by Greg Aunapu
"Oh, please," Sue said. "Please . . . There's a thousand dollars in it," she reminded them.
Sid rose heavily to his feet and passed gas. "We don't want the money," he said. "But some of the guys might." Frank Rubino knocked on the door and entered. He wanted to get more details about how women were inducted into the group and turned into sex slaves, hookers, and strippers.
Sue went to fetch beer to get out of the room. But when she came back they talked about other things, such as Richard Nixon and his Watergate problems. Once during the conversation she even joked, "What does your mama think of you, a Jewish biker?"
"I make more money than my cousin, the doctor," Sid said, "I get better drugs and more pussy than any Jew outside of Bob Dylan. I'm sure she's quite proud. Now one thing we gotta get straight. You gotta keep the Man completely outta this."
Sue assured them, "I swear I won't prosecute. I don't like what you do, but it's not for me to judge. I just want my daughter back."
Sue followed the two men to the door. There was an old rusted van outside. Bikers didn't always ride bikes, apparently. "What if it's not the Outlaws?" Sue asked. "What if the Pagans took her?"
Sid grabbed Sue's shoulders with his big grease-smeared hands. "Sue," he said. "If it's humanly possible to get Amy back, we will. You got our word on it."
Sue felt so relieved she actually hugged the renegade and kissed him on the cheek. A few days ago she wouldn't have touched anyone like him. Now she was investing all her hope in Sid Fast.
The two men lumbered into the van. Greek climbed behind the wheel, turned the ignition, and steered the coughing van down the street, which sounded almost as loud as a Harley.
After they were gone, Sue turned to Frank. "This is like a bad movie," she said. "Who would believe it?" Then the enormity of it hit her. "They can't have Amy! They can't! Not men like those. Not like those!"
She remembered Sid saying, "Lady, you think we're bad? You should see our brothers."
Friedman's story about the possible Outlaw connection appeared in the newspaper the next morning. After that the phone never stopped. Each time it rang, Sue or Ned prayed it brought news of Amy. Over fifty calls came from psychics. "I see her near water," they would usually say. Rubino shook his head and explained, "They always say that. We're surrounded by water."
But the calls kept coming. "She's scared. She got on a bike voluntarily, but when she wanted to leave, they wouldn't let her," one caller said. "I think she's been taken West." Still another famed psychic claimed that for $5,000 he could definitely pinpoint where Amy was. Sue didn't believe a word of it. Opportunists were attracted to the case like parasites to an open wound.
The AP wire finally picked up the story, and old friends started calling from around the nation. Old ladies would call to give support and just break down crying. "I just want you to know, a group of us is praying for you."
Ned was always appreciative. "Thank you, sweetheart," he would say. "That's really, really groovy of you. Thanks so much for calling." His voice became more tired as time passed, but he was always sincere.
Sue couldn't eat and quickly dropped fifteen pounds. Friends were so worried they had a doctor come by and administer B-12 shots.
"You have to eat," Ned pleaded.
"Nothing stays down," she told him. "I just vomit it up. If only Sid would call I just see her being passed around from biker to biker, and it's driving me crazy." Two days after Sid and Greek rode off in the van, Sue finally received the call she was waiting for.
"It's Joe Klein," the caller said.
Sue, who had been weeping for days, felt a surge of adrenaline hit her. "Tell me!"
"She's in Venice Beach, California," the bondsman said.
Sue was confused. "Are you sure? How'd she get out there?"
Joe's voice was hesitant. "Big Jim says she drove out there with a biker, but now she's on her own. It's your ball from here."
The Billigs called Venice Beach police and Ned's sister, who lived nearby. Both scoured the small town, famous for its community of beach-camping runaways, and it quickly became apparent that the Outlaws' information was bogus—perhaps even purposefully seasoned misinformation. Sue was in tears. What did that mean? The Outlaws had Amy but weren't giving her back? They didn't have Amy? They had already harmed her? She was dead? Could Friedman's news article have spooked them? What did it mean?
