She griped about it to Mario at the end of the school day, once they’d dropped the others off.
“It’s what your dad wants,” Mario said. “I think it’s a pretty great birthday gift.”
“Something could happen to Daddy and I wouldn’t be here.” “Nothing’s going to happen to your father.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know he wouldn’t send you away if he thought anything could happen to him.”
“Anyway I’d rather go to Paris and save Mexico for when my mother can come with me.”
“Decisions, decisions,” Mario teased. “Shall it be Mexico or Paris? . . . I’m surprised he’s letting all seven of you go.”
“And two of the faculty.”
“Right . . . You kids don’t usually go places in February.”
“Well, I can’t go alone.”
“That’s true.”
“I think Daddy’s afraid his illness is boring me. But I’m not bored at all. I never am! I know who is.”
“Who?”
“My uncle Jack. It’s getting on his nerves. He picks fights with my mother and he’s mean to me.”
“I thought you liked him.”
“I used to, but he was never around as much as he is now.”
As they came from Northwest Woods, where Mario had dropped off the last child, a police car appeared and sounded its siren in three small wails.
“What’s the matter with him?” Mario asked. “I was only doing thirty-five.” He pulled over.
A uniformed policeman emerged: visor cap, dark glasses. He said, “Step out of the car, please, sir. Bring your license and registration back to me.”
“What was I doing wrong, officer?”
“We need to examine your identification, sir. I’ll explain it to you. I’m sorry, sir, for any inconvenience.”
Mario thought of Mr. Lasher. Ever since he had seen the grave at Green River Cemetery he had suspected there was more wrong with Len Lasher than everyone knew. The Mexico trip that Deanie had just told him about confirmed the suspicion. Had something just happened at Le Reve that the officer did not want to announce in front of her?
“Wait here, honey,” he said, getting the license and registration from the glove compartment.
He did not see the gun until he reached die white Ford sedan with a rotating cherry on its roof, blue stripes on its sides, and some kind of gold medallion on die door, a wire screen between the driver’s seat and the backseat. Nowhere on the car was the word police.
The gun was pointed at him.
“I’ll shoot you and the girl if you don’t get in back fast!”
Mario got in back.
“Put on this ski mask backwards,” the “officer” said, handing him a knit object. “Don’t fool with me! I’ll kill you both. I may kill her, anyway, depending on how you act.”
“All right, whatever you say.” Mario pulled the mask down over his face. There was a tiny mouth hole in the back allowing him to breathe.
“I’ll say this just once more. I’ll kill the girl if you try anything. Then I’ll kill you. Lean forward and stick your hands out behind your back.” Mario’s wrists were then handcuffed.
“No one gets hurt if you follow directions. Sit there and this will soon be over. Not a peep out of you!”
Mario could hear anotiier car approach. He could hear the “officer” say, “Go ahead. Be quick!”
To Mario he said, “I’m right here, Mr. Rome. My gun and I are watching you.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
A white-haired woman wearing dark glasses and a fur coat opened the door of the van and said, “Hello!”
“What’s going on?” Deanie asked.
“I guess I’m going to take you home. Your driver has to go through a road check. He says your family will be worried if you’re not home on time.”
“No, thanks.”
“Do you know what just happened?”
“Where’s Mario?”
“What just happened is someone in a van just like this held up a bank. Your driver has to wait for another police car to come.”
“I’ll wait, too.”
“Honey, the policeman stopped me and asked me to take you home. I think we better do what the policeman says.”
“I’ll wait here.”
“You’ll be all alone. I can’t wait with you. I have to pick up my little dog from the groomer. Don’t you want me to drop you off? I don’t want the policeman to get mad at us.”
Deanie said, “What a nuisance!”
She got out of the van. “I’ll go tell Mario that you’re taking me home.”
“He knows that, dear. I don’t have time to wait, so please just get in my car. My litde dog will be frantic!”
