by Ed McBain
“I see,” Azzecca said.
“Yes,” Marie said.
“Take a letter,” Azzecca said.
“Hello, Nanny?” Snitch said.
“Yes?”
“This is Snitch.”
“Yes, Snitch?”
“I have made contact with the certain party we were discussing earlier today.”
“Yes.”
“He is willing to conclude negotiations with you, provided he may remain incognito.”
“Granted,” Nanny said.
“Also, he would like the money tonight.”
“What time tonight?”
“I thought he could drive to Larchmont as soon as it gets dark. He is wearing a nylon stocking over his head, you see, and he don’t want to attract no attention from passer-bys.”
“I understand. What time will he get here?”
“Eight, eight-thirty. Will you have the money by then?”
“I have the money already,” Nanny said.
“Fine. Then there’s no problem,” Snitch said.
“None whatever. I shall look forward to seeing your friend later tonight.”
“Nanny, he ain’t no friend of mine,” Snitch said. “Please remember that. If this ever should come to Ganooch’s attention, I want it understood that I’m only doing this out of respect for him. I never saw this guy before in my life, and as I told you he’ll be wearing a stocking over his face, so I never will get to know who he is.”
“I understand.”
“There’s nothing in this for me, Nanny. I’m just doing a favor for a man I happen to love and admire, Carmine Ganucci.”
“I’m sure Mr. Ganucci will one day express his appreciation,” Nanny said. “In any event, I’ll be waiting for your friend’s arrival.”
“Eight, eight-thirty,” Snitch said.
“Is the boy safe?” Nanny asked.
“Well, would you like to talk to this certain party himself? He’s right here with me.”
“Yes, I would.”
“He’s wearing his stocking right this minute,” Snitch said, “so he may be a little difficult to understand.”
“Put him on,” Nanny said.
“Hello?” the voice said.
“Is this the certain party to whom we were referring earlier?” Nanny asked.
“Right,” the voice said.
“As I understand it, you’ll be here at eight, eight-thirty.”
“Right.”
“Is the boy safe?”
“Yes.”
“Will he be returned as soon as we complete our negotiations?”
“Yes.”
“Then I take it you will have him with you?”
“Right.”
“Hello, Nanny,” Snitch said. “I couldn’t help overhearing what you just asked. You understand, don’t you, that for this certain party’s protection, he’ll probably leave the kid where he is now, until all the business transaction is taken care of. For his own protection, I mean, though I agree with you he’s the scum of the earth.”
“I understand,” Nanny said.
“Good. Well, hasta la vista,” Snitch said, and hung up.
Nonaka was getting very drunk. No one at the table seemed to notice it because they were all getting very drunk too. The bar was on Ninety-sixth Street and Columbus Avenue, and it was called The Homestead. On the plate-glass window that faced the street, Nonaka read the name of the bar as deatsemoH ehT, which sounded very Japanese to him. Everything sounded very Japanese to him right now. Even Benny Napkins sounded Japanese.
“The dilemma here is a moral dilemma,” Benny said. “That’s the way I see it.”
“How do you see it?” Dominick said. “Let’s have another drink.”
“Okay,” Benny said. “Bartender,” he said, and raised his hand.
“Japanese people can’t say the letter ‘l.’ Did you know that?” Nonaka said.
“What do you mean?”
“Like dilemma,” Nonaka said. “Japanese people can’t say the word dilemma because there’s an ‘l’ in it.”
“I didn’t know that,” Benny said.
“Name your poison,” the bartender said.
“Another round,” Benny said.
“You guys are getting plastered,” the bartender said.
“There’s another one,” Nonaka said. “Plastered. Impossible for a Japanese to say plastered. Or even polluted.”
“You guys are getting both plastered and polluted,” the bartender said, and walked away.
“The reason it’s a dilemma is that it has twin forks. It’s a twin-forked dilemma,” Benny said.
“What are the two forks?” Dominick asked.
“Twin forks,” Benny said, “twin forks. Fifty thousand dollars a fork. Twins.”
“Dollars, there’s another one,” Nonaka said.
“Do you know how much money I have in my possession?” Benny asked.
“How much?” Dominick said.
“A hundred thousand dollars,” Benny said.
“Dollars,” Nonaka said, shaking his head. “Impossible to say.
“That’s a lot of money,” Dominick said. “Do you know the most money I ever seen in my life?”
“What?” Benny said.
“In a single bill, I mean?”
“Bill, there’s another one.”
“How much?”
“A thousand dollars,” Dominick said. “Do you know who’s on the thousand-dollar bill?”
“Who?” Benny said.
“Grover Cleveland.”
“Cleveland, impossible,” Nonaka said. “The whole language is full of l’s.”
“You know who used to be on the thousand-dollar bill?”
“Who?”
“Alexander Hamilton.”
“Do you know how a Japanese would say Alexander Hamilton?” Nonaka asked.
“How?”
“Arexander Hamirton.” He blinked his eyes.
“Why would he say that?” Dominick asked.