The Billigs' home was a large wooden cottage built in the shade of one of the Grove's most massive banyan trees, which had twisting roots growing from its limbs, trailing to the ground, where they would turn into additional trunks. The house was furnished with antique wooden and white wicker furniture, ornately carved armoires and chests. The walls were decorated with original paintings from some of the famous artists whom the Billigs had known in Greenwich Village, such as David Levine, and Aaron Shikler, well-known for his portrait paintings of the Kennedys.
During a few minutes of calm amidst the normal pandemonium, Sue sat on the couch with an old family friend, Joe Adler—a local theater director—and confided what she hadn't even admitted to herself before. "Even if we found out she was dead . . . I would mourn, and I would never be the same. But it would be finished. I would know. I've never said this before, but I would know where she is. It's the thought that when it rains I think she's outside and it's raining on her. When it's cold I want to comfort her. She's lying somewhere and nobody is helping her. She's being hurt. . . . When the bikers told me what they did to girls—they call them trainees—I was horrified, and Sid saw it. I turned around and said, 'Sid I really can't take violence because I'm projecting my own daughter into this scene, and if you had a daughter you'd feel the same way I do.' So he didn't talk about it anymore."
Adler took Sue's hand. He was very worried about his friend, who had lost so many pounds but supported the weight of the world on her shoulders. Always a beautiful woman, Sue had aged years in the last weeks. "You have to start taking care of yourself, dear," he said. "If you lose your vitality, the whole damn thing's going to fall apart. I mean, you have to keep coming up with ideas. You have to get out of the house. You should definitely have come to Kathy's birthday last night."
Sue shook her head. "Would you leave the house if your daughter was kidnapped? Absolutely not." But as always, Sue was more concerned about other people than herself. "I didn't want to hurt anybody. I was afraid of even sending presents because I was afraid it would put a pall on the party. I have to think of my friends. They love me and are trying to help me. I don't want to hurt them."
Joe nodded. "Yeah, I understand."
Sue sniffled and held back another wave of tears.
She closed her eyes and let Amy's face come to her. Moments later she felt a sort of vibration coursing through her blood.
"Suddenly, you look a little better," Joe said. "There's color in your face."
Sue took a deep breath. "I don't know what it is. Every time I think I'm down for the count, I think of my child and suddenly there's a kind of energy that happens. I've operated all my life at an unbelievable energy. But this is something different."
Joe didn't want to respond. Maybe it was energy from God, he thought, giving Sue what she needed to keep moving on. Or maybe it was just desperation.
However, before any of this information could be digested, sifted, and contemplated . . . before the Outlaws could be brought in for questioning by authorities… came another fateful phone call.
-2-
O n the strength of the Outlaw tip and the fact that the bikers had apparently crossed state lines, Sue spent a day downtown and convinced the FBI to look into the case. It was a grueling day of arguing her cause, made worse by lack of sleep. She was exhausted, but still answered the phone no matter what because she always had to be doing something, anything, to advance the investigation.
When the phone rang at nine A.M., it wasn't the first time it had rung that morning. Usually, the calls were from northern friends who had just heard the news. Sometimes it wa
s one of the myriad sympathetic women who called to say they were praying for the family. The most frustrating were well-intentioned callers with outrageous tips: Amy was working as a waitress in Jamaica; Amy was living on a sailboat anchored out in Biscayne Bay; or worst of all, she was turning tricks at a Miami hotel.
Sue was trying to get breakfast together for half a dozen people who had camped out at the house when the newest call came.
"Hello?" she answered, a little breathless, always hoping that this would be the call.
The voice on the line was male, young, businesslike, and courteous. "Hello, may I speak to Mrs. Billig, please?"
"Speaking."
The voice continued as calmly as if it were ordering a pizza. "Okay, now listen. We have some news about Amy. The Outlaws don't have her."
Sue dropped the washcloth she was holding and picked up the pen that was always by the phone. "Who is this, please?"
"Now, listen to me," the voice persisted. "She's fine. She's getting over a sore throat. Now, listen to me. We're going to have her speak to you at 2:45."
Sue was incredulous, her voice imbued with hope and fear. "At 2:45?"
