I said, “This one did sound like a flake. If he’s somehow for real, he’ll call back. It’s possible the first call was also a hoax, but you shouldn’t take that chance. I’m going to call the police, Hunny.”
“Oh, yes, Donald, I suppose you must. Do whatever you think is best.”
I made the call on my cell phone and luckily was able to reach my friend in the Albany PD. I explained the situation, and he said he would (a) notify the Rensselaer sheriff of this new development and (b) explain to the detectives on duty in Albany that they needed to set up a trap on Hunny’s phone line, and then be prepared to surveil the ransom drop-off and follow the kidnappers to wherever Mrs. Van Horn was being held. I said I couldn’t guarantee that this wasn’t a hoax, but my contact agreed that we couldn’t risk that the threat wasn’t real. He said that kidnapping claims directed at the very wealthy always had to be taken seriously. He said two Albany PD detectives would arrive at Hunny’s house within ten minutes.
Just as I was finishing up with the cop, there was a ruckus in the living room, and the kitchen door flew open. An excited Marylou Whitney came crashing into the room bathed in white light, which we soon saw was from the television lights mounted atop a video camera. She was trying unsuccessfully to keep a pinch-faced, scowling middle-aged man in a jacket and tie from entering the kitchen with her. The man looked at Hunny and barked, “Huntington Van Horn? I think you need to answer a few questions. This hoax has gone on long enough, and so has your refusal to return the billion dollars that came out of the pockets of hard-working Americans who do not support the radical homosexual agenda.”
Antoine said, “Who is this Froot Loop?”
“Girl, I guess you don’t watch Focks News,” Hunny said. “I don’t either, but I recognize Mr. Bill O’Malley from seeing his picture on Inside Edition. Come on in, girl, sit your skinny ass 84 Richard Stevenson
down here and I’ll pour you a drink. Or would you prefer some weed?”
ChAPteR tweLve
“Hunny, I don’t think this is the right time for a television interview,” I said. “The police will be here any minute now, and we have to deal with the urgent situation concerning your mom.”
Beady-eyed and blotchy, O’Malley thrust a microphone at Hunny and barked, “We know this missing mom business is a hoax! We have our sources at All-Too-Real TV, and we know that you have been in touch with them about getting your own reality show. Do you deny it?”
Hunny blinked into the lights mounted on the camera that was aiming at him. “You know, Bill,” he said, “you are a wee bit cuter in person than you are on TV. But I have to say, in the cutie-pie department you are a long, long way from competing with Missy Matt Lauer.”
“Careful what you say, luv,” Art said. “You know what happened last time. Nelson and Lawn might be tuning in.”
“Anyway,” Hunny said, “my people told your people in no uncertain terms that I would only talk to Anderson Cooper. Did your assistants not inform you?”
“That’s right, Hunny,” Marylou said, “I did make that abundantly clear to that Focks gorgon.”
“Anderson Cooper’s ratings are a tenth of what mine are,”
O’Malley snorted. “Now, you have not answered my question. I am going to ask it one more time. Have you or have you not been talking to All-Too-Real TV about a reality show deal? Just answer the question. Is your answer yes, or is it no?”
“I don’t think you should talk to this liar,” Antoine said. “Bill O’Malley called President Obama a communist.”
“I never said any such thing. But he is a socialist, and he is destroying our country and robbing us of our precious freedoms.
But right now taking my country back is beside the point. You still have not answered my question, Huntington. Are you in 86 Richard Stevenson
negotiations for a reality show on All-Too-Real? Keep in mind before you answer that anything you say can be held against you in the Focks News court of public opinion.”
Marylou said, “Hunny, should I call security?”
Hunny looked at me, and I nodded, and Marylou turned in her ball gown and left the room.
I said, “O’Malley, go fuck yourself.”
“Who are you, mister? Maybe you need to have your mouth washed out with soap.”
Jane Trinkus said, “Should I leave that in? I can bleep it just enough to get it by the fCC, but viewers will know that you have been disrespected, Bill. It makes you look small, but it’s great television.”
Now another cameraman appeared in the doorway, and the young woman from Channel 13 who Timmy and I saw Wednesday night on TV at Hunny’s won-the-lottery party edged into the kitchen in front of the videographer and said, “It seems unjust to the local media that out-of-town people should get an exclusive at this tragic time, Hunny. We really think out of fairness we need to be included.”
