Every Little Crook and Nanny

by Ed McBain

  Luther put on his eyeglasses because he couldn’t see too well, either.

  The time was . . .

  1:56.

  “John,” he said aloud, “Martin—we’ve got some important writing to do here.”

  He did not yet know how he would deliver his note once he had composed it. He supposed that the Ganucci estate would be swarming with policemen by this time, even though the governess had assured him she had not told them of the kidnaping. He found this difficult to believe, and yet there had been no newspaper stories about it, no radio or television reports. It was his guess that he had actually succeeded in scaring the retired soft drinks magnate witless; Ganucci had undoubtedly requested complete silence until the boy was safely returned.

  He wondered why the governess had told him Ganucci was in Italy. Had that been the truth, or merely a stall? It didn’t matter, either way. Luther knew without question that if he’d had a son of his own, and if that son had been kidnaped, he’d have returned home immediately from wherever he happened to be vacationing—Montauk Point, Block Island, places even more distant, anywhere. So he was fairly confident that, even if Ganucci had been abroad, he was undoubtedly home by now, scurrying around to sell securities and raise the cash he needed to ransom the boy. The thought of all that frantic activity on the part of the retired millionaire amused Luther. But it was tinged with a touch of sadness as well. He had been married to Ida for fourteen years now; they had been childless all that time, except for a Pekingese dog they’d had in 1969. Ida doted on the Ganucci boy now as if he were her very own, leaving a night light on for him last night, making blueberry pancakes for him this morning (Luther had found the pancakes inedible, but the boy had eaten them ravenously), and constantly carrying snacks and milk to the back bedroom in which he was locked. Their inability to produce children called to mind one of Luther’s favorite John Simon passages. He went to the Collected Works now, took the volume from the shelf, opened it to a page finger-smudged through constant reference, and silently read it over again:

  A story or poem, unable to bask in length, must operate in depth, height, thickness. It must set up inner relationships, echoes, implications, suggestions; utilize the space between the lines; curl up on itself to achieve pregnancy.

  Luther brushed a tear from his cheek.

  There was work to be done. The first draft of any literary endeavor was always the most difficult, for it was this draft that embodied the initial creative thrust. John Simon undoubtedly knew and understood that basic tenet. Inspired by what he had just read, knowing he could never equal its power but determined to try nonetheless, Luther replaced the scrapbook on its shelf, sat down at the typewriter again and, unable to bask in length, was beginning to create his second ransom note when a brilliant idea struck him. He rushed to the bookcase again, gathered both Simon and Levin into his arms and, clutching them gratefully to his chest, rushed to his desk, his scissors, and his pastepot.

  If there was anything more difficult than composing a cable to Italy at twenty-six and a half cents a word, neither Azzecca nor Garbugli could imagine what. Just the address alone took up five words.

  “How many words is that?” Garbugli asked Azzecca, who had wheeled over the typing cart and who was sitting behind the machine with his hands resting on the keys.

  “Five,” Azzecca said.

  “Twenty-six and a half cents a word, that’s highway robbery,” Garbugli said.

  “We better keep it very short,” Azzecca warned. “If Ganooch really did send that cable, he’s not going to like us squandering money to confirm that he sent it.”

  “Right, Counselor,” Garbugli said.

  “How does this sound?” Azzecca said. “DID YOU SEND A CABLE? AZZECCA-GARBUGLI.”

  “That’s a little impersonal, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but it’s brief.”

  “Also, Counselor, it don’t indicate that we received a cable. Ganooch may have sent a cable to his sister, for example, in which case he would reply CERTAINLY I SENT A CABLE, and we still wouldn’t know whether it was this here cable he sent.”

  “I see what you mean,” Azzecca said. “How about DID YOU SEND THIS HERE CABLE WE RECEIVED?”

  “How about just DID YOU SEND US THIS HERE CABLE?”

  “That’s shorter,” Azzecca agreed, “but how about IS THIS HERE CABLE YOURS? That’s even shorter.”

