“That’s all he said?” Sondra asked, starting to cry.
“Tell them the last thing he said to you,” the commissioner prompted Vreel.
“Oh yes. He said, ‘I’ve seen the same movies you have, so don’t try any tricks.’”
We all looked at Sondra. As if cut off by a spigot, the tears had stopped streaming down her face and she seemed strangely composed, as if the only thing she’d heard in all this was that Richie was safe. I’m no psychologist, but I think she must have been in some kind of shock, for, as casually as you might ask a soda jerk for a fudge sundae, she said to the commissioner, “Three million dollars shouldn’t be that hard to raise, should it?” The commissioner’s bugged-out eyes were almost funny to behold. Vreel had stopped pacing mid-step and was standing like a flamingo with one leg hovering over the carpet, trying to make sense of what he’d heard.
I gave them a sign and said to Sondra, “Well, we don’t exactly have that sum readily available, but it shouldn’t be too hard to raise. Now, I’m going to have Trish come around and take you back to the hotel. We’re going to discuss strategy, and I’ll join you just as soon as we’ve talked this thing over.”
We sat Sondra down in a little waiting room with a television set and turned on some mindless serial while I phoned Trish and told her to haul her ass over there faster than a bullet in flight. She made it in 10 minutes. I briefed her, swore her to secrecy, and instructed her as to how to handle Mr. and Mrs. Sadler till I could get there. Then we helped Sondra out of the office. She still had that blank look in her eyes and that disturbingly placid smile on her mouth. She’d freaked, and it was probably the best thing that could have happened to her. My own circuits were pretty close to overloaded themselves.
Then we returned to the commissioner’s office. “Did you call the FBI?” I asked him.
“No.”
“But you plan to?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Not yet. Stanley doesn’t think we should. I tend to agree.”
“But—hell, isn’t that a crime too, not reporting a crime? I think that makes us accomplices after the fact, or something.”
“I know what it makes us!” Lauritzen barked. Then he looked at me remorsefully. “I’m sorry, Dave.”
“It’s all right, commissioner. You’re in a helluva spot.”
“Look,” he said after another refueling at the bar, “here’s our reasoning. We bring in the FBI, they’re going to have to go after these people. And if they do they just may pull some damnfool stunt that’ll backfire.”
“They’re very competent people, commissioner.”
“They fuck up like anybody else. And it scares the hell out of me, what could happen if they fuck up. But that’s not all.”
“There’s the publicity,” Vreel said, resuming his pacing. “The press gets a hold of this story, they’re gonna make a goddamn circus out of it. They’ll only complicate our efforts and maybe destroy any chance we have of getting Richie back alive. And something else I’ve been thinking, you publicize this kidnapping and I guarantee every other sports star in the country will become fair game for nuts like these. Instead of hijacking planes, the new national pastime will be snatching ballplayers for ransom. We’ve got to keep a lid on this thing, at least until we’ve exhausted our own resources.”
They looked at me. “You’ve got to make it unanimous, Dave.”
I wasn’t ready to put my career on the line just yet, to say anything of risking a jail sentence. “What do you mean by ‘our own resources,’ Vreel?”
He looked at the commissioner, who said, “I have my own ‘FBI.’”
For a moment I didn’t understand. Then I remembered. Although they appear nowhere on the league’s official payroll, except maybe as “advisers” or “consultants,’’ the commissioner employed a squad of operatives to investigate the sort of activities that professional sports like to keep “in the family”: gambling, drug abuse, underworld connections, sex scandals, that sort of thing. I’d heard about these gray eminences, and since then have learned that every league employs them, though the brass usually deny it and disavow anyone who claims to be one. I’ve often wondered if my own humidor or the picture of Aunt Gussie on my dresser was bugged. Not that I have that much to hide except maybe from Internal Revenue.
The commissioner suggested we call in this investigative unit, composed mainly of retired basketball players, to dope out a scheme for tracking down and possibly trapping the kidnappers. We hashed out a lot of possible plans for another half hour or so, then lapsed into troubled silence. The most important consideration of all hung unspoken in the air. Vreel waited for it like a convict with a noose around his neck, the commissioner like a reluctant hangman. That left it for me to broach it.