"This isn't a joke. We don't want you thinking this is a joke… We'll kill her if we have to." The voice became harder and more insistent. "This is not a joke. We will kill her."
"Oh, please don't!" Sue cried.
"Our demands are threefold."
Sue took a breath and prepared to write down his instructions. "Okay, go ahead."
"First, there's the money. We're going to need a small amount—$30,000.”
Sue gasped. "That's small?"
"We're going to have her call you at 2:45. She'll speak to you then. This is to prove it isn't a joke. Now listen to me don't tell the newspapers or we'll kill her."
"Of course not!"
"We hope you're cooperative. We'll have her speak to you at 2:45. She's fine," he emphasized. "Okay"
Sue broke down crying. "Yes… please!"
"Okay," said the voice, completely matter-of-factly, as if the pizza transaction had been concluded. "Thank you very much." He hung up.
Sue slammed down the phone and began wailing to anybody who could hear her. God, if possible. Her voice was full of mixed emotions: fear, dread, and hope. "Oh, for God's sake! Oh, for God's sake! I'm sorry. They're calling back at 2:45. They have Amy!"
She ran to the other line to call the phone company and try to get a "lock" on the call before a new caller dialed in. Unfortunately, the communication had originated from a pay phone. Sue went into overdrive. She called Frank Rubino.
"Come right away," she said. "There's a ransom call." She phoned the FBI and the police. Finally, it was something for the authorities to sink their teeth into. By the time 2:45 P.M. rolled around, the house was filled with cops and friends.
The minute came and went without a ring.
Ned took Sue's hand. "Just stay calm, sweetheart. Maybe their watch is slow."
The phone rang. Sue picked it up before it stopped.
"Hi," said a mature woman's voice. "Is this Mrs. Billig?"
"Well, you don't know me, but I just wanted to call and give you my support and tell you that my church—"
Sue's throat was almost too constricted to speak. "I'm sorry, but we have an emergency and have to keep the line free right now. I have to hang up." This was long before Call Waiting.
Sue shook her head to indicate a negative to the crowd of people surrounding her and slammed the receiver down. Sweat poured down her forehead. "Can anybody else hear my heart beating?" she asked.
Ned smiled and squeezed her hand.
The phone rang.
Sue snatched it out of the cradle.
"Mrs. Billig?" came the calm, now familiar voice. "Yes!" she said again. "Do you have my daughter?" "Listen," said the voice.
In the background an agonized voice wailed, "Mama, Mama, please help me It sounded like Amy.
Sue's heart melted. Amy! Blood rushed through her ears like a hurricane. "What . . . what do you want?" she sputtered.
The voice returned. "We want $30,000 in small bills. Put the money in a black briefcase and come to the lobby of the Fontainebleau at eleven A.M., Friday. Wear red, white, and blue clothes. Oh, and Mrs. Billig, come alone. Whatever you do, do not—I repeat, do not—call the police or we will kill her."
"Of course not," she answered.
"We'll call you tomorrow morning to confirm the details and make sure you're getting the money. Thanks very much," he ended politely.
The call was quickly traced to a Miami Beach telephone booth, where detectives later tried to lift fingerprints. Playing back the taped conversation, everyone agreed the muffled, pleading voice that called "Mama" sounded like Amy.
"What do we do?" Sue asked. "How do we get $30,000?"
Rubino asked, "Know anybody at a bank?"
The Billigs did know somebody at a bank. A friend was president of a local institution. He agreed to allow the police to mark $30,000 in small bills. Strangely enough, none of the Billigs' friends owned a black briefcase. They called stores all over the city. It was like something out of The Twilight Zone. Something as simple and ubiquitous as a black briefcase was nowhere to be found. Plenty of brown ones, though. In desperation, Sue spray-painted a brown briefcase black.
The next morning at nine A.M., she was holding a briefcase full of money. It was more than she'd ever seen at once before, and just thinking about it made her nervous. But it was nothing compared to what Amy's life was worth. Even if the kidnappers somehow got away with the cash, she would pay the money back.