  “Yes, but it don’t necessarily mean that this here cable is this here cable here.”

  “Hold it a minute,” Azzecca said. “I think I’ve got it.” He began typing. Garbugli opened his jacket and allowed the sunshine to strike the Phi Beta Kappa key he had earned at City College. Once, in this very office, Carmine Ganucci had said to him, “What the hell is that thing?” and he had proudly answered, “Why, that’s my Phi Bete key, Ganooch.”

  “Yeah?” Ganooch had said.

  “Why, yes.”

  “What does he mean?” Ganooch asked Azzecca.

  “Phi Beta Kappa.”

  “Yeah, what’s that?”

  “An honor society.”

  “Italian?” Ganooch had asked.

  That had been a long time ago, of course, long before Nanny had begun bringing culture to the big old house in Larchmont. Ganooch now knew what a Phi Beta Kappa key was. He had only recently, in fact, asked Garbugli where he’d stolen it, as he admired it greatly and desired one of his own. His fingers laced across his expansive middle, Garbugli looked down at the key now and luxuriated in the afternoon sunshine that streamed through the window. Azzecca typed furiously and swiftly for perhaps thirty seconds, stopped abruptly, shouted, “There!” and pulled the sheet from the machine.

  “Let’s see it, Counselor,” Garbugli said, and his partner handed him the typewritten sheet:

  “I put our names together like one name,” Azzecca said. “Save twenty-six and a half cents that way.” He paused. Garbugli was studying the message intently. “What do you think?” Azzecca asked.

  “I think we should call him on the telephone,” Garbugli answered.

  8: Bozzaris

  Alexander Bozzaris was not a crook. He was a cop. In his mind, there was a big difference. Only once in his lifetime had he suffered through an identity crisis, and that was when he tried to rape his wife. He had just for the fun of it dressed up as a bum one night, sneaked into his own house (he had to smile just thinking of it), and tried to violate his own wife. He was arrested for this, and held for three hours in a Bronx precinct even though he had shown all the detectives his badge and warned that he would bring them up on charges unless they released him immediately. His wife, however, insisted to the detectives that she had never before seen him in her life, and that he had broken into her bedroom shouting “Rape!” and so it was the word of a nice Jewish lady against that of an obvious Greek pervert. Bozzaris was not released until Captain O’Rourke, who ran the precinct, came up himself and verified that Bozzaris was a cop.

  He was reaching for a ringing telephone on his desk when Snitch walked into his office that afternoon. “Hello, Snitch,” he said, and motioned him to a straight-backed chair across the room, and lifted the receiver from its cradle.

  “Bozzaris here,” he said into the mouthpiece. “Just a second, let me get a piece of paper.” He opened the top drawer of his desk, pulled out a blank sheet of Police Department stationery, pinned it to the desk with his elbow, picked up a pencil, and said, “Shoot!” into the mouthpiece. Across the room, Snitch crossed his legs, and then uncrossed them again. He had had to go to the bathroom ever since he’d stumbled across his priceless information. He resented the telephone intrusion now because he was very anxious to begin bargaining with Bozzaris. Impatiently, he listened as Bozzaris spoke into the phone.

  “Right,” Bozzaris said. “Where? Oh, I see, our man downtown at Western Union. What? Well, be that as it may, what does the cable read? Just a minute, let me writ
e this down. Addressed to who? Right, right, I’ve got it. Go ahead.”

  Snitch uncrossed his legs again.

  “Right,” Bozzaris said. “From Capri, right. What’s the message?”

  Snitch crossed his legs.

  “Essential and urgent,” Bozzaris said, “raise fifty delivery Saturday August 21. Advise.”

  Snitch opened his mouth, uncrossed his legs, and leaned forward in his chair.

  “What’s the signature?” Bozzaris asked.

  “Carmine Ganucci,” Snitch said glumly.

  “What?” Bozzaris said.

  “Nothing,” Snitch said, and started out of the office.

