The Big O (A Screwball Noir)

by Declan Burke

  ‘Correct. About nine-ish.’

  ‘Okay. And according to this stamp, Mr Jennings counter-signed the insurance form only last Thursday. A form that includes kidnap insurance.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Something of a coincidence, don’t you think?’

  ‘An unfortunate coincidence,’ Frank said smoothly. ‘But Doug was the one who said I had to sign for everything, the full nine yards, because it was only a week’s worth of insurance.’

  ‘This is what’s confusing me,’ Marie said. ‘Why only one week’s insurance?’

  ‘I’m getting divorced on Friday.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘The plan,’ Frank explained patiently, ‘was that I’d get a week’s insurance just to tide me over. Then, once the divorce went through, I’d reinsure, except with my wife-to-be Genevieve on the policy instead of Margaret.’

  ‘Except someone kidnapped your current wife just days before the divorce goes through.’

  ‘What’re the odds, eh?’

  ‘Extremely high, I’d imagine.’

  ‘Which is probably why,’ Frank pointed out, ‘the kidnap insurance premium was so low.’

  ‘Hmmmm.’ Tapping a pencil on the form, Marie said: ‘I presume you’ve already contacted the police?’

  Frank shook his head. ‘They’re watching me. The kidnappers, I mean, not the cops. For all I know they’re bugging my phone. And they said, if I call the cops, I’d never see Margaret alive again.’

  ‘Yes, well, this is all highly irregular. It’s company policy to contact the police in situations like this.’

  ‘Oh yeah? And is it company policy to go bankrupt after it gets itself sued up the ass for criminal negligence resulting in the death of an insured party?’

  Marie stared. Frank reached for a fresh biscuit, dunked into his tea. ‘I’ll be needing the money in cash,’ he said. ‘Small bills, non-sequential, you know the drill. Half a million by tomorrow morning, first thing. So – chop-chop. Let’s go.’

  Karen

  Ray, on the other end of the line, said: ‘How can it get any worse?’

  Still stunned, Karen heard herself say: ‘It’s Rossi, Ray.’

  ‘I know it’s Rossi. And he’s getting the money so we get Madge. Where’s the problem?’

  ‘No, I mean, it’s Rossi.’ Karen lit one of Frank’s Marlboros, sucked hard. ‘Madge told me the other night she’d had a kid, years ago, long before the twins. She gave it up for adoption.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So last night, I didn’t twig at the time, there was too much going on – anyway, last night she told me the father was Frank.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘There was all this crap about the kid’s name. Madge was fucked around when the baby was born, she says the father – Frank – got involved in naming the kid. Madge wanted to call it Israel.’

  ‘Israel?’

  ‘Yeah, she said it was from the bible. Anyway, Frank got involved ––’

  ‘You think this kid is Rossi? Jesus, Karen – it’s long odds.’

  ‘You’re the one,’ Karen shot back, ‘said it’d be long odds that Madge would be snatched by someone we know. And Rossi came up in a home, never knew who his folks were.’ Ray did some grumbling way down his throat, but Karen talked over him. ‘Ray – Frank’s an opera nut, it’s all he ever plays, makes him feel like he’s some kind of intellectual. Anyway, his favourite? It’s Rossini.’

  Ray, for some reason, sounded very far away saying: ‘The William Tell guy?’

  ‘The Lone Ranger guy, Ray. Look – Rossi’d be the right age. I mean, from what Madge was saying.’

  ‘Okay.’ Ray sounded infuriatingly patient. ‘But even if that is the case, then ––’

  ‘Rossi’s just out, Ray. After doing five years, he’d get up on a crack in a plate. And Madge, she has this thing for younger guys, a bit of rough.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  Karen heard a muffled brr-brr. ‘Ray? Hold on, there’s a call coming through. It might be Frank.’ She punched in call-waiting. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Yeah, hi.’ A woman’s voice, sounding cool and firm. ‘Can I speak to Doctor Dolan, please?’

  ‘I’m afraid the doctor isn’t here right now. Can I take a message?’

  ‘That’s fine, thanks. Has he got any other contact numbers?’

  ‘Actually he’s unavailable at the moment. Would you like to make an appointment?’

  A stern chuckle. ‘No thanks. Can you tell him Marie from Trust Direct rang? He’ll know what it’s about.’