“I don’t know,” Nonaka said, and shrugged.
“Well, we all have our little problems,” Dominick said.
“Look at all the goddamn l’s,” Nonaka said.
Benny looked, but he didn’t see anything. Besides, he had his own little problem. His problem was a simple one: if they didn’t find the kid someplace in that building, what should he do? Should he give Nanny one of the fifty-thousand-dollar bundles and take the other one to Naples as instructed? Or should he keep one of the fifty-thousand-dollar bundles for himself and the hell with Ganucci, the hell with everybody, just grab Jeanette Kay Pezza and take her to Honolulu and lay on the sand with his head on her nice big tits? The problem with life was that it was full of problems, especially if a hundred thousand dollars was burning a hole in your pocket.
“Boy,” he said.
“You said it,” Dominick said.
“Me too,” Nonaka said.
The bartender brought another round. The men sat drinking silently. Through the plate-glass window, Benny could see men in business suits coming out of the subway kiosk to wend their way homeward in the early evening hours, home to wife and loved ones, home to cooking smells, home to a weekend of fun and frivolity after five long days of hard work in offices hither and yon throughout Manhattan. For an insane but fleeting instant, Benny almost wished he was an honest citizen.
At seven o’clock that evening, Luther Patterson dialed Many Maples and asked to talk to Carmine Ganucci.
“Mr. Ganucci is not at home,” Nanny said. “He is in Italy.”
“Oh, the old Italy gag again, huh?” Luther said.
“Who is this?” Nanny asked.
“The kidnaper,” Luther said.
“This is not the ki
dnaper,” Nanny said.
“Are you trying to tell me what I am?” Luther said. “Madam . . .”
“I spoke to the kidnaper not two hours ago,” Nanny said.
“How could you have spoken to me two hours ago, when two hours ago I was sitting here . . .?”
“I was put in touch with the kidnaper two hours ago. A trusted friend put me in touch with the kidnaper. I have already arranged a meeting with him. I don’t know who this is . . .”
“This is the goddamn kidnaper!” Luther shouted frantically.
“No,” Nanny said.
“Madam, that other man is a fraud! Whoever’s representing himself to you as the kidnaper . . .”
“Good day, sir,” Nanny said, and hung up.
Luther looked at the mouthpiece. Angrily, he dialed the Larchmont number again, and waited until the phone rang on the other end.
“Many Maples,” Nanny said.
“Madam, I warn you . . .”
“If you don’t stop bothering me,” Nanny said, “I will notify the police.”
“Madam, you are playing a very dangerous game here. The life of an innocent child . . .”
There was a click on the line.
Luther replaced the receiver on its cradle. He rose from his desk and began pacing the room. He went back to the phone, lifted the receiver, put it back on its cradle again, lifted it yet another time, and then slammed it down viciously.
“What the hell is going on?” he shouted.
“Did you say something?” Ida called from the kitchen.
“Get that boy in here!” Luther shouted.
16: Little Lewis
Luther pointed to a wing chair alongside the inoperative fireplace and said, “Sit.”
Lewis climbed into the chair, folded his hands in his lap, and looked across the room to where Luther peered at him from behind his desk. Ida stood in the doorway, drying her hands on her apron. Luther kept staring at the boy. In the kitchen, an electric clock hummed discreetly.
“My watch is missing,” Lewis said.
“Never mind your watch, I want to ask you some questions,” Luther said.
“It was on the dresser,” Lewis said.
“I said never mind the watch,” Luther said. “Let’s talk about your father.”
“He’s the one who gave me the watch,” Lewis said. “For my birthday.”
“I don’t care what he gave you,” Luther said. “I want to know where he is now.”
“Who?”
“Your father.”
“In Italy.”
“Then it’s true,” Luther said, and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “John, it’s really true. He’s in Italy.”
“Who’s John?” Lewis asked, looking up at the ceiling.
“Where in Italy?” Luther asked.
“Capri.”
“It’s true,” Luther mumbled. “Oh, God, it’s true.”
“Do you have a cleaning lady?” Lewis asked.
“What?”
“Because maybe she stole the watch.”
“Nobody stole your damn watch. Who’s in charge there?”
“Where?”
“In Larchmont. At your house. At Many Maples. While your father’s away.”
“Nanny.”
“Does she know your voice?”
“Sure. My voice? Sure, she does.”
“I want you to talk to her on the telephone.”
“What for?”
“Because she won’t believe me. I want you to talk to her, and tell her you’re alive and well, and that she’d better get the money right away because we’re not kidding around here. Do you understand me?”
“What money?” Lewis asked.
“The money to guarantee your safe return.”
“What if she doesn’t get the money?” Ida asked suddenly.
“She’ll get it, don’t worry,” Luther said.
“Answer me, Luther.”
“I have answered you.”
“You’re not planning on hurting him, are you?”
“I am planning on getting the money,” Luther said.
“Because if you touch him . . .”
“Please be quiet, Ida.”