Deanie followed the woman, a cross expression on her small face, complaining all the while that her father would fix the police for “resting” Mario.
The woman in the fur coat said, “He’s not being arrested, honey. He didn’t rob a bank, did he?”
“Of course he didn’t. He works for my father! My father is Len Lasher.”
She climbed into the Pinto and the white-haired woman shut the door. When she was behind the wheel she said, “Where do you live? I hope it’s not far.”
“It isn’t,” said Deanie. “You probably know where Le Reve is.” “Sorry that I don’t.”
“I thought everybody knew where we live.” She gave the woman the address. She said, “You’ll get a big tip for doing this.”
“I don’t expect a tip. This is a favor I’m happy to do. ... Be careful. That’s a chocolate eclair in the package next to you. Don’t sit on it.”
“I love chocolate eclairs,” Deanie said. “When I was little I used to call them chocolate affairs.”
The woman started the car. “I shouldn’t eat anything that rich. It’ll ruin my diet. You can have it.”
“Can I? Thanks!” Deanie said. “It’s my favorite thing in the whole world!”
“Then enjoy!”
Deanie chomped on the eclair as they went down Three Mile Harbor Road.
Deanie said, “Where did this come from? Did you buy it at Citarella?” “No.”
“Did you buy it in East Hampton?”
“No ... I made it myself.”
“Nobody makes eclairs.”
“I do.”
“Then what’s it doing in a bag?”
“I put some there for a friend. I saved one for myself.”
Deanie was finishing it. She talked with her mouth full. “I don’t usually eat this fast but I was starved. I always have my after-school treat first thing when I get home. I’d be home now if that stupid policeman hadn’t stopped us.”
“Never call a policeman stupid, dear. They’re smarter than you think. What’s your name? I’m Mrs. Brown. You can call me Rona.”
“I’m Deanie Lasher. My real name is Agnes Dean Lasher but I happen to hate the name Agnes.”
The woman turned onto Springy Banks Road.
“This isn’t the way,” said Deanie.
“I have to pick up my little dog first. Poor Derby is waiting for me.” “What kind of a dog?”
“A bichon. Do you know what a bichon is?”
“Of course! I know most breeds. Before I got my pony we had a pug, but he got run over.”
“How did that happen, or would you rather not talk about it?”
“I’d rather talk about my pony. This is sort of what she looks like.” She pulled off a yellow knit scarf with a chestnut-colored horse’s head stitched into it. “Her name is Pecheresse, but it’s misspelled there.” “What a pretty name: Pecheresse.”
“My pony is named after a poem. The man who gave it to me names all his horses after poems written by this woman from England. He’s related to her. His daughter goes to school with me and she’s related to this poet, too, only the poet’s been dead forever.”
“That’s very interesting, Deanie. I like poetry. Who is the poet?”
“I can’t re
member. But the man who gave it to me is Candace Candle’s father and he’s a horse killer.”
“A horse killer?”
“He doesn’t kill them himself. He gets someone else to do it and then he gets a lot of money.”
“He gets money for killing horses? Who pays him?”
“I don’t know. No one in my family talks about it.”
“Are you sure, honey?”
“Everyone at my school knows it, only we don’t talk about it if we see Candace anywhere. We’re awfully good about that. We just talk about it to ourselves because it’s not Candace’s fault her father does what he does. Candace likes horses, same as me.”
She put the scarf back around her neck.
They took another road and another.
“Where is this dog groomer’s place?” Deanie asked.
“It’s not too far now.”
“I hope not! We used to take Pie Face out to Dapper Dog’s near Kmart. That’s where you should take Top Hat”—big yawn—“next time.” “Derby. His name is Derby.”
“Derb” (yawn) “by.”
“Sleepy, Deanie?”
“Not really,” Deanie answered, but she was. Really.
