The Big Bamboo

by Tim Dorsey

  Four

  ”

  Coleman toked up and held it as long as he could, then a coughing fit.

  Serge pressed his hands down on the bedspread. “Coleman! You’re blowing my little letters around!”

  “Sorry.” He picked paper squares off the floor. “Looks like a lot of work.”

  “It is,” said Serge, squeezing Elmer’s onto the back of an ampersand. “I don’t know how the other kidnappers do it.”

  “

  Seven: congressional investigation of theater snack counters. I want to buy ju-ju beans, not a ju-ju bean mine

  Eight: retroactive death penalty for the guy behind me during Star Trek II who told his girlfriend: ‘Spock dies at the end’

  Nine: What the fuck was William Hurt doing in Lost in Space? Not a demand, just curious

  Ten

  ”

  Coleman pointed at the completed portion of Serge’s work along the edge of the bed. “Are the notes usually ten pages long?”

  “No idea,” said Serge. “Haven’t read any before.”

  Coleman took another hit. “I think it’s just supposed to be a single paragraph.”

  “Maybe for the other guys. But I take pride.”

  “What’s in the note?”

  “Well,” said Serge, reaching for the first page, “I’m new to this and wasn’t sure how it was supposed to work, so I remembered some stuff from an article I once read about effective business communication. They said you first have to understand your letter’s objective. Land a job, pitch a product, apologize for banging the big client’s wife. Next, gauge your audience. In kidnappings, usually hostile, so I thought I would open with a joke. After that, tell a little about myself, but not too much, because you want them to keep reading. Another thing the article said is if there’s bad news, you bury it a little, soften them up first by emphasizing the positive. Then, when they’re all happy and off guard, you tuck in the bombshell and hope they don’t notice. Like, ‘Why don’t we get together sometime for lunch, and, oh, by the way, could you bring a million dollars in unmarked, nonsequential bills?’ ”

  “Sounds like you know what you’re doing,” said Coleman.

  “The only thing the note still needs is Proof of Life.”

  Ally was sitting on the bed. She had just finished trimming her toenails and was now painting little daisies on them. She felt she was being watched. She looked up at Serge and Coleman. “What?”

  “We need Proof of Life,” said Serge.

  “What’s that?” said Ally. She noticed Coleman’s right hand. “Why does he have those scissors?”

  “Don’t make this difficult,” said Serge. “We just need a little of your hair

  ”

  ** Chapter 30

  VISTAMAX STUDIOS

  A naked lightbulb came on in a props closet.

  “Jesus Christ! What’s wrong with those guys!” said Mel.

  “They’re psychopaths!” said Ian.

  “Calm down,” said Tori. “I just talked to them again. It’s all taken care of. Another minor misunderstanding. I wasn’t clear with my instructions.”

  “Minor! They’re making movies!

  ”

  “

  And sending them to the networks!” said Ian. “They’re clearly insane!”

  “No,” said Tori. “Just intense. That’s what you get with people in this line who are good. But everything’s okay now. I had a very frank talk with them. That room’s now probably the most boring in the whole town.”

  THE STANDARD HOTEL , ROOM 222

  Ally ran across the room and over the top of the bed. “Get the hell away from me!”

  Serge was right behind, followed by Coleman, bouncing over the mattress. “Just a little hair.”

  “Go to hell!”

  “Coleman. Get her! She’s circling back your way!”

  “She got by me! She’s too fast

  ”

  Another lap around the room and over the bed.

  “Coleman, don’t run with scissors!”

  VISTAMAX STUDIOS

  The office of the Glick brothers was full of police again.

  Sound technicians unplugged audio cables and packed up equipment.

  “Sorry,” apologized Detective Babcock. “The lieutenant says we’ve been putting in too many man-hours since the trail went cold. You have to understand— we haven’t had any contact since

  shoot, when was that?”

  “You’ve done everything you could,” said Tori. “We really appreciate the concern.”

  The sound technicians left. The detectives followed and got ready to close the door. Tori and the Glicks exhaled with relief.

