“So you joined the Dallas Cowboys?”
“No, I joined the Army.”
Her eyebrows flew up. “Sleeper strikes again!”
“I had the Army obligation hanging over my head anyway, so what the hell. But the real reason was, I just didn’t feel I was mature enough to decide what I wanted to do with my life. So I joined up. Best decision I ever made, too. Nothing like the Army for postponing decisions. Did my hitch, saw as much of Germany as a Texas boy might want to see, and led my division to a football title. Got my discharge, went home, told my daddy sorry, it was still football, and dropped in on Coach Landry and asked him if he was still interested in me. The rest you know. Still feel like a stranger?”
I could feel the shimmering green eyes fixed on me, and it was hard to concentrate on driving. “No,” she said, “I feel like . . .”
“Like what?”
“Like making love.”
She placed her hand on my thigh, and suddenly my vision blurred so badly the narrow ribbon of route 22 seemed to expand into an eight-lane superhighway. I swerved onto a dirt shoulder and braked to a skidding halt.
“Darlin’, that’s an evil thing to do to a man while he’s driving.”
“I really want you, Dave.” She slid her arms around my neck and drew me to her. Her lips were pliant and hungry and her body electric with desire for a repeat performance of last night, right there with tractor-trailers whizzing by so close the car shuddered like a dinghy in a gale. Last night’s shyness was gone, replaced by a predatory lust and a need that were awesome. I didn’t know what to do, with God and everybody watching, but my hands were way ahead of my mind and had glided beneath her halter to envelop the roundness of her breasts. But I was uneasy about the publicness of the thing. I kept glancing in the mirror, expecting a police car to stop at any moment. In fact, some distance back, a green car was pulling onto the shoulder. Probably a coincidence, but that was enough for me. With the utmost reluctance I disengaged. “Business before pleasure.”
Panting, she pulled her halter down over her breasts and brushed the hair out of her eyes. “Yes, you’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Maybe when this is all over...”
She looked at me intensely and I realized she may have heard more in that remark than I’d meant to convey. I left the sentence dangling and wondered how to complete it. I cared a great deal for Sondra, cared more for her, I think, than anyone since Nancy. But when I thought of the emotional investment, the responsibilities, the complications of a serious affair—well, I’d have to make very sure before I let the thing go deeper.
And so would Sondra. She’d fallen for me, okay, but what did I really mean to her? Her first big love affair? Her brother’s rescuer? An exciting adventure in a lonely city? She’d have to sort it all out. I slammed the gearshift lever into “Drive” and crunched back onto 22 in a shower of gravel.
It was awkward-silence-time again. We stewed in our separate juices as I pushed north on 22 until we picked up 55 a little beyond the Harlem Valley State Hospital. A few minutes later we crossed into Connecticut and picked up route 7, pushing north again along a particularly picturesque stretch of the broad Housatonic River bordered by rolling green hills. About ten minutes later we entered Kent, Connecticut.
The instructions were to make a left at the town’s only traffic light, but I drove on into town and stopped at a stationery store, where I picked up a map of the area. Then we doubled back to the light and proceeded along Macedonia Road, which skirted the grounds of Kent School. Pretty soon we got to the entrance of Macedonia State Park.
I made a mental note of the mileage figures on the dashboard odometer and inched the car over the park’s narrow dirt road, which paralleled a rock-strewn stream flanked by campsites and picnic benches. There were not many people in the park so early in the season, but nevertheless we studied every face carefully, wondering if any masked the knowledge of Richie Sadler’s whereabouts.
I pulled over for a minute and we studied both the map and the kidnappers’ instructions. The road we were on rose into the hills at a gentle grade, then emerged at the other end of the park and linked up with a number of local roads. I tentatively penciled in “X’s” at what I thought were the best spots to place our men on the following day. The coverage seemed sadly inadequate considering the sprawling nature of the area, but the transmitter gadget the commissioner had told me about might even up the odds a little.
