indeed. I tried half a dozen different stores before I found it at Lenny’s Music, all the way downtown. I was about ready to give up, Mr. Weeks, I must tell you.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t,” Ollie said.

  “Oh, so am I. It’s a lovely song.”

  “You played it?”

  “The moment I came home. It’s truly lovely. And so romantic,” she said. “What made you decide to learn this particular song?”

  “Well, like you say, it’s very romantic…”

  “Oh yes.”

  “And uh truly lovely,” he said.

  “Indeed. So what shall we do first? Would you like to play what you’ve been practicing, or would you like to bust your chops on the new one, as they say?”

  “Why don’t we just bust my chops?” Ollie said, grinning.

  “Very well,” Helen said, and turned to the piano.

  “Spanish Eyes” had a picture of Al Martino on its glossy front cover. With a flourish, Helen threw the cover back to reveal the actual sheet music.

  Ollie was looking at a whole hell of a lot of notes.

  “Gee,” he said, “I dunno.”

  “Oh come now,” Helen said. “Is this the man who mastered ‘Night and Day’?”

  “Yeah, but…”

  “Put your hands on the keyboard, Mr. Weeks,” she suggested. “Please note that this is written in the key of…”

  THEY LEFT THE masks on because being Arafat and Hussein and Bush made them feel like big shots. Sitting at the kitchen table, the television set going in the other room, they kept reaching for banded bundles of money in the dispatch case, counting each bundle and writing down their separate tallies. Each bundle had twenty hundred-dollar bills in it. That came to $2,000 a bundle. Altogether, there were a hundred and twenty-five packets in that dispatch case. That didn’t seem like very much, but that’s what $250,000 in hundred-dollar bills looked like.

  While they counted, they started talking about what they were going to do with all that money, even though it didn’t seem like all that much now that it was actually here in front of them.

  Yasir Arafat said he was going to use his $83,333 dollars to hire 833 suicide bombers at a hundred bucks a pop to go blow up restaurants and school busses and dance halls and the like all over Israel. Avery thought he was merely speaking in character, but Kellie figured he was probably anti-Semitic.

  Saddam Hussein picked up the cue and said he was going to use his share of the money to purchase intercontinental ballistic missiles to shoot at “your father,” he told Kellie, “get the job done right this time.”

  George W. Bush said she would spend her share of the money on a pair of strappy Prada pumps.

  “That’s not in character,” Avery told her.

  “They’ll be in character if I wear them with an Armani dress,” she said.

  “You’re supposed to be Bush,” he said.

  “Whoever,” she said, and shrugged airily. All this money was making her a bit light-headed. Though, to tell the truth, it didn’t look like so very much, fitting in the dispatch case that way.

  They kept counting it.

  In the other room, the six o’clock news was coming on.

  The lead story was about Tamar Valparaiso’s kidnapping. This immediately caught their complete attention. They got up from the kitchen table at once and en masse. Leaving all that money behind—though now that they were used to it, it didn’t seem like all that much, really—they went into the living room and plopped down on the sofa as if they’d just got home from school, three kids who bore unfortunate resemblances to Bush, Arafat, and Hussein. The real Bush, Arafat, and Hussein were probably watching CNN themselves at that very same moment, though probably not wearing masks. And they probably were not as interested in Tamar Valparaiso.

  The anchorman was saying there were no clues as yet to the whereabouts of the kidnapped rock star.

  When they heard the word “star,” all three world leaders turned to look at each other, each of them realizing that Tamar hadn’t been a star before they’d kidnapped her.

  The anchor was saying that neither the police nor the FBI would ascertain whether or not a ransom demand had yet been made.

  “Good,” Arafat said.

  This was Avery Hanes, in case Kellie or Cal had forgotten.

  The anchorman said, “Meanwhile, Billboard 200 reports that Bandersnatch, the diva’s controversial album…”

  “‘Diva,’ did you hear that?” Hussein said.

  “Shhhh,” Bush warned.

  “…the number-one position, having sold 750,000 copies since its debut this past Friday. This places it higher on the charts than Avril Lavigne’s new album at number four, the Dixie Chicks at number six, and Xzibit in the number-eight slot.”

  The anchorman took a breath.

  “In Israel this morning, another suicide bomber…”

  Avery got up to turn off the television set. He pulled off his mask in the next instant. Kellie and Cal, takin
g this as their cue, removed their masks as well. They all looked very serious all at once.