“Uh, what about the money, boys?”
There was a lot of squirming, heavy breathing, tapping of fingers on tables, and clacking of tongues on dry palates.
“To refresh your memories, they want three million dollars for Richie Sadler,” I said. “My impression is that they will not accept three Jerry Wests, four Jim McMillians, and a Willis Reed.”
The commissioner cleared his throat. “I’ve been thinking about that.”
“I reckon you have,” I said.
Vreel shrugged. “Well, we’re not going to pay, that’s all.”
The declaration was greeted by an embarrassed silence. Suddenly Vreel’s face darkened. “Commissioner, you’re not thinking... why, that’s... that’s... unthinkable!”
The commissioner looked into his bourbon glass for support. “You’re not thinking logically, Stanley. We’ve been beating all around the bush, but we haven’t considered the worst possibility. Suppose these guys are pros, suppose they’ve thought of every contingency, suppose in the end they outsmart us. Suppose, in other words, that our efforts to find Richie and get him back fail. Where does that leave us? I’ll tell you where. It leaves us paying three million dollars for him.”
“Maybe that’s where it leaves you,” Vreel said, lighting a cigar, “but it’s not where it leaves me.” He was bathed in a cloud of blue smoke for half a minute, and when it thinned he said, “Richie Sadler may be worth three million dollars once, but he’s not worth it twice. Nobody is. I wouldn’t pay six million dollars for him if he were 12-feet tall. I’m sorry if that sounds heartless, but I didn’t get where I am by pouring my money down a toilet bowl. If we can get away with paying fifty, a hundred thousand, okay. But that’s it.”
“Spoken like a man suckled on the milk of human kindness,” I said.
Vreel leaped out of his seat and threatened me with a sharp forefinger. “Look, hotshot, don’t tell me you wouldn’t do the same thing in my position. To tell you the truth, I’m still not entirely convinced this isn’t some kind of publicity stunt engineered by you.”
“Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” I groaned.
“That’s enough, you two!” the commissioner roared. He looked at me and sighed. “That was uncalled for, Dave.”
I muttered an apology, and the commissioner extracted one from Vreel. When breathing was down to normal, he resumed his lecture to the owner.
“You’re still not thinking logically, Stanley. Again, we have to posit the worst: that because we refuse to pay the full ransom, these guys make good on their threat to kill Richie. What do you think will happen to us then? Even if we don’t go to prison, do you think we’ll ever have another moment’s peace? Will anyone want to have anything to do with us again? Will we ever be able to look our friends and family in the eye? Will the press ever stop crucifying us down to our dying days? We’ll be ruined men, Stanley. Is that worth saving three million dollars for? You tell me.”
Vreel looked at the commissioner, then turned away and gazed at the wall with what, in combat, is known as the thousand-yard stare. For the first time I felt a little sorry for the
son of a bitch.
Now the commissioner looked at me. “You still want to go to the FBI, Dave?”
I gave a monumental shrug. “Commissioner, I don’t think it makes any difference what I do. The chances of my getting out of this mess with my skin are slimmer than a flea’s twat.”
“Then that will be all for now, gentlemen,” he said.
Chapter VII
It had begun to rain, a fine misty drizzle that ventilated the city’s canyons after a warm and humid day. I was caught without an umbrella, but it was just as well. The cool moisture cleared my brain of the stagnation that had accumulated in the commissioner’s office, and damped down my furor with Stanley Vreel. I walked the two blocks to the St. Regis.
The Sadlers’ suite was a chateau-sized complex high on the Fifth Avenue side. By craning your neck just a little you could see the immense green rectangle of Central Park stretching northward. With that for a backdrop, I faced Davis Sadler, his missus, and Sondra. Trish had spent the afternoon with them giving comfort and succor, and she now faced me in the semicircle of brocaded chairs as if she were one of the family.