I drove at idling speed, watching the odometer until the numbered gauge at the extreme right indicated we’d come nine-tenths of a mile. I stopped and looked around. We were at the foot of a little wooden bridge just wide enough for an automobile. It veered off the main road to a campsite, and we were supposed to drive over it and park. We did and got out of the car.
Still following the instructions, we located the last picnic table and measured off sixty paces north through matted underbrush. The last few paces brought us to a huge old silver birch tree, its bark stripped for kindling and scarred with initials. This was the tree where Stanley Vreel was supposed to leave the satchel containing three million dollars.
I peered through the dappled woods. The tangle was thick, making both mobility and visibility difficult beyond a twenty-five yard range. I waded as far into it as I could, looking for a path, but found none. Unless these guys were skilled woodsmen, they’d probably have to use the main road for entry and exit, which was an advantage for our side.
As I paused to get my bearings, I heard the gravel-crunching approach of a slow-cruising car. At first I thought it was probably just a Winnebago full of campers, but then I heard it stop near the bridge and I had the heart-stopping feeling that someone was watching us. I peered through the brush and thought I detected a metallic green glint. I shouted to Sondra to get back to the car fast, and I plunged through the thicket toward the campsite, cursing the stubborn, clinging brush that slowed me down. Suddenly there was a wild spinning of tires on dirt and the rattling of pebbles against fender guards. By the time I got out of the clearing, there was nothing but a cloud of dust.
I hopped into the car and wheeled it around furiously. Sondra sprang out onto the clearing and jumped into the car beside me. I gunned the engine and we zoomed over the bridge, following the orange haze of dust that still hung over the main road. A minute or two later we reached the exit of the park—where the road forked. I swore.
“Pick one,” I said angrily.
“Left.”
“Luck be a lady,” I said roaring left. We hurtled down a winding road and followed it for 15 minutes. Then we came to a four-corner intersection. I slammed on the brakes and thumped the steering wheel in disgust.
Sondra looked at me apologetically. “I hope I’m luckier in love,” she said.
Chapter Xll
I dropped Sondra off at the St. Regis and parked my car in a nearby garage. Then I walked over to 666 Fifth Avenue, where the commissioner had scheduled a meeting to brief his task force on Project Big Silver Birch, or whatever you wish to call it.
When I walked into the commissioner’s office I got my big surprise of the day. There were Mickey MacGuire, Dennis Whittie, Arnie Fried, Red Lipsett, Monty Babbidge, Bo Bowen—10 or 12 retired basketball stars who had faded into obscurity so fast you’d have thought they’d been dropped collectively into the sea. “Je-sus, it’s Old-Timers Day!” I whooped, shaking their hands. “I thought you guys had all gone on to the big postgame show in the sky.”
The commissioner smiled. “This is what I call my shadow government, Dave. We keep them on retainer for special, discreet assignments.”
“Only half of us is shadows,” said Monty Babbidge. “The rest is honkies.”
We reminisced for a few minutes until Stanley Vreel arrived, looking pale and tense. Then the commissioner called for order. “The purpose of this meeting is to devise a strategy for tomorrow’s operation,” he said. “Dave Bolt
has just returned from the area where the money is to be dropped, and he’ll brief you on the layout.”
I stood and looked bleakly at the commissioner. “Well sir, after I tell you what happened today, you may want to call the whole thing off.”
He bit his lip. “What happened?”
“I was followed, that’s what.”
“By whom?”
“I didn’t see him, but I think we can assume it was one of the kidnappers.” I told them about the car that had followed me. “Unless I miss my guess, Mr. Vreel should be getting a call saying the deal is off. They know I’ve been scouting the location. They’d have to be pretty dumb not to know why.”
The commissioner lowered himself wearily into his big chair and looked around the room with lifeless eyes. “Any bright ideas?”
