Jungle of Glass

by Gerald J. Davis

  We ended up with the good old in-out. The fit was snug and the friction was good. Before too many thrusts we exchanged those precious bodily fluids. The noise level wasn't much higher than normal. A few grunts, a couple of moans, a sigh.

  As soon as the action was over, I began wondering how the hell I got into it and how quickly I could get the hell out.

  Finally I said, "Why?"

  She didn't look at me. She rolled over and reached for a pack of Gaulois on the night table and lit one. "Because you are tall, good-looking and strong, and I was...how do you say...randy?"

  "That's how the English say it, but not too often."

  I moved to the edge of the bed and was about to pull my pants on when there was a sharp rap on the door.

  Without waiting for the benefit of a reply, the door opened. It was Antonio.

  He looked at us with a glazed expression. His lips were quivering. "Your mother is on the phone from New York," he said to his sister. "She is saying she received another ransom letter from the kidnappers. She wants to know what to do." He started to cry.

  "Tell her not to do anything," I said. "Tell her I'll see her in New York as soon as I can get there."

  ***

  The next flight out was at three-thirty that afternoon. I went back to the hotel and started to pack. But I stopped and checked a little more closely when I saw that some of my things had been moved. Not much, but enough to show that somebody had been in the room and had taken a leisurely stroll through my stuff.

  There wasn't anything worthwhile in the hotel room for a lowlife to find but it still wasn't a lot of fun to have someone poking around.

  OK, so we had just been rutting like two warthogs in heat. The question now was whether I was the fucker or the fuckee.

  My stock in trade was facts. Somebody did something bad, took something that didn't belong to him, killed somebody he shouldn't have killed. Emotions were another story. It was tough to figure out people's feelings. Like Marta. What made her want to screw me? And did her reason have anything at all to do with keeping me pleasantly occupied while some person made an unauthorized entry into my room?

  Was this another one of life's little unanswered and unanswerable questions?

  CHAPTER XXII

  The plane landed at Kennedy at nine thirty-seven p.m. I got my car out of long-term parking and drove to my place to shower and shave and change. I poked around in the back of the bedroom closet until I found the old Smith & Wesson .38 police special. It took a little more digging to locate the clip-on holster, all worn and cracked and mildewed.

  Then I took a taxi to the Czarina's apartment. It was a little before midnight. And it was cold as hell.

  She lived on Fifth and Eighty-second, across from the Metropolitan Museum. It was one of those buildings that looked like it was designed by Philip Johnson, or maybe it was actually designed by him. They all looked the same to me. Especially on a moonless night in the dead of winter, with dirty snow still piled up on the curb.

  If the doorman was surprised to see me waltzing into his deserted lobby at that time of night he didn't show it. These guys had seen just about everything and then some.

  "Mrs. Roderick," I said. "Fourteenth floor."

  "She expecting you?"

  "Everybody expects me."

  "That a fact?" He went to his console and dialed her number. "What's your name?"

  "Tell her it's Rogan."

  He spoke into the phone and then jerked his head toward the back of the lobby. "Take the elevator on the right."

  I nodded. "I want to ask you a question."

  His eyebrows went up. "Yeah?"

  "You see anything unusual around here the last week or two?"

  "Unusual? Whadaya mean?"

  "In other words, did you see anything unusual around here the last week or two?" It had been a long day and I was totally wasted. Besides it wasn't every day that I got laid.

  "You mean, like unusual things happening or unusual people hanging around?"

  "Yeah," I said. "Something like that."

  He screwed up his face as he made an effort to think. He looked like an Irishman on the wagon. The Clydesdale wagon, that is. His eyes were pale blue and rheumy and his large nose was discolored with broken capillaries. After a minute he said, "You a cop?"

  "Private," I said.

  He nodded. "Can't say as I can really think of anything."

  I gave him my card. "If you remember anything, give me a call. There's money in it for you."

  His eyes brightened. "If you're working for Mrs. Roderick, you must be good."

  "So?"

  He leaned forward. "My brother thinks his wife is fucking around, you know what I mean?"

  "You mean, like screwing around?"

  "Yeah, that's it." He nodded twice. "He's been thinking of getting a private dick to follow her and see who she's been fucking."

  "And?"

  "Well, isn't that what you do? Shit like that?"

  I was too tired to explain to him that I was a high-priced call girl with an expensive clientele, not some common back-alley whore with a raging case of the clap. I grunted. "Tell him to call me."

  The elevator operator knew which floor. The button for fourteen was already lit. He let the door close and watched me out of the corner of his eye as the numbers flashed by. When we got to fourteen, he turned so his back was to the wall. I was going to ask him which way when I saw there was only one door.

  I rang the bell. Nothing happened. I shot a look back at the elevator operator. He slid the elevator door shut and started back down. I waited another minute and then rang the bell again. There was some movement in the apartment and then she opened the door. She was wearing a long red wool bathrobe over her satin nightgown. Even in the middle of the night she looked elegant. Even though she had just woken up. Not a single strand of white hair on her head was out of place.