  “She’s a fuckin star,” Cal said.

  “I told her ten million,” Kellie said.

  “What?” Cal asked, looking at her as if he wished she would speak English every now and then.

  “I told her it would sell ten million copies,” Kellie explained. “Her album.”

  “Well, it only sold 750,000,” Cal said, still looking angry.

  “Only enough for number one,” Avery said.

  “She told me we should’ve asked for a million bucks,” Kellie said.

  The men looked at her.

  “But that was when I said she’d sell ten million.”

  The men were still looking at her.

  WHEN THE TELEPHONE in Barney Loomis’ office rang at six-fifteen that night, Special Agent Jones was down the hall taking a pee. Endicott put on his ear phones, said to Carella, “Wanna give a listen?” and waited while Carella put on the phones Jones had left behind. Endicott nodded to Loomis. Loomis picked up.

  “Hello?” he said.

  “Mr. Loomis?”

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Loomis,” Avery said, “we’ve counted all the money…”

  “Yes, when can we pick up…”

  “…and aside from the question of whether they’re marked or not…”

  “They’re not marked. I promise you they’re…”

  “…there’s the minor matter of the count being short.”

  “First tower on it.”

  “Short?”

  “Yes, Mr. Loomis.”

  “You said…”

  “I said a million dollars, Mr. Loomis. You’re short by…”

  “No, you said…”

  “…seven hundred and fifty large. Now I don’t know what you’re…”

  “Just a minute, you never said…”

  “…trying to pull here, but I thought the girl’s safety was paramount.”

  “Second tower’s got him.”

  “You never said a million dollars!” Loomis yelled into the phone. “You told me two-fifty, and that’s what I…”

  “Whatever I told you, it’s a million now!” Avery said, yelling himself now. “Get the rest of it by three tomorrow afternoon. I’ll call again then. Have a nice night,” he said, and hung up.

  “Listen…” Loomis started, but he was gone.

  He looked blankly at the phone receiver, put it back on its cradle, looked at the detectives and the FBI agents and said almost plaintively, “We had a deal. We agreed it would be two-fifty. He knew that. This isn’t fair.”

  “Should’ve let us do it our way,” Corcoran said.

  “Here’s the printout,” Feingold said.

  “Another stolen phone, I’ll bet,” Endicott said.

  Feingold read off the name and address. The VoiceStream subscriber was right here in the heart of the city.

  “Roll on it,” Corcoran ordered. “Just two of you. Waste of time, anyway.”

  Jones came back into the room.

  He saw their faces.

  “What?” he asked.

  “You’re heading out again,” Corcoran said. “Zip up your fly.”

  “Lieutenant,” Carella said, “can I have a word with you?”

  “Why, certainly, Steve. What is it?”

  Big grin on his face. Cut off a man’s legs and then smile right into his face.

  Carella took him aside.

  “If nobody minds, I think I’ll just mosey on home,” he said, sounding like John Wayne, and feeling like Roberto Benigni.

  “Why’s that?” Corcoran asked.

  Carella looked him dead in the eye.

  “I have nothing to do here,” he said.

  “Your help was requested, Steve.”

  “You should have refused it.”

  “We’re always open to suggestion.”

  “Bullshit,” he said. “Lieutenant,” he added.

  “I beg your…”

  “So long, Corky. Have fun.”

  “Just a second here.”

  Carella did not give him even a millisecond. He turned his back and headed for the door. Loomis caught up with him in the corridor outside.

  “I’m sorry as hell about this,” he said.

  “I had no right being here in the first place,” Carella said.

  “I asked for you.”

  “You shouldn’t have.”

  “They’re just smelling blood,” Loomis said. “They still haven’t caught whoever sent those anthrax letters, probably never will. They keep sending out alerts to protect their own asses should someone blow up the nearest nuclear plant or television station. So now they think they’re going to make headlines when they catch these sons of bitches who’ve got Tamar, even though they can’t even trace a fucking phone call. What they don’t understand is that I don’t care if we catch these people. All I want is Tamar back.”

  “Well, I can’t help you accomplish that, Mr. Loomis. They won’t even give me a shot at that. Look, you’re in good hands here. I wouldn’t worry too much if I were you.”

  “What is this, some sort of club here? They kick you in the teeth, and you’re still defending them?”