  ‘Trust Direct. The insurance company, right?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’ Karen punched call-waiting again. ‘Ray?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Green light.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’ He took a deep breath and said: ‘Karen? Don’t worry about, y’know, what you were saying. Even Rossi isn’t so dumb or crazy he’ll fuck with half a million. We’ll lose the money, sure. But Madge’ll be fine.’

  ‘Hey, Ray?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Next time you’re talking to Anna, when she’s not wearing the eye-patch – trying telling her how Rossi isn’t dumb or crazy.’

  Ray

  ‘And you’ve been through all his files,’ Ray said.

  Karen, arms folded, nodded.

  ‘His computer?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Karen said. ‘But this morning, when he was going through some papers, the safe was open.’

  ‘Okay.’ Ray glanced across at where Karen was looking, the framed Barber of Seville poster on the wall. ‘And you’ve checked, the safe’s definitely locked again.’

  Karen just looked at him.

  ‘I’m only asking,’ Ray said. ‘There’s no dupes in the bin?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘So what makes you think this Trust Direct thing is so important?’

  Karen hugged herself tightly. ‘I don’t know. It’s just something….’

  Ray waited, but that was all he was getting. ‘What’s that, some kind of women’s intuition vibe?’

  ‘People have hunches, Ray. They’re not always women.’

  Ray caught the edge in her tone, backed off. ‘So you think Frank’s getting the money from Trust Direct. That changes nothing. We still have to find him and hit him when he gets the cash. Any ideas on where he might be?’

  ‘He was supposed to be here.’ Karen nodding at the .44 on Frank’s desk, the plan being to stick the gun’s snout in Frank’s face and sit him down until Ray arrived. ‘Except the bastard never came back after lunch.’

  ‘So we need to start looking at other options. What about the golf club?’

  ‘I was thinking of starting at the house. With the mooch.’

  ‘You think he’d be dumb enough, planning a skip-out, to bunker down at his own house?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I need to be doing something, Ray. Y’know? This sitting around, not know where Madge is, if she’s okay….’

  ‘I hear you. Let’s go.’

  On the drive over to Frank’s, dusk coming on, Ray said: ‘You might want to start thinking about Anna, getting her out. In case we have to skip too.’

  Karen fumbled on the dashboard for one of Frank’s Marlboros, lit up. Ray, realising it was a touchy one, changed the subject. ‘You really think he’s doing a bunk?’ he said.

  ‘The way he was acting this morning, I got the feeling he knew something no one else knows. Too fucking smug, y’know? Especially with Madge gone missing a day early. Then, the insurance company rings, wanting Frank to ring back.’ She looked across. ‘You don’t get anything from all that?’

  ‘Sure. A migraine.’

  Karen smoked on. Ray turned up the stereo, Springsteen singing about the New Jersey turnpike, rock ‘n’ roll stations, driving all night. Sounding echoey, ghostly, not really there. Ray, the way everything seemed to be slipping away, fading out, could sympathise.

  Genevieve answered the d
oor, recognised them straight off. ‘Oh hi,’ she giggled. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘We’re looking for Frank,’ Ray said. ‘Is he in?’

  ‘Yeah.’ She giggled again, a brittle sound. Smashed, Ray realised; in the bag at seven in the evening. She said: ‘Not right now, though. I haven’t seen him all day.’

  ‘Maybe we could come in and wait? We need to talk with him.’

  ‘I dunno. I kinda want to talk to him myself whenever he gets home.’

  ‘We’ll queue,’ Karen said.

  Genevieve, undecided, swung the door to and fro.

  ‘Listen,’ Ray said, ‘I’ve got a killer migraine. You think I could get a couple of painkillers?’

  She shrugged, held the door open, took them through to the kitchen; handed Ray a packet of painkillers, offered martinis all round, asked if anyone was carrying smokes. Ray lit her up. She chugged her martini and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, smudging lipstick and almost burning the tip of her nose with the cigarette. She giggled at that, then choked back a sob.

  ‘Where do you think he’s gone?’ Ray said gently.

  ‘Fucked if I know.’

  ‘Wherever he’s going,’ Karen said, ‘he isn’t gone yet.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ Genevieve said. ‘I checked. They’re gone.’

  ‘What’s gone?’ Ray said.

  ‘His Viagra. His corset. The David fucking Leadbetter video.’

  ‘He take his computer?’ Ray said.