All four faces were drawn and fatigued, and I was glad to have missed the first wave of emotion. Sondra seemed hardest hit of all, her puffy eyes and tangled hair indicating that that shell of blissful ignorance she’d surrounded herself with in Lauritzen’s office had cracked as the realities finally broke through. Davis was grim but stolid, Bea a little out of it, I think because she’d drunk herself out of it. I couldn’t blame her.
I told them the situation, and briefed them on the conversation that had taken place in Commissioner Lauritzen’s office. The mere fact that we had a plan, however tenuous, boosted everybody’s spirits. Unlike myself, they had no misgivings about keeping the FBI out of the picture. They felt the FBI would only increase the risk of getting Richie back safely. We probably have Watergate to thank for the Midwest’s loss of faith in the official investigative branch of our government.
“What about this three million dollars?” Sadler asked. “Where is it going to come from?”
“The commissioner can swing a bank loan for part of it, and put the arm on some owners for more.”
“I think I could probably raise half a million,” Sadler said.
“I’ll tell that to the commissioner.”
“How are we going to explain Richie’s absence to the press?” he asked.
“We thought we’d say Richie is being kept in seclusion until his exams so that he bone up on schoolwork missed these last few weeks.”
“Good, good. How about a drink, Bolt?”
“That would go down just fine, Mr. Sadler.”
“Me too,” Mrs. Sadler slurred.
“No, Bea, you’ve had enough.” He looked at his daughter. “Sondra, help your mother to bed, she could use some sleep. And you might comb your hair and put on some make-up. You’ll feel better.”
With Trish’s help, Sondra got poor old Bea to her feet and they staggered off to the bedroom. Sondra caught sight of herself in a mirror and blushed at her unkempt appearance. While they were out of the room, Sadler poured me a drink and said, “What do you think, Bolt?”
“Truthfully, sir? I think if it’s a straightforward proposition of paying the ransom for Richie, the chances are good. If we do anything else our chances diminish.”
“Of course, of course.” Over this profound observation we sat solemnly drinking until the women emerged. Sondra had restored her impeccable look and changed into a fresh, bright frock. I don’t know what it did for her spirits, but it did wonders for mine.
“I’m going to go down to the lobby and ask some questions,” I said. “Maybe somebody down there remembers someone hanging around the lobby or something. Meanwhile, Mr. Sadler, Sondra, will you scour your memories and ask Mrs. Sadler to do the same when she’s up to it? Try to remember if Richie got any strange phone calls or met anyone or took a girl out or went anywhere—you know the sort of thing I mean.”
They looked at the ceiling, then at each other, then at me. They shook their heads.
“You can’t think of anything, no matter how trivial, that might be a clue?”
At this point something curious occurred, something I did not pick up on at once because it didn’t quite register at the time. What happened was that Sondra looked at her father as if expecting him to say something. His eyes darted sidelong, kind of defensively, as if telling Sondra that whatever it was she wanted him to say, he wasn’t about to mention it. Strange.
I sent Trish home but remained in the hotel and asked to see the manager, a Mr. Leescomb, a cordial gent with slicked-down hair. Apparently no one had told him the wet-head look was dead. His smile was more professional than genuine and he got more proper with every question I asked until he dug his heels in, asked for my identification, and demanded to know what it was all about.
“Are you a detective?” he finally asked.
“Mr. Leescomb, do I talk like a detective?”
“No, but neither does Columbo.”
“I’m Richie Sadler’s agent,” I said, flashing my card at him. As he examined it I made up a good story. “He’s been getting some crank calls and I’m trying to find out if there’s any substance to them. Some of them threaten some rather dire things.”
He relaxed a little. “Forgive me, Mr. Bolt. I get nervous when people begin asking questions. You remember what happened at the Pierre a few years ago.”
I did. A gang of professional thieves took over the lobby in the small hours of the morning of January 2nd—when everyone was New Year’s-weary—and methodically looted the safe-deposit boxes. There’d been some suspicion that it was an inside job, so naturally Leescomb got uptight when people came snooping around.