  “They know what they’re doing.”

  “So do you.”

  “I told you. The last kidnapping case I investigated…”

  “Did you get the victim back?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “That’s all I want here.” He put his hand on Carella’s shoulder. “Stay,” he said. “Please stay, Steve.”

  “No, I can’t do that. Too many other crimes out there screaming for my specific talents.”

  “Sarcasm doesn’t become you.”

  “Neither does humiliation,” Carella said. “Good luck, Mr. Loomis. I hope this works out for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  There was nothing left to say. Loomis extended his hand. Carella shook it briefly, and then walked toward the elevators.

  He felt oddly elated.

  THIS TIME he came into the room alone.

  He was wearing the Arafat mask again.

  He said, “There’s been a slight hitch.”

  She looked at him.

  “The count was short.”

  She kept looking at him.

  She hoped he realized she didn’t believe him.

  “We’ve asked Mr. Loomis to get the rest of the money by tomorrow morning.”

  “Short by how much?” she asked.

  “A lot.”

  “Well, how much?” she insisted.

  She was already thinking she had to escape somehow. She was already thinking these dudes were full of shit. They would take the money, however much money they were now expecting, and then they would kill her. It was as simple as that. She would have to get out of here somehow.

  “I’m telling you all this…” he said.

  “Yeah, yeah,” she said.

  “…so you’ll know it’s not our fault.”

  “Then whose fault is it?” she asked. “Who was it came onto that launch…”

  “This is nothing personal,” Avery said.

  “Oh, fuck you,” she said. “Of course it’s personal. I’m a person, you’re a person, this is very personal!”

  “I can assure you…”

  “What’d you do?” she asked. “Tell Barney one thing, and then change your mind when you saw all the attention I was getting?”

  She could see only the brown eyes behind the Arafat mask, but she knew she was right on target.

  “Isn’t that right?” she said. “I’m all over television, isn’t that it? I’m hotter than that fucking D.C. sniper was!”

  He said nothing. The brown eyes were saying it all. The brown eyes were clicking like windows on a Vegas slot machine. Maybe she’d gone too far. But she knew they were going to kill her, anyway, so fuck it. Go all the way, she thought.

  “That’s it, isn’t it?” she said. “You saw what was happening, so you r
aised the ante?”

  “The ransom was always the same,” he said. “Your boss gave us a short count.”

  “He’s not my boss,” she said. “In fact, he works for me.”

  She didn’t mention that whatever the ransom was now, it had been two-fifty a couple of hours ago. President Bush with the big tits and the red hair and the green eyes and the freckles had told her so, and if you couldn’t take President Bush’s word, who could you trust in this rotten world? She didn’t mention this because she didn’t want the girl to get in any trouble. She had the feeling that the girl…

  “I’ll keep you informed,” Arafat said, and went to the door. Before he went out, he said, for the umpteenth time, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  And was gone.

  She listened for the click of the lock again.

  Waited…

  Waited.

  There.

  A heavy dull click.

  She guessed that doing something stupid would be trying to open the handcuff with a bobby pin she didn’t happen to possess. Or doing something stupid would be trying to cut a deal with Ol’ Brown Eyes Arafat, who was obviously the mastermind here, the arch criminal, the genius behind this hare-brained little kidnap scheme. But he had already double-crossed Barney, so what chance would she have with him? Besides, suppose he had a partner higher up someplace who was calling all the shots, which was a distinct possibility, and something she didn’t even want to think about.

  She knew she could not deal with Saddam Hussein. She remembered him hitting poor Jonah with the rifle stock and then slapping her so hard she’d almost lost consciousness. No, Hussein was not the one to approach here.

  The girl, in fact, was the only one with whom she felt she might stand the slightest chance.

  The girl wasn’t stupid, but she was vulnerable.

  Yes, she would have to work on the girl.

  HAWES KNEW that Honey Blair reported to work at six each evening, and didn’t leave the studio till sometimes two or three in the morning, which was even worse than working the Graveyard Shift. He called her office at a quarter to seven, hoping she wasn’t already out roaming the city on assignment.

  She picked up on the third ring.

  “Honey Blair,” she said.

  “Hi,” he said. “This is Cotton Hawes.”

  There was that telltale moment of silence that told him she didn’t know who the hell on earth Cotton Hawes was.