  Her eyes were red-rimmed. It could have been from sleep, but I wanted to believe she'd been crying for her husband. Maybe I was a cynical sonofabitch, but somewhere in this sad world I wanted to believe there was a wife who cared what happened to her husband.

  She tried to give me a little smile. "Please come in, Mister Rogan." She stepped aside as I entered. "Let me take your coat."

  I took it off and gave it to her. She put it on one of those fabric-covered hangers with a scented pouch and hung it up in the hall closet, but not before she casually checked out the label. "May I offer you a drink?" she said.

  I shrugged. "Why not?"

  "What would you like?"

  The chances that she had a beer were about as good as finding a real virgin in a cathouse. "Do you have Jack Daniels?"

  "Who is he?"

  I shook my head. "Never mind," I said. "He's dead. I'll have a scotch on the rocks."

  "Very well. Please follow me."

  The apartment was large. There were a lot of rooms and corridors I couldn't see. It looked like it was in the process of being renovated, because workmen's tools and painter's supplies were lying all around the place.

  There were pillars framing the entrance to the living room. Doric, Ionic, Corinthian? One of those. The kind without the leaves on top. I couldn't remember which. She escorted me into the room and went over to a bar that was built into the wall. She opened a little refrigerator and dropped a couple of ice cubes into a short glass. Then she poured me a couple of fingers of Chivas Regal.

  The scotch was good. I'd forgotten how good. I finished it too quickly and asked her for another one.

  The room was furnished in a traditional style. Old European, Louis quatorce, that sort of thing. Very expensive, very tasteful. The antiques looked real, or at least like very good reproductions. Persian rugs and polished wood sideboards. And what looked to be a real Renoir and a real Degas on the walls.

  "Show me the note," I said.

  She nodded, disappeared for a minute and then returned.

  Her eyes appeared uncertain, nothing at all like the self-p
ossessed look she gave me when we first met. She handed me the note.

  PUT THE FIVE MILLION DOLLARS IN A BLUE DUFFEL BAG. DO NOT TELL THE AUTHORITIES. WE WILL CONTACT YOU IN A DAY. IF YOU DO NOT FOLLOW OUR INSTRUCTIONS WE WILL KILL YOUR HUSBAND.

  ATLACATL

  Nice and neat. Not as nasty as the first note. It was cold and professional.

  "How did you get this?" I asked her.

  "Somebody gave it to the doorman."

  "Which doorman?"

  She stared at me. "The night doorman. The same one who announced you. Why do you ask? What does it matter?"

  I shrugged. "I don't know. It might be important. Does the doorman remember who gave it to him?"

  She spread her hands. "I did not think to ask him. Perhaps you can do that?"

  "Yeah. Perhaps I can do that. When did you get this?" I waved the note at her.

  "This morning. The day doorman usually gives the post to the elevator man who puts it on the little table outside my door."

  "So you picked it up with the regular mail?"

  "Yes." She closed her eyes and nodded.

  "And that's when you called Antonio in San Salvador."

  "That is when I called Marta."

  "Right," I said. I examined her face. Did she know that twelve hours ago her daughter and I were busily engaged in making the beast with two backs?

  I pushed the thought out of my mind. It wasn't helpful. Concentrate on the matter at hand.

  "Do you have the cash?" I asked her.

  "Yes," she said softly.

  How long does it take somebody to pull together five million bucks of cash money? How tough is it to do? The federal money-laundering statutes made it a lot tougher these days. You could always get the bills from overseas. There were tons of greenbacks sloshing around in other countries if you knew who to contact and if you were willing to take a haircut.

  "Do you have a blue duffel bag?"

  "Yes." She shivered even though the apartment was overheated and she had on that heavy robe.

  "What's the matter?" I said. That was the sensitive side of me, asking the question.

  She didn't answer for a minute. "I am afraid," she said finally.

  She was not the Ice Queen anymore. Just a scared old lady confronting the dregs of humanity. I felt sorry for her.

  "Would you be so kind as to do me a favor, Mister Rogan?" she said, almost inaudibly.

  "What?"

  "Would you mind to spend the night here? They said they will contact me shortly and I do not want to be alone."

  I nodded. "Sure, don't worry. I'll stay with you." This lady was paying me a princely sum and she deserved all the protection and peace of mind I could give her. Even if she weren't paying me a farthing I would've stayed with her.

  "I am sorry I have no pajamas to offer you," she said.

  Her words hit me like the flat side of a two-by-four.

  "What about your husband's pajamas?"

  She hesitated. A second, two seconds. "He...I..."

  "Doesn't your husband keep a pair of pajamas here?"

  "Sometimes he does."

  "But sometimes he doesn't?"

  She regained her composure. "I am sorry, but there are no pajamas."

  Roderick was a man who owned a Renoir and a Degas, and he didn't keep a spare set of pajamas in his apartment? It didn't make sense. Unless he didn't spend any nights in his own apartment.

  "You can sleep in the other bedroom," she said. "I have already made up the bed for you."

  I gave her a grin. "You knew I'd say yes?"

  She made an effort to return my smile. "I am a good judge of a man's character."

  CHAPTER XXIII

  The heart attack machine went off at five the next morning. That's when the phone rang. I was groggy but I managed to feel around and locate the phone in the dark. I picked it up and listened.