  ‘Computer?’

  ‘Yeah. Or a laptop, something he uses from home.’

  ‘I don’t know. He usually keeps it locked in the desk.’ She jerked a thumb over her shoulder and almost poked herself in the eye. ‘In the study.’

  ‘Mind if we have a look? Might help us all to track him down.’

  ‘Be my guest.’ She giggled. ‘Guests.’

  She wobbled getting up, then steadied herself and led them out across the hallway to Frank’s study. She gestured at the bare desk. ‘There’s a laptop in there somewhere. But he only uses it, as far as I know, for downloading porn.’

  Ray started with the bottom drawer of the three, jemmying it open with the ornamental poker from the set of brass andirons on the fake hearth. ‘Bingo,’ he said, hauling a laptop in black matt finish from the drawer. He set it down on the desk.

  Genevieve, in a small, dull voice, said: ‘You know about the money, right? I mean, the ransom.’

  Karen nodded. Ray powered up. The laptop whirred to life, welcoming them all with a tinny little tune. Then it requested a password.

  The doorbell rang, deep and resonant. Genevieve looked from Ray to Karen.

  ‘You expecting anyone?’ Karen said.

  Genevieve shook her head.

  ‘Then I guess you’d better answer that,’ Karen said, ‘and find out who it is.’

  Genevieve stubbed her cigarette into Frank’s blank blotter, then tottered out into the hallway. Ray heard the front door open, some low mumbling; the self-satisfied schlunk of the heavy door closing again. Genevieve reappeared in the doorway of the study, glancing back over her shoulder. Doyle followed on, carrying a brown leather briefcase.

  ‘This,’ Genevieve said, ‘is Detective Doyle. She’s looking for Frank too. I told her she’d have to, y’know, get in line.’

  ‘Hey Ray,’ Doyle said.

  Ray grinned. ‘Stephanie.’

  ‘You’ve already met?’ Genevieve trilled. ‘Cool.’

  Karen looking from Doyle to Ray.

  ‘Karen,’ Ray said, ‘meet Detective Doyle. Stephanie, Karen.’

  ‘Any friend of Ray’s,’ Karen said. Ray wondered why Karen’d never smiled as sweetly at him as she did for Doyle. Doyle smiling too, polite as a nun’s fart, holding up the brown briefcase now.

  ‘Just thought I’d drop this off on my way home,’ she said, ‘see if I couldn’t grab a quick word with Doctor Dolan. I know he’s a busy man.’ Saying all this, Ray couldn’t help but notice, while looking past them to the desk. ‘Is that his laptop?’

  ‘Yep,’ Ray said.

  ‘I’m guessing here,’ Doyle said, ‘but what I’m guessing is that you’re fooling around with that laptop without the good doctor’s permission. Am I right?’

  ‘Call this a guess-back,’ Karen said, ‘but I’m guessing you’re not supposed to step inside the door without a warrant.’

  ‘Not unless I’m invited,’ Doyle said, moving to the desk.

  ‘Cops and vampires,’ Karen said.

  ‘I’m invited,’ Doyle said. She slung the briefcase onto the desk, turned the laptop around to face her, hunkered down. ‘Anyone mind if I play some solitaire?’

  Karen, staring at Ray over Doyle’s head, said: ‘We can’t get in. We don’t know the password.’

  ‘And no one,’ Doyle said, glancing up at Genevieve, ‘has any idea of what it might be.’

  ‘Nope,’ said Genevieve. She hiccupped, placed the tips of her fingers against her lips. ‘But if I had to guess, I’d probably start off trying ‘bellybutton’.

  Rossi

  Sleeps was losing the plot. Bitching about the cold, how it was dark, he was starving, all this. Rossi could have coped, he’d had colder doing time and the moon outside was almost full. But then Margaret chimed in, backing up Sleeps; she was hungry too.

  Another time Rossi might’ve started waving the .22 around, but with the half-mill in the post, a few Nervocaine down the hatch, Rossi was in the mood to be generous. So he sent Sleeps back into town to pick up cheeseburgers, shakes, some candles. Sleeping bags, if he could get them. Hot coffee.

  Sleeps left. Rossi sat at the wooden table building a jay. Rolling by touch, he’d done it a thousand times before, skinning up in the dark. Now he kept his eyes on Margaret, sitting the other side of the table; her hands still bound, her eyes glittering in the half-light. Waiting for something to happen, Rossi could tell. He roached the jay, sparked up, exhaled.