  “Just a minute there!” Bozzaris yelled. Into the mouthpiece, he said, “I’ll call you back later.” He hung up, rose from his desk, and intercepted Snitch in the squadroom outside, where Bozzaris’ various fellows were busy at work typing up Detective Division reports. The squadroom had about it the air of a soggy, used, cardboard coffee container. It had been painted Institutional Apple Green circa 1919, and had since been repainted some two dozen times, always the same apple green, a color peculiarly vulnerable to grime. It was reasonable to estimate that there were more fingerprints on those dingy squadroom walls than there were in the filing cabinets lining them. Some of the cabinets were made of wood; the remainder were metal, painted a dark green for decorative contrast. Similarly, the detectives’ desks were a chic combination of scarred wood and battered metal. A matching metal detention cage for obstreperous prisoners dominated one corner of the room. A bulletin board with various departmental flyers (including an announcement for the Annual Departmental Golf Meet) was on the wall adjacent to the lieutenant’s office. It was alongside this bulletin board that Bozzaris grabbed Snitch by the elbow and said, “What’s your hurry, Snitch?”

  “Well,” Snitch said, “I see that you’re busy and all, so there’s no sense hanging around.”

  “Never too busy for you, Snitch,” Bozzaris said, and grinned. “What was it you wished to see me about?”

  His expansive welcome was not at all feigned. Detective Lieutenant Alexander Bozzaris considered Snitch a very good adviser, one of the best the department had. His admiration was based on the fact that Snitch had delivered an excellent tip to the Chicago police back in 1929, on St. Valentine’s Day to be exact. Snitch had told the minions of the law that a little get-together was being planned for a garage on North Wells Street. The only thing that had been wrong about Snitch’s information was the address; the blowout was being held on North Clark. But everyone makes mistakes from time to time. The fellows in Chicago, willing to forgive Snitch for both his errors, quickly promoted a quiet beer party, the proceeds of which went to pay Snitch’s hospital expenses and to buy him a fine set of crutches besides. Shortly thereafter, Snitch decided to move to New York.

  The fellows in New York had heard of Snitch’s near coup, and decided there was no sense repeating anything to him because then there would be all the trouble afterwards of transporting him out to some Godforsaken potato patch on Long Island. At first, the fellows talked to him about nothing but the weather. Later, they rarely said anything at all to him. Eventually, as folklore became myth, Snitch came to be considered a very dull conversationalist, all the more reason to avoid discussion with him. These days, the only people who talked to Snitch were the police, who were still filled with admiration for his Chicago derring-do, who still offered him money for information, and who sometimes squared raps for him—which raps were generally bum raps invented by the police themselves to keep Snitch forever in their debt so that he would continue to pass on valuable underworld secrets nobody in his right mind ever told him.

  “What have you heard?” Bozzaris asked.

  “Plenty,” Snitch said, figuring all was not lost, despite the fact that Bozzaris was already privy to information about Ganooch’s cable.

  “Come into my office and we’ll have some coffee,” Bozzaris said. “Sam!” he yelled to one of his fellows. “Two cups of coffee on the double!”

  “We are out of coffee, Skipper!” Sam yelled back.

  “Be that as it may,” Bozzaris answered, and led Snitch into his office. “Please sit down,” he said, and beckoned to an easy chair usually reserved for the Police Commissioner, the District Attorney, and various other municipal dignitaries who never visited Bozzaris’ office. Snitch accepted the seat with all the dignity of President Richard Milhous Nixon accepting a hard hat from construction workers.

  “How did you know who signed that cable?” Bozzaris asked, getting directly to the point.

  “I have ways and means,” Snitch answered.

  “For what purpose does Carmine Ganucci need this money?” Bozzaris asked.

  “There was a major felony committed on Tuesday night,” Snitch answered.

  “Be that as it may,” Bozzaris said, “I don’t see the connection.”

  “Are you familiar with the lady who lives at Many Maples?” Snitch asked.

  “Are you referring to Stella Ganucci?”

  “No,” Snitch said.

  “Stella Ganucci has a very spectacular set of jugs,” Bozzaris said wistfully.