The FBI wanted to wire the briefcase with a remote sensor and outfit Sue with a body mike in case she was taken somewhere. Unfortunately, the good old U.S. government, buying from the lowest bidder, did not have reliable equipment. Rubino, however, owned superior electronics, so he ended up doing the honors. The Billigs wiped out the Amy Billig Fund's $2,000, paying for extra surveillance, including a plane, boat, and frogmen, in case the kidnappers tried to escape by water. The famous resort was situated right on the beach.
The confirmation call came as promised.
"You have the money?"
"We're all set," Sue said nervously.
"Okay, everything's the same. Come tomorrow at eleven A.M. And remember, no cops. Follow our instructions to the letter or we will kill Amy."
Friends slept at the house that night as moral support. Sue tried to eat some plain toast and instantly threw it up. Even Amy's little mutt, Shawn, which she had rescued from the pound, seemed to know something was up. Instead of playing and jumping around as he normally did when company arrived, he moped. It was a long and sleepless night for Sue, and she didn't even have to close her eyes to have nightmares. She prayed that this would all be over tomorrow.
The next morning, Ned was so nervous he could barely walk. While Sue hadn't slept a wink that night, she exhorted herself to keep going. "Now's the time, Sue. If you've ever needed your last reserves, use them now!" She forced herself into the heightened energy level that had sustained her so far.
Sue hugged her husband and felt his body become liquid. "I could wipe you up with a sponge," she tried to joke. "What a couple, huh?" She looked down at her clothing. "I look like some kind of patriotic clown!"
As per instructions, she wore white pants, a blue and-white-check shirt, and a red suede belt. She got into the passenger seat of their blue station wagon, with a woman detective, Ina Shepard, driving. Shepard, wearing dark slacks and a white blouse, was slim and pretty, with an oval face, short cropped hair and bangs, and would pose as Sue's neighbor.
Of course, there was unusually heavy traffic, and they hit every stoplight on the way. Sue was ready to tear her hair out by the time they reached the Fontainebleau a few minutes late. They left the car with a doorman and walked nervously into the posh lobby.
The Fontainebleau had been built in the heyday of Miami Beach's popularity. It had several massive lobbies with ceilings nearly seventy-
five feet high, decorated with gold leaf and hung with giant crystal chandeliers. The place boasted several bars and theaters that sat hundreds of people. Frank Sinatra was a regular act at the La Ronde room and maintained a suite where he entertained the Rat Pack members.
Even at the end of the season the lobby was busy. A line of visitors was checking in, bellhops zipped around with luggage, hordes of conventioneers mingled, and kids wearing Mickey Mouse ears from Disney World played hide-and-seek around the chairs and sofas.
The two found an empty couch in the main salon and sat down. Sue's whitened knuckles gripped the briefcase handle so hard the black paint rubbed off on her fingers.
What an operation! she thought.
Ina sat down and held her other hand, the painted attaché case protected between them. Sue tried not to allow herself to look around. Over forty Miami and Miami Beach police officers had infiltrated the place wearing tourist clothes during the morning, and she didn't want to inadvertently recognize one of them and give the plan away. Outside, every exit was under surveillance. An FBI agent, drinking a Coke, observed from the lobby bar.
A young man approached. "He was freaky looking," Sue remembers "Creepy. He was wearing a green baseball cap with a visor and silver sunglasses. You couldn't see his eyes. But one thing I thought was good. He was just as nervous as I was. His hands were shaking!" She sucked in a breath. "Are you the man?" she asked.
The voice was nervous, higher and less controlled than it had been on the phone. "I thought I told you to come alone!" he declared.
The bustling atmosphere of the busy hotel faded away. Sue focused on this one boy as if he were the very center of the universe. She wanted to hate and memorize every smack of his thin lips—the only part of his face she could really see—which seemed magnified like a cartoon in slow motion. But she had cried so much over the last weeks that she had become an empty vessel, and empty vessels have no emotion to hate with. Still, Sue wasn't about to allow this scrawny pipsqueak to intimidate her. What could he be, a teenager? "If you'd done your homework," she scolded, "you would know we're from New York City and I just learned to drive. I'm too nervous to drive today. This is my neighbor, Ina. She drove me."