Vreel waved his cigar. “Aren’t we jumping to conclusions?” He looked at me. “Bolt, you say you pulled off Route 22 and this green car behind you pulled off too. Then you continued on to Macedonia, but you have no idea whether that green car was still tailing you. Then you’re in the woods and you hear a car pull up near the campsite. You look through the deep woods and you think you see a green car. The car takes off before you can get a good look at it or even see for sure what color it is. Now, I’ll admit that looks suspicious, but for all we know the whole thing was a coincidence. So I think that unless we hear from the kidnappers, we ought to go through with our plan.”
The ensuing comments indicated general concurrence with Vreel’s view, and I had to admit it made sense. Up to a point. I said, “Mr. Vreel has made a good case that perhaps I misconstrued the whole thing. It may be that I’m just extra jumpy these days.”
I asked everybody to gather around the map I’d marked off and we assigned stakeout spots to each man. Then Bo Bowen, the electronics expert, demonstrated this transponder gadget, a little black box designed to pick up impulses transmitted by a bleeper concealed with the money. He opened a carton and distributed one to each man, showing us how to set it at the proper frequency. Then we went into the strategy part, and hashed out every contingency until we were as well rehearsed as the cast of a Broadway musical. The commissioner then broke out the booze. I went into Connie’s office and made photocopies of the map.
When I returned, Dennis Whittie took me by the elbow. Dennis, a wiry tall black dude, had been a ferocious backcourt scrapper for the Virginia Squires until he dislocated his hip in a collision with Al Fields of the New York Nets in a playoff game a couple of years ago. The last I’d heard, Dennis was working in a clothing store in Miami. “Aren’t you curious about Mr. and Mrs. Sadler?” he said.
“Christ, I forgot all about them! Did you follow them?”
“I followed him, Lipsett followed her. You want a rundown?”
“Is it interesting?”
“Depends on what you mean by interesting.”
He took out a note pad and read from it. “At 11:15 AM Mrs. Sadler appeared in the lobby of the St. Regis and Red followed her out. Her first stop was Bonwit Teller, Fifth Avenue and 56th Street. She went to the Lingerie department and bought a blue nylon peignoir. Then she went to Bergdorf Goodman, Fifth Avenue and—”
“Okay, okay. Is that all she did, go to department stores?”
“She went to the Russian Tea Room for lunch and had blinis. Afterward she went to the powder room and made wee wee.”
“Red saw her making wee wee?” I said with a straight face.
For a second Dennis thought I was serious, then he laughed. “Anyway, that’s all she did, shop.”
“Well, there’s nothing criminal about that.”
“If my wife spent money the way that lady did, I’d call it criminal,” Dennis remarked.
“You followed Davis Sadler?”
“Yeah, and that’s what I’d call interesting. He came down around noon and had lunch in the hotel. Then he split, walking east to Lexington Avenue. He went past 58th, walked to 59th, then doubled back past 58th, like he was scouting something out. He kept looking behind him, too. Finally, he took another crack at 58th, but this time he turned up it.”
“Where’d he go?”
Dennis gave a kind of congested chuckle. “Into a rap parlor.”
“A what?”
“A rap parlor. They’ve taken the place of massage parlors. The cops busted massage parlors like crazy about six months ago, after Mayor Beame’s wife got indignant. So everybody cooled it for a few weeks, then reopened as rap parlors. Now instead of going in for a massage, you go in for a rap. You pick out a chick, go into a private room with her, get undressed, and talk.”
“Just talk?”
He shrugged. “The girls are good talkers. After a few minutes of rap the customers want to go to bed with them. It would appear that while his wife’s out shopping, Davis Sadler’s out wenching.”
I turned this revelation over in my mind. “It sounds like the logical thing a visiting fireman from the Midwest would do, especially if he’s married to a woman like the one Sadler is married to. Except that I’m not sure Sadler is the kind of man to cheat on his wife.”
“You mean there’s another kind of man?” Dennis said.
“True. But do you think a man would go alley-catting around at a time like this, when his son...?”