  Babcock stopped and turned around in the doorway.

  Tori and the Glicks tensed and smiled again.

  “There’s still hope,” said the detective. “Never let go of that.”

  “We won’t. Thanks!” They waved.

  “Who knows?” said Reamsnyder. “Six months down the road, something could turn up. We’ve seen crazier stuff.”

  Three people grinning. “Sure thing.”

  “Don’t hesitate to call if you think of anything,” said Babcock.

  “We won’t.”

  The door started closing. It opened.

  “You have our cards?”

  “Several,” said Ian.

  “You know where they are?”

  “Somewhere,” said Mel.

  “Here’s a few extras,” said Babcock.

  “Thanks.”

  “Well, we’ll be going now.” They waved from the doorway.

  Tori waved back, talking to herself through smiling, gritted teeth. “Come on, close the door, that’s it

  ”

  They closed the door.

  “Whew!

  ”

  “Glad that’s over

  ”

  Crash!

  The giant picture window on the side of the office shattered. A heavy rock skipped across the floor.

  The door opened quickly.

  “What was that!” said Babcock.

  “Look!” said Reamsnyder. “A rock.”

  “Something’s tied to it,” said Babcock, picking it up and pulling off the string. “It’s a ransom note.”

  TOKYO

  The view from the seventy-fifth-floor office suite was blinding, even though it was after midnight. Garish, multicolored advertising lights made the night air glow like Times Square and Vegas combined, except in Japanese characters, except for the yellow McDonald’s M. The streets below were clean but noisy with cars, buses, motorcycles.

  A large man with pocked skin stared out the window, not focusing on anything in particular. Mr. Yokamura. He smoked a filterless cigarette pinched between his thumb and index finger. In the distance, a jumbo jet flew by at eye level on its approach to the international airport. The range created the illusion it was flying too slow to stay aloft. Mr. Yokamura had a phone to his head. It was ringing.

  Behind him, on the other side of the office, was a flat-screen plasma TV. The volume had been turned off. It replayed the same thing Mr. Yokamura had seen too many times already: a pair of men wearing panty hose on their heads, voiced over in translation. When Ally Street held up her sheet of paper, it was superimposed with the Japanese symbol for HELP.

  On the carpet was an executive putting cup and an array of five golf balls left midplay. A putter stuck halfway out the smashed glass of a display case containing priceless antiquities.

  Someone answered the phone at the other end.

  “Get me The Tat,” said Mr. Yokamura.

  No answer was necessary. Mr. Yokamura hung up and stared out the window with hands behind his back, watching another jetliner going the other way, across the Pacific.

  VISTAMAX STUDIOS

  A naked bulb came on in a props closet.

  “I swear to God, I’m going to have a heart attack!” said Mel.

  “A ransom note on a rock!” said Ian. “Where did you find those madmen!”

  “Just calm down,” said Tori. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “Because we’ve still got
the advantage,” said Tori. “Except for that note, the police have nothing. Nothing at all. And that’s how it’s going to stay.”

  “I can’t go through with this,” said Ian.

  “You don’t have a choice!” snapped Tori. “The note said they’re going to call us again in

  ”— she looked at her watch—“

  fifteen minutes.”

  “But the cops will be there again,” said Mel.

  “Of course they’re going to be there,” said Tori. “That’s why you need to get ahold of yourself. All we have to do is make it through this one last meeting and we’re in the clear.”

  “They’re not going to buy it,” said Ian. “I can feel them closing in.”

  “Will you relax?” said Tori. “The police don’t know a thing. They’re totally in the dark.”

  The closet suddenly got very bright. The startled trio turned toward the open door.

  “We’re ready to take the call,” said Detective Babcock.

  ** Chapter 31

  HOLLYWOOD

  Serge loved The Big Lebowski. He was on the edge of the bed, repeating lines with Jeff Bridges and John Goodman. He hit the back button again, replaying the scene leading up to the ransom phone call.

  “This isn’t a fucking game!”