TWENTY-NINE
That morning his wedding ring had fallen off his finger. Both Lara and Len had plain gold bands inscribed “Lucky We.” Now his was somewhere under the bureau across from the bed. A little message from the Great Fly-swatter in die Sky? Finis, my friend.
When he did think about his death, and now he thought about it a lot, he saw his whole life, chapter by chapter, and realized in a way he never had before that while he’d always thought of it as extraordinary, it wasn’t. It was just another story, shorter than some, but no more meaningful, no lasting significance in it.
Alone, he could not dwell on it, for he could not let himself cry. He could not blow his own nose or wipe his tears. As a man he had only cried on sentimental occasions, joyful tears from the eyes, not from deep inside. He had sobbed once, shortly after he heard the diagnosis, while he was taking a shower. It hit him like a punch to his insides that he could not fix this one. There was no one he could phone, no way he could reverse it, no bargaining ploys to change things.
Len looked at the clock. Every little thing he did now was special, even reading the time. He was expecting Deanie to arrive any minute. All he could do was wait, but even that was poignant, as so much was. He knew he was waiting to have the last talk of his life, alone, with his daughter.
He wanted to say something she would always remember.
Then, unannounced, Jack Burlingame walked into the room.
“How’re you doing?” he called out. Realizing how asinine that sounded, he rushed on. “Len? Mario just called. He had car trouble. Lara is going to drive over to Northwest Woods and pick Deanie up. Then she’ll take Deanie to the dressmaker’s to have her Christmas present altered, so don’t wait for her. They’ll be late.”
Len shook his head vigorously. “Dali Aral”
Jack said, “Lara took my car, Len. She left her cell phone here. I’ll get Delroy in here to massage you. Then maybe you’ll nap before dinner.”
Jack disappeared before Len could respond.
Like everything else about Len’s life, the end of it was carefully planned. The talk with Deanie that very afternoon was part of the plan.
He had thought of dying in the night, but Lara checked on him several times from eleven on, to be sure he was sleeping comfortably. If she were to find him dead, she would be left with his body until a medical examiner could come to the house. Deanie would aw'aken to the sounds and confusion of strangers in the house as he was taken to the funeral home. He did not want that for them.
Now he had to alter his plan, irked at Lara for taking Deanie to the dressmaker instead of bringing her home. But he was good at improvisation. He shut his eyes for some seconds and opened them when he had a solution.
He would still die between ten and eleven the next morning.
Lara would be attending her Pilates class at Gurney’s Inn in Montauk. Deanie would be in school.
Delroy would give him the Nembutal and Valium in a milk shake and leave him in bed, listening to the original Broadway cast sing South Pacific. The music was a sentimental choice Lara would appreciate. The first gift he had ever given her was a Cartier gold key ring with SOME ENCHANTED evening engraved on the small disc. A key to a blue Mercedes convertible was attached. He had leased the car for her use that summer.
Delroy would return and stay with him until he had no pulse. Then Delroy would make the necessary telephone calls: the ME and Yard ley & Pino Funeral Home ... he did not want any part of Campbell’s in New York City.
He had deliberately chosen to die on a Wednesday evening. His close friends would be notified in ample time to attend a service for him at Guild Hall Friday morning. Thursday evening the gallery would be cleared: paintings removed, rugs, chairs, and flowers brought in. Limos would be lined up for the trip to Green River Cemetery, where his plot was ready, and where Hrens Nursery had already put in the plantings he had ordered.
If he napped now, Len could have Deanie read to him right before her bedtime. He could have the last talk with her then.
He lay there trying to sleep, trying not to cry thinking about what he would say to his daughter.
He wanted to be asleep by the time Delroy arrived. He did not want a massage. Lately, either Delroy was becoming rougher, or what was left of his frail body felt bruised by any touch.
When Jack Burlingame went back to Len’s study, Lara was sitting at the desk, the ransom note spread out in front of her.
“He’ll have a massage and then a nap,” said Jack. “Did you call the police yet?”