Dennis pondered. “Life goes on, Dave. Whatever a man’s troubles, he still got to dip his wick.”
“You’re probably right,” I said, but a doubt lingered. I’d started to walk away when a very wild notion came into my head. “Hey, Dennis?”
“Yo?”
“Suppose Sadler doesn’t go to this rap parlor to get laid.”
“You think he actually goes there to rap?” He issued that strangulated chuckle again. “He’d be the first man in history.”
“No, I was thinking maybe he’s got Richie there.”
“You’re out of your gourd.”
“Probably, but—you got any plans this evening?”
Dennis backed away, gesticulating wildly. “No, but my wife does. She has this plan not to cut my balls off with a carving knife as long as I remain faithful to her.”
“Aw, Dennis, come on, you don’t have to actually do anything. We’ll just have a look around and maybe—well, rap with the chicks a little, that’s all.”
He shook his head and glowered at me. Then a subtle smile spread across his face. “Mmm—it is in the line of duty, after all.”
“Right on.”
The meeting broke up and Dennis and I walked out into a hazy spring night that glowed purple in the glare of the city’s lights. Occasionally the sky crackled blue with heat lightning, but it didn’t feel like rain. I remembered the morning’s downpour but it seemed like month ago, and I suddenly felt incredibly tired. I also realized I hadn’t eaten for about 12 hours.
“Do you mind if we stop for a quick bite?” I said.
“There’ll be plenty to eat where we’re going,” Dennis smirked.
“Yeah, but I meant food.”
We stopped at a stand-up pizza joint on Lexington. I had two squares of Sicilian and a grape drink. “You know how I think we ought to work this?” I said between munches.
“Mff?” Dennis had a slice of the regular with sausage and peppers jammed into his cheek.
“I think we ought to say we’re cops.”
“Mff,” Dennis shrugged, which I took to be agreement.
I felt a little less light-headed as we walked up Lexington to 58th Street and turned left. About halfway up the block, next to a movie theater, was a doorway with a hand-printed sign advertising the “Communal Encounter Rap Parlor.” We squeezed through a long line of kids waiting to see a new Truffaut movie, and some of them snickered as we entered the doorway.
We trudged up the stairs, following the arrows. We passed a pink-faced traveling-salesman type on the way down, who slid past us with a
verted eyes, and came to a landing with a bright red door that was partially open. We entered a small, garishly decorated anteroom with rust-colored walls hung with challis-patterned velvet. The ceiling was draped in brown satin. The sofa, unoccupied, was upholstered in brown plush, and the floor was covered with a soft ocher carpet with a phony Persian design.
Facing us was a white desk of simple stamped plastic. The girl behind it was anything but plastic, however. She was a willowy, walnut-colored chick whose furry natural constituted the bulk of her attire. The rest was a satin bikini filled with big breasts and wide hips. Her smile flashed promises all over the place.
“Hi,” she said, “I’m Melanie. Can I help you?”
Gazing at the nubs of her nipples outlined against the flimsy fabric of her bikini top, it was hard to remember what we there for, but I assumed a stern face, flashed my wallet, and said, “I’m Mr. Bolt and this is Mr. Whittie. FBI.”
I was counting on her not looking at the wallet, since the card I was flashing was my season pass to the Jet’s games. She didn’t even glance at it, but twisted her lips and said, “I’ll get the manager.”
She went into a curtained room behind her and emerged a minute later with an extremely wide gent wearing a Hawaiian shirt, a chestful of amulets and sharks’ teeth and ivory hands with various fingers extended—and a scowl. His hair was plastered back in a kind of duck’s-ass pompadour. He looked like he should have been a Steak-’n’-Shake carhop twenty years ago.
“What’s this shit?” he growled. The friendly sort.
“It’s like the lady told you,” I said.
He looked us over. We were big enough, clean-cut enough, and looked dumb enough to be federal agents. “My dues are paid up,” he said, which I took to be a reference to the local police.
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