  “Oh, but it is a game. She was involved in her own kidnapping. You said so yourself

  ”

  The actors checked their watches in the movie. Serge checked his own watch. “Dammit! We were supposed to make the call ten minutes ago!

  Ally, they’re going to want to hear your voice to prove you’re alive

  . Ally?

  ”

  Serge ran out onto the balcony, pulled her back inside and yanked the curtain shut. “Does everyone remember their lines?”

  Ally sat on the side of the bed and looked away. “Fuck off.”

  “Coleman, you ready?

  Coleman!”

  Coleman was sprawled facedown on the carpet with limbs bent in unintended directions like a chalk outline. Serge grabbed him under the armpits and sat him up against a wall. He lightly slapped his cheeks. “Coleman! Wake up! We have to make the call!”

  Coleman’s head began bobbing. “Ooooo. Serge, what happened?”

  “Your regular afternoon power pass-out. Remember our code names?”

  “Code names?”

  “The ones we rehearsed all morning!”

  “Oh, those.” Coleman got up and grabbed a beer.

  “Okay, everybody. This is it. Take your places.” He flipped open a cell phone. “And

  action!”

  The Glicks’ office was at full, fire-marshal capacity. The brothers, Tori, detectives, electronics experts. A sound guy was wearing headphones, adjusting knobs. There was a distant whapping noise from the helicopter hovering over the Vistamax lot, waiting to triangulate microwave signals. Nobody talking. Anxious smiles from the movie people. A clock ticked. Trickles of sweat ran down Ian’s forehead.

  Detective Reamsnyder handed him a handkerchief. “You’re sweating.”

  “Uh, because we’re dealing with bloodthirsty kidnappers?”

  “Now you’re starting to understand,” said Babcock. “You should have called us from the beginning.”

  Reamsnyder checked his watch, then the Xerox of the crammed, ten-page ransom letter. “They’re late. The note says they were supposed to call ten minutes ago.”

  “Let me see that thing again.” Babcock took the letter from his partner and put on reading glasses:

  Dear Ian and Mel Glick,

  First, let me say I’m your biggest fan— love all your movies. Yes, sir, best stuff coming out of Tinseltown today. Like the wacky-but-touching mob comedy about the dyslexic don who keeps getting the wrong people killed but leaves the life after winning the Scramble-Gram championship. Or that totally fresh idea turning a Saturday Night Live skit into a full-length feature— genius! You can’t crank them out fast enough for me!

  Hey, I got a movie joke for you. It’s from the legendary screenwriter Terry Southern, who left us far too soon, but I don’t want to dwell on that injustice because the business article said to keep this positive. The joke is about a terrible film being made. When you tell it at parties, you can substitute one of your competitors. Anyway, this film is really stinking up the set, and finally the lead actress says, “Who do I have to fuck to get off this movie?” Get it? See how she turned the whole thing around? I laugh every time!

  In case you’re wondering, you don’t know me. But I’m very dependable and ambitious, so we should have no problem working together. Speaking of which, I have a number of treatments I’m working on. Are you ready? Think Farrelly brothers. Personally, I don’t care for their stuff, but there’s nothing wrong with making a little money, eh? It’s a nutty-but-moving feel-good about unsymmetrical conjoined twins attached at the butt and the forehead who weather their classmates’ cruel taunts to win heart or hearts on the cheerleading squad. Okay, forget that. It sounded better in my head before I saw it glued together here. This next one’s a lot better. Designed to attract a handsome A-list star who’s never won an Academy Award and looking for a surefire vehicle to overcome his pretty-boy image. So in his role, he has to gain thirty pounds, wear makeup to deform his face and he’s a retard. Start clearing space on the mantel! What am I talking about? You must get thousands of annoying letters every day asking for stuff, and I don’t want you to throw it in the trash with the others. Right now, our business is what I can do for you.