  ‘I don’t suppose,’ she said, ‘I could get a smoke off that?’

  Rossi, surprised, handed the joint across. ‘I wouldn’t have thought you’d be the kind.’

  ‘That’s me. Full of surprises.’

  Rossi watched her smoke. ‘You must hate this guy,’ he said. ‘Your husband.’

  ‘Ex-husband.’

  ‘Whatever. The guy’s cutting you loose and you’re what, fifty?’

  ‘Forty-five.’

  ‘Same fucking difference, am I right?’ He took the joint back, had a quick toke. ‘See, what I’m wondering is ––’

  The phone rang. Rossi picked up. ‘Yeah? Go on.’ He listened. ‘No, I said strawberry. Bring me back a banana shake and I’ll … Yeah, okay, sound.’ He hung up. ‘Where was I?’

  ‘My name is Margaret. But people call me Madge.’

  ‘So we’re friends now? In cahoots and shit?’

  ‘Could be.’

  Rossi shrugged. ‘Anyway, you were saying, you hate this guy Frank.’

  ‘There isn’t even enough to hate. He’s just pathetic.’

  ‘You like the dynamic type. A man who’ll get things done.’

  ‘Right now I don’t have what you might call types.’

  Rossi passed the joint across. ‘See,’ he said, ‘what I’m wondering, with you getting divorced and all, is how long it’s been since, y’know.’

  ‘Not long enough.’

  ‘Me, I’m just out. So I don’t have what you might call types right now either.’

  He caught the glitter in her eyes; Rossi warming up, feeling his balls start to crinkle. ‘I can tell,’ he said, ‘you being the lady type and all ––’

  The phone rang again. Rossi swore, picked up.

  ‘Look, Sleeps, it’s fucking simple. You just – Oh, hey Karen.’ He winked at Madge. ‘Hold up, Karen. Hold up, Christ … Yeah, that’s better. Now – did you get the money? No? Then why the fuck’re you ringing?’ He listened for a moment, then cut in again. ‘Karen, the deal is that you get the money, then you get to hear
her say she’s okay. How hard is that to understand? No, you can’t talk to her. No, you can’t. Jesus … Also, Karen? I’ll be wanting the Ducati too, and the .44. And the sixty grand, Karen, it’s a matter of principle. Ethics.’ He gave Madge the thumbs-up sign. ‘So whenever you get the half-mill, call me. Otherwise, for every wasted call you make, I’ll slice a toe off.’ He listened, frowning. ‘Karen – why the fuck would I want to cut off my own toes? Look, get the money and ring me back, we’ll take it from there. Okay?’

  He switched off, beckoned for the joint. Madge passed it over. Rossi dragged deep, tasted cardboard; grimaced and stubbed the jay. He got up, stretching, waiting for a jag of pain; Madge watching every move, breathing hard enough for Rossi to hear it. He moved around the table until he was standing behind her, began massaging her shoulders.

  ‘Like I was saying,’ he said, ‘you’re the high-class type. Am I right?’

  Madge cleared her throat. Rossi went on kneading.

  ‘I mean, you’re used to the best. None of his wham-bam crap. You’ll be expecting foreplay, all this.’ He ran the tip of his forefinger down the line of her jaw, tilting her chin so she was looking back up at him. ‘I’m making no promises,’ he said. ‘Like I told you, I’m only out. But I’ll do my best to hold off for as long as I can.’

  Madge squirmed under his hands. ‘Are you,’ she said thickly, ‘going to, you know, take me?’

  Rossi stopped kneading. ‘Say again?’

  Her voice was tremulous. ‘Are you going to get rough?’

  Rossi hawked venomously, spat to one side. ‘You want it rough?’ he demanded. ‘Lady, I’ll give you all the fucking rough you can stand until you can’t stand it no more.’

  Karen

  ‘There’s no such thing as a victimless crime,’ Doyle said. ‘It’s a myth. Someone, somewhere, always gets hammered.’ She sipped her vodka-tonic and looked around the booth, lowering her voice even though the only other customers were slumped on high stools at the bar. ‘Take Frank’s scam. Trust Direct pays out, sure, they take the hit up front. But next year it’s you and me paying through the nose for higher premiums.’