“I’m waiting for Dr. Mannerheim to call me back.”
“Your shrink?”
“Yes, my shrink. Do you mind?”
Mario was sitting behind Jack, smoking in an armchair. He had been driven in silence to Le Reve by the kidnapper, the threat to Deanie keeping him under control. The ransom note had been presented to him as he got out of the white Ford sedan.
Jack said to Lara Lasher, “The only ones to discuss this with are the police! You’re taking a huge chance telling anyone but them.”
“Anything I say to Dr. Mannerheim is privileged information. Jack? Please. Listen to this again.” She read the last lines from the piece of paper left with Mario. “‘If you call the police or the FBI you will never see your child alive again. This we promise you . . .’ They scare me, Jack! Whoever they are, I believe them!”
“Lara, we have to call the police. They know how to handle this sort of thing. They’re trained.”
“Trained!” Lara repeated in a disgusted tone. “How many kidnappings do you think these local yokels have ever handled? Word would travel so fast I might just as well call the East Hampton Star. It would be like setting a match to a long line of spiJled kerosene.”
Mario spoke up then. “You can’t call the FBI anyway, can you? A state line has to be crossed to bring them in on it.”
Jack shook his head. “Wrong. They give assistance to local police all the time while an investigation is ongoing.”
“But Mrs. Lasher is right about the locals,” Mario said. “They botch everything they do.”
“Mario,” Burlingame said. “We’ll handle this. Thanks for trying to help, but we’ll make the decisions.”
“I was just—” his voice trailed off. With the kidnapping had come news of Mr. Lasher’s ALS. The household help had been told on New Year’s Day, but Mario guessed he was not considered part of the household. Jack Burlingame had just told him.
Mario felt chagrined and out of place in the Italian ebonized and parcel-gilt armchair, his grubby plaid wool jacket slung over one of the flower-head finials. He was dressed in jeans and a worn T-shirt proclaiming BE A BACKSEAT DRIVER IN A SOUTH FORK VAN.
“How many kidnappers did you actually see, Mario?” Lara Lasher asked. “I saw one. A man dressed like
a cop. The other one was in a second car. I didn’t see him.”
“What kind of a car?” Burlingame asked.
“I don’t know. I had the ski mask over my head by then. I heard it but I didn’t see it.”
“There could be two more, three more. Someone could be watching the house,” Lara said.
“That’s why we have to call the police,” Burlingame said.
Lara ignored that and swiveled her chair around to face Mario. “Can you do your imitation of my husband, Mario? They’ll want to talk to Len. They won’t know he can’t talk.”
“Would it work, ma’am?”
“Why not? You can fool me. Will you do that for us?”
“Of course. I’ll have to break my date. We were going out after our writing workshop tonight.”
“Call her now,” Lara said.
“She’s on the jitney. She doesn’t have a cell phone. . . . I’ll call her mother.”
“Do something,” said Lara. “And please don’t smoke, Mario.”
“I’m sorry.”
Burlingame passed across an ashtray.
“Imitate Len now,” Lara said. “Jack, I want you to hear this.”
Mario sat up straight. He said, “We agwee to the wansom demands. What is the next step?”
“Perfect,” Jack said.
Mario said, “Someone should be on the extension. I don’t want to get their instructions wrong.”
“I’ll be on the extension,” Jack said.
“Do you mind if I call my date’s mother now?” said Mario.
“Dr. Mannerheim will be trying to reach me,” said Lara.
“You can use my cell, Mario,” Jack said. “It’s in my coat, in the hall.” “Is Delroy with Len?” asked Lara.
“Probably.”
“Probably?” Lara said angrily.
“He wasn’t there when I left Len, but he’s always there. He was probably in the bathroom for a minute.”
“Lately, he’s not always there,” Lara said. “He thought Deanie was reading to Len after school, that they were going to have some private time. He could have gone out. Where? Who knows? He never says where he’s going lately.”
scott free Page 12