  Please keep reminding yourself that this is a happy letter. I’m very content as I paste these words, and we’re still on good terms. Okay? Here’s goes: We’re the guys who kidnapped Ally Street. I don’t know how you usually handle these things, whether you require proof of life. Proof of Life. Did you see that one? What’s up with Meg Ryan? I decided I don’t like her anymore. I wanted to cut some of Ally’s hair, but she wouldn’t let us, so those are some toenail clippings taped to the bottom of the page

  Rrrrrrrrrring!

  Heads turned. The technician checked modulation levels and the caller ID: FORD OELMAN. He gave detectives the thumbs-up.

  “Okay, everybody,” said Babcock. “This is it. Take your places.” He silently signaled the room— one finger, two fingers, three! The detective and Ian simultaneously picked up receivers.

  “This is Ian. Talk to me.”

  “A million dollars in unmarked bills. No sequential serial numbers.”

  “Sure, but you’ll have to give us time.”

  “You’re stalling. The police are there, aren’t they?”

  Babcock shook his head at Ian, then made a swirling motion with a finger: Keep him talking.

  “Absolutely not,” said Ian. “We’d never—”

  “It’s okay,” said Serge. “That’s what I’d do

  Put me on the speakerphone so we can all talk.”

  Ian looked at Babcock. The detective thought a moment, then nodded. Ian pressed a button.

  Serge’s voice rattled out of a small box on Ian’s desk. “Who’s in charge there?”

  “Detective Babcock. What’s all that noise in the background?”

  “You mean the ionizing?”

  Babcock gave the sound tech a look that asked if they had a location yet. The tech shook his head. Babcock turned back to the speaker. “I thought ionizers were quiet.”

  “Yeah, but I got fifteen of ’em. Because my roommate’s—

  You’re not eating, are you?”

  “Roommate? How many of you are there?”

  “I can’t say any more,” said Serge. “No offense— it’s kidnapping rules. Otherwise I’m a big supporter of the LAPD.”

  “We appreciate it.”

  “No, really. You take a lot of unfair criticism. The public just doesn’t understand why twenty guys with batons have to beat the piss out of some drunk who can’t even stand up by himself. He could have a grenade, right? Or a vial of anthrax. That’s what would be going through my mind.”

  “Let me speak to Ally.”

  “This is the part where you want to make sure she’s still alive?”

  “This is the part.”
>
  “All right

  Hey, Ally! Someone wants to talk to you

  Come on, Ally, don’t be like that

  Just say a couple words

  Jesus, when I’m trying to watch a movie, I can’t get you to shut up!

  ”

  “Is everything all right?” asked Babcock.

  “She’s mad at me again,” said Serge. “Are you married?”

  “Put her on the phone.”

  “We’re having technical difficulties.”

  “She’s not there, is she?”

  “No, she’s definitely here, unfortunately.”

  “Why can’t I speak with her?”

  “She wants her water.”

  “You’re withholding food and water?”

  “Long story,” said Serge. “But I’ll make it short: Never kidnap an actress. Probably won’t come up in your line, but this is absolutely my last

  Ally! Please! You’re embarrassing me in front of people— I’m on the speaker

  You’re in trouble when I get off the phone

  Uh, Babcock? You still there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “I’ll have to call you back.”

  “Wait, I—”

  Click.

  Babcock looked at the sound tech. He shook his head. “Almost had ’em.”

  The detective turned to the Glicks, drenched in sweat. “You recognize that voice?”

  They began stuttering.

  The phone rang.

  The detective hit the speaker button. “Babcock.”

  “Is this Babcock?”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Coleman. He’s trying to talk to her now

  ”

  Yelling in the background: “Code name!”

  “Oh, shit,” said Coleman. “What do I do now, Serge?”

  “You did it again!”

  “Wait, I can fix it

  ”

  The desk speaker made the sound of a beer can popping open.

  “Detective?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Yes, this is the kidnapper code-named Coleman Lantern, and me and my partner code-named Serge Suppressor want to assure you that Ally is perfectly fine.”

  Babcock looked toward the sound tech, who held up a single finger: one more minute.

  “You have to be reasonable,” said Babcock. “We’re going to need some kind of proof.”