“If you lay a hand on him . . .”
“Quiet, quiet.”
“I’ll kill you,” Ida said gently.
“Very nice,” Luther said. He looked toward the ceiling. “Nice talk for a wife, eh, Martin? Very nice talk.”
“I mean it,” Ida said.
“Nobody’s going to kill anybody,” Luther said. “We’re . . .”
“My father might,” Lewis said. “He knows a lot of tough guys.”
“Your father does not know any tough guys,” Luther said.
“Oh yes, he does.”
“Oh no, he does not. When I was your age, I thought my father knew a lot of tough guys, too, but he didn’t. They were merely his normal drinking companions. They only seemed tough because I was a bright, sensitive child who . . .”
“Well, these guys are tough,” Lewis protested. “I saw them.”
“I do not wish to waste any more time discussing fantasy as opposed to objective reality, do you understand?” Luther said.
“No.”
“I’m going to call your house now . . .”
“They are tough. They have guns and everything.”
“Um-huh,” Luther said, “guns and everything.” He went to the telephone. “When I get your governess on the line, I want you to come here immediately and talk to her.”
Lewis, offended, would not answer.
“Do you hear me?”
Sulking, Lewis nodded briefly.
“Good,” Luther said, and began dialing.
“Even the policemen were a little scared,” Lewis said.
“Mm-huh,” Luther said, and waited while the phone began ringing in Larchmont.
“When they came to the house,” Lewis said. “The policemen. Last year.”
“Yes, yes,” Luther said, and tapped his fingers impatiently on the desk.
“All my father’s friends were there,” Lewis said,
“With their guns, no doubt,” Luther said.
“Yes, with their guns. And if you don’t believe me, it was in the Daily News.”
“Many Maples,” Nanny’s voice said on the other end of the line.
Luther’s mouth fell open. His eyes wide behind his glasses, he stared speechlessly at the boy across the room, whose last words—coupled with what his governess had just said into the telephone—now triggered belated recognition. Oh my God, Luther thought, oh my God.
“Many Maples,” Nanny said again, as though diabolically reiterating the name, and forcing Luther to recall in startlingly vivid black-and-white the two headlines that had paraded across the top of two separate stories in two separate newspapers not eleven months ago. The first headline was printed in the bold type favored by the city’s morning tabloid, and it read:
The second headline was printed in the more restrained type preferred by the city’s other morning paper, and it read:
The headlines blinked alternately onto the screen of Luther’s memory, burning themselves out at once, melting into molten type, then sinking to his heart, lodging there like a steaming cannon ball. Many Maples, he thought, oh my God. Carmine Ganucci, he thought, oh my God.
“Oh my God!” he moaned aloud, and instantly hung up. He bounded from his chair, clasped both hands to his head, looked at the ceiling, and shouted, “Don’t either of you ever read the newspapers!”
“What is it?” Ida asked. “What’s the matter?”
“We’ve got to take him home at once,” Luther said. “My God, do you know whose son we’ve kidnaped?”
“Carmine Ganucci’s,” Lewi
s said.
17: Arthur
Ganucci had set his watch with New York time the moment they left the ground at Heathrow. It was now 7:50 P.M., which meant that in little more than an hour they would touch down at Kennedy. He glanced over at Stella, who was asleep in the seat beside him, snoring lightly. Good, he thought. He liked it when Stella went to sleep. It gave him time to consider his arrangement.
Ganucci always thought of himself as a sort of Cary Grant, and of his arrangement as a sort of Grace Kelly. Not that she looked at all like Grace Kelly, although he did resemble Cary Grant a lot, especially around the eyes. (He wished he could talk like Cary Grant, but what can you do?) In his mind, the way they had met had been almost like a movie. He could almost see the diatribe unfolding, just as if the lines were written in a screenplay and they were speaking them while looking into each other’s eyes.
CARY: Excuse me for asking this, miss, but what is a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?
GRACE: What’s wrong with this place?
CARY: It’s a very nice place, but not for a girl like you.
GRACE: I think it’s a very nice place.
CARY: So do I. Don’t misunderstand me. You are the best lay I’ve had in this whole city. Maybe in the whole world.
GRACE: Then what are you complaining about?
CARY: Complaining? Who’s complaining? Do I look like I’m complaining? I’m a very satisfied customer.
GRACE: Don’t tell me, tell Madam Hortense.
CARY: I will, believe me. If you want me to. But I don’t see why you should worry about her opinion, a girl like you with talent like you got, and class besides.
GRACE: I work for Madam Hortense.
CARY: That’s exactly the point.
GRACE: I guess I’m missing the point.
CARY: I am thinking of a more permanent arrangement.
GRACE: This is a very permanent arrangement.
CARY: I was thinking you could leave here for an even more permanent arrangement.
GRACE: If I left here, Madam Hortense would break my head.
CARY: If you don’t leave here, maybe I will break Madam Hortense’s head, and yours besides.
GRACE: I never thought of it that way. What sort of an arrangement did you have in mind?