  “True, but I mean the lady who lives there and takes care of the Ganucci boy.”

  “I remember seeing Stella Ganucci perform in Union City when I was a mere boy myself,” Bozzaris said, “and when her name at the time was Stella Stardust. She had a little light on the end of each tit, and it shone in the dark, both of them.”

  “Yes, but I mean the lady known as Nanny.”

  “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

  “Nanny came to me this morning to ask about a major felony committed on Tuesday night.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “Nothing. But I’ll bet you all the money in China that Ganooch’s request for fifty grand is linked to that felony.”

  “Which felony would that be?” Bozzaris asked.

  “I don’t know yet,” Snitch replied. “But it’s something big, I’m sure of that.”

  “Mmm,” Bozzaris said, and laced his fingers across his chest. He thought for a moment, cleared his throat, leaned forward in the swivel chair, put both elbows on the desk, fingers still laced, and said, “As I’m sure you know, Snitch, I’m considered a fighter in the department, witness my name. I was a fighter even back when I was a patrolman walking a beat on Staten Island, and I’ve continued to be a fighter over all the years that have brought me to my present fame and position. If there’s one thing I can’t abide, it’s evil. Evil to me is the opposite of good. It’s the death force, as contrary to the life force. Have you ever noticed, Snitch, that ‘evil’ spelled backwards is ‘live’?”

  “No, I never noticed that,” Snitch said.

  “Try it,” Bozzaris said.

  “How do you spell ‘evil’?” Snitch asked.

  “E-v-i-l, which is l-i-v-e spelled backwards.”

  “Yes, that’s right, now that you mention it,” Snitch said.

  “And if there’s one thing I hate worse than evil, it’s organized evil. Carmine Ganucci and his fellows represent organized evil to me. Snitch, I’m going to tell you something in all honesty. I’ve always been a rebel, witness my name. I do not consider it fair that Carmine Ganucci and his fellows, through their organized evil, are reaping huge profits while my salary as a detective lieutenant in charge of a crack squad is a mere $19,781.80 a year. Do you think that’s fair, Snitch?”

  “I don’t think it’s fair, Lieutenant,” Snitch said. “On the other hand, there is much on this road of life that is unfair, but we must all carry our share of the goddamn burden.”

  “Snitch?” Bozzaris said.

  “Yes, Lieutenant?”

  “Snitch, I do not like profanity.”

  “Forgive me,” Snitch said.

  “Profanity and evil go hand in hand
.”

  “I, myself, rarely swear,” Snitch said.

  “Be that as it may,” Bozzaris said. “Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”

  “I don’t think so,” Snitch said.

  “Why do you think that fellow at Western Union called me?” Bozzaris said.

  “To tell you about the cable Ganooch sent.”

  “Yes, but why me? He’s a trusted adviser, Snitch, same as you, though hardly as well known or respected. Now why do you think he called me instead of someone on the D.A.’s Special Squad?”

  “Why?” Snitch said.

  “Because he knows I have vowed unending warfare against the forces of evil,” Bozzaris said.

  “Oh,” Snitch said.

  “Carmine Ganucci is evil. So when this fellow at Western Union gets hold of a message from Ganucci to his lawyers, he calls me, knowing full well I’ll do something about it, whereas those fellows on the D.A.’s squad would sit around on their asses all week without making a move, though I dislike profanity.”

  “I see,” Snitch said.

  “Also, he knew I would pay him twenty-five dollars for the information,” Bozzaris said. “The same way I always pay you twenty-five dollars for any information you come up with.”

  “Well, could I have the twenty-five now?” Snitch asked. “I’m a little short of cash these days.”

  “I’d be happy to give you twenty-five dollars this very minute,” Bozzaris said. “The trouble is you haven’t come up with any information I didn’t already possess.”

  “I have so,” Snitch said.

  “As for example?”

  “Well, you didn’t know about the big felony committed on Tuesday night, for example, did you?” Snitch said.

  “I know about four hundred and ten felonies committed in this very precinct alone,” Bozzaris said.