He summoned the bell captain and a switchboard operator. The bell captain stood ramrod straight and could have been a bell regimental sergeant-major. I asked him if he remembered Richie coming or going with anyone besides his family or me, but he could not, sir. Did he remember seeing anyone suspicious in the lobby? Thousands of strangers pass through the lobby daily, sir. Did he happen to notice any of them observing Richie? Many, sir—he attracts a great deal of attention. Anyone following him? Yes, sir: reporters autograph seekers, and pretty girls. Anyone asking for his room number? Yes, sir: reporters, autograph seekers, and pretty girls. Did he remember any of these pretty girls? All of them, sir but none behaved in a manner one would describe as suspicious, just salacious.
I turned to the switchboard operator, a blue-haired old charmer who loved a mystery and answered my questions with relish. Did the hotel keep a record of incoming calls to guests? Oh no, that would be impossible. What about messages? Those were filed at the desk, but once the guests picked them up that was the end of them. Did she remember anyone calling Richie Sadler? Oh my, he got lots of calls, particularly from tittering females, but she had no way of knowing who the callers were. Did she ever happen to overhear...?
The woman scowled and her bosom swelled with indignation. “My dear young man...”
“Sorry! Sorry! Just trying to do my job, ma’m,” I said in my best imitation of Jack Webb. “What about outgoing calls?
“Those we keep a record of, of course, for billing purposes. But if you’re looking for telephone numbers, you won’t find any on the local calls, just the long-distance ones.”
“Can I see the bill anyway?”
She looked at Leescomb. Leescomb phoned upstairs and asked Davis Sadler for authorization to show me his bill. Sadler said of course, and a few minutes later a clerk arrived with the record of the Sadler party’s telephone calls. I pounced on it and copied down the out-of-town numbers, almost all 312 prefixes, indicating Chicago area calls. I suspected these were calls to friends and relatives back home, and to Sadler’s office. This surmise proved correct on later investigation.
My last stab was at the message des
k gal, a sweet young thing with big titties who batted her eyes at me but couldn’t help me worth a damn as far as Richie was concerned. She didn’t remember any of the names on the messages left for Richie, except that most of them ended in the letter “y”—Sandy, Barby, Suzy, Chrissy, Joany.
Leescomb pursed his lips. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bolt. It doesn’t look as if you’ve learned anything very helpful.”
I got to my feet wearily. “Oh, but I have. I’ve learned that I don’t want to be a detective when I grow up... But you could do me a favor and speak to some of the other help, if you would—the bellboys, cleaning ladies, whoever.”
“I will,” Leescomb said, “and, oh yes, there are also the employees on other shifts. I’ll be glad to speak to them when they come on duty.”
“Good, good. You have my business card, Mr. Leescomb. If you hear of anything, you can call me at one of those numbers any hour of the day or night.” I tapped my billfold ostentatiously. “Any information will be, um, amply acknowledged.”
“We’ll do all we can, Mr. Bolt,” Leescomb said.
I imagine they did, but I never heard from them again.
I went back to my apartment, a modest-sized two-bedroom flat in the Pavilion, a huge, block-square rabbit warren of an apartment complex on 77th Street and York Avenue. I was positively bushed and my thinking processes had ground to a halt. I hadn’t eaten but wasn’t especially hungry. I popped the top off a Falstaff, got into my jammies, and dozed off watching Johnny Carson.
I woke at 5 for my habitual nocturnal leak and struggled to sleep my way back into oblivion, but was stampeded by bad fantasies, Richie had been snatched by the White Plains chapter of his fan club; by a band of short, jealous professional basketball players headed by Dean Meminger, Calvin Murphy, and Ernie Di Gregorio; by a sneaker manufacturer wanting him to do a free commercial; by Viktor Frankenstein, who wanted to give him a square haircut, affix bolts to his temples, and turn him loose on the countryside.
I wrestled with these images for an hour, until I was damp with sweat and my bedclothes looked like a hooker’s after a convention weekend. I got up and showered and made myself some bacon and eggs and my terrific eye-opening coffee whose formula will go with me to the grave. Over breakfast I watched rosy-fingered dawn silhouette the Triboro Bridge, until the sun rose brilliant and glary, promising a summery day. The coffee and sunlight cleared away the last creatures that had bedeviled my insomniac brain, but left me with one marginally intriguing idea and one inspiration.
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