  The man's voice was loud and guttural. He spoke in Spanish with a Salvadoran accent. "I am Atlacatl," the man said. "Do you want to see your husband alive?"

  "Yes," Mrs. Roderick answered. Her voice sounded very small next to his.

  "Do you have what I want?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you have a blue bag?" the man asked.

  "Yes."

  The phone was cordless. I got out of bed and went to the door of her bedroom. I opened it and walked in. There was a dim light on her night table. She was sitting up in bed. I walked over and stood next to her.

  "Go to Grand Central terminal at exactly ten twenty-five tonight," the man said. "At ten thirty-five exactly, go to track thirty-two. Next to the start of track thirty-two, there is a garbage bin. Lift the top of the garbage bin and put the blue bag with the cash inside the garbage bin. Close the top of the garbage bin and go home. Do you understand?"

  "Yes," she said softly.

  "Do not try anything stupid or your husband will not come home."

  Mrs. Roderick took a deep breath. "How do I know my husband is alive?"

  There was a silence. Then the man said, "Your husband's heart medicine is almost gone. Do not make me angry or he will die."

  The man hung up the phone.

  She looked at me. I was standing there in her bedroom in my skivvies. She didn't seem to notice, or maybe she was too much of a lady.

  "Can you do it?" I said.

  She straightened her back. "If it is necessary, I can do it."

  ***

  The day went slowly. I called Broadbent in El Salvador and filled him in on what had happened. Then Mrs. Roderick got on the phone and talked to Broadbent for a while. I didn't listen in on the conversation but, from what I could make out, she seemed to take some comfort from talking to him.

  I toyed with the idea of putting a mini-transmitter in the bag but decided not to do it. My first priority was getting Roderick back alive. If there was a hitch and they killed him, it wouldn't have been worth the risk.

  Mrs. Roderick made me breakfast. Scrambled eggs and bacon, buttered toast and some really good Hero strawberry jam from Switzerland, and strong black coffee. She just had coffee with skim milk. I guess she wanted to keep me around a little longer.

  Mid-morning I grabbed a cab back to my apartment. I hated to leave her but there were things to do. I showered, shaved and changed into a clean shirt and suit. Then I checked messages and mail and e-mail and didn't find anything unusual, which is to say I didn't find any major job offers or any invitations to the White House. A little after noon, I walked along Forty-ninth Street and then down Lex in the bitter cold to my office in what used to be called the Pan Am building and looked over the mail.

  Nothing special there either. Just the usual bills and overdue notices. Unfortunately the creditors would have to wait, again.

  I dropped down in my old chair, swiveled around and put my feet up on the window sill. The sky outside the office window looking north up Park Avenue was clear and blue and cloudless. There was some ice on the outside of the window.

  One hell of a situation. Mrs. Roderick was about to drop a nice bundle of cash with no assurance her husband was even alive. I had no option but to help her do it. There was no indication who Atlacatl was, except that he was Salvadoran. And there was no way of knowing how many people were playing in this game.

  I slammed my fist down on the desk. It wasn't productive but it was better than putting it through a window. What a lucky woman the Czarina was. Her husband who had a paramour was kidnapped, her daughter was a nympho and her stepson was a sniveling excuse for a man. Just your average happy dysfunctional family unit.

  I stayed in the office working on odd projects to pass the time, but it was tough to keep my mind off the Roderick case. I got hungry about two and went downstairs to grab a beer and a pizza at Sbarro's.

  It was mighty considerate of the kidnappers to pick a drop-off point that was just below my office. That way I wouldn't even have to commute to my job. After lunch, about a quarter to three, I went down to the appointed location and reconnoitered the area around
track thirty-two. I looked into the dumpster. It was half-filled with your usual New York trash, including today's Wall Street Journal, a cashmere scarf and a paperback by Salman Rushdie. I walked to the end of the platform, checked out the entire area and then walked back again. There was nothing out of the ordinary.

  At five-thirty when it got dark I took the elevator down the forty-eight floors to the lobby of the building that was now called Met Life but would always be the Pan Am building to me. In front of the giant curving marble staircases there was a group of cherubic carolers with shiny young faces standing behind stacks of Christmas presents singing the usual heart-warming standards.

  I went down the escalator into Grand Central. It was right in the middle of the evening rush hour and the station was packed with people all bundled up and heading home to what they thought would be the relative safety of their caves. I was heading into a night of the hell knows what but nobody even looked at me.

  Track seventeen was where the five fifty-eight left from. Only I wasn't taking a ride on the five fifty-eight. I walked to the front of the train with the regulars and then I kept on walking. Right to the end of the platform.

  When you are born in New York and you live there most of your life, you get to know every passageway, every tunnel, every short-cut. It's all a question of survival. A split-second edge over the other guy is all you need.

  At the end of the platform was the skeleton of an iron staircase. It wasn't well lit. I climbed three levels. Nobody had cleaned it in centuries. There were cigarette butts and candy wrappers and wads of chewing gum. Graffiti on the walls said something about "Yo momma." At the top landing there was a heavy steel door with a push bar. I shoved it open and stepped outside.