“Tragic?” Hunny asked, going pale. “Has Mom’s body been discovered?”
“No, I mean to say, tragic that she is still missing. She is, isn’t she? Or have there been late-breaking developments?”
Waggling her fingers, Trinkus said, “Oh, there have been developments, all right. How do you spell h-o-A-x?”
O’Malley shook his head vehemently at Trinkus and mouthed Our story.
Now the two large Gray Security guys came in, and I said,
“These media folks need to be led out of here. They are trespassing.”
“Let’s go,” said the bigger of the two men.
“Who do you work for, Hugo Chavez?” O’Malley said to the CoCkeyed 87
security man, who looked Hispanic but had given no indication that he might be Venezuelan.
Now O’Malley turned and looked directly into the Focks camera and intoned, “Obama’s America. The America of Barack Hussein Obama is the America you are witnessing first-hand. This is what the United States of America has come to. The Founding Fathers must be weeping, and so, my friends, am I.”
“Yeah, let’s go,” said the security guy. “Mr. Van Horn don’t want you in here no more. Keep movin’ out the door.”
“Resist a little,” Trinkus whispered. “Make him cuff you.”
O’Malley shrugged that off and followed his crew and the Channel 13 team out of the kitchen, past a scowling Marylou Whitney and the twins, who had been hovering in the doorway holding their schoolbooks and passing a joint back and forth.
No sooner had the media departed than two burly guys in jackets and sport shirts strode into the kitchen. The older, larger, grayer of the two asked for Mr. Van Horn and introduced himself as Detective Lieutenant Card Sanders of the Albany Police Department. The smaller one was a Sergeant Lester Nechemias.
Glancing uninterestedly past Art and Antoine, Sanders asked me if I was PI Strachey, and when I said I was he asked Hunny and me to tell him why we believed Hunny’s mother had been kidnapped. Hunny described the first kidnapping claim that was phoned in. For the record, I added that there had been a second call from another claimant. I said the second call was almost certainly a hoax, but we couldn’t be sure about the first one, and we had decided not to take a chance that it wasn’t genuine.
Hunny said, “The first people said they would torture Mom and kill her, and the second ones said they would punch her in the face. She is so frail, and I’m afraid that even if they don’t hit her or anything she might have a heart attack. So we have to rescue her as fast as possible. Oh God. Mom must be so wrecked.”
“Does your mother have heart trouble? Is she on some kind of medication?” Sanders asked.
“Just Ativan once in a while. Mom would prefer bourbon, but 88 Richard Stevenson
Golden Gardens keeps her on the straight and narrow in that regard.”
“Mr. Van Horn, we’ll do everything we can to get your mother back unharmed,” Sanders said. “Verizon is set up, and when the kidnappers call back at six thirty we’ll know within a minute or two where the call is originating. If it’s a cell — and they may be smart enough to use o
ne — the caller may be in motion and it will take longer to triangulate on the location. So what I’d recommend is that you make a plan to hand over the cash. What you want to do is, try to get the kidnappers to make a switch at a particular location, your mom for the money. But if they absolutely insist that the cash be dropped in one place and they say they’ll release your mom someplace else, you’ll just have to go along. APd is getting together a bag of twenty thousand dollars in marked bills and that bag should arrive here by six fifteen. You can repay APD the twenty K tomorrow at District Two after the banks open.”
“Get my mom back in one piece,” Hunny said, “and I’ll give every officer involved a bonus of one million dollars.”
Art screwed up his face and Antoine’s jaw dropped.
Sanders said, “That’s not at all necessary, Mr. Van Horn.”
Sergeant Nechemias added, “Police officers are not permitted to accept gratuities from citizens, sir.”
“I used to hate the Albany cops with a passion,” Hunny said.
“Back in the eighties, I got dragged into District Two seven times for giving blowjobs in the park, even though I wasn’t harming a living soul.”
The two detectives pursed their lips in apparent disapproval of the Albany police tactics of an earlier era but did not offer any present-day endorsement of public-park free love.
I said, “After Mr. Van Horn won the lottery, his being gay brought out a certain amount of right-wing hostility from individuals and from groups such as the Family Preservation Association of Albany. I take it you all are having a look at them, at least in connection with last night’s shooting.”
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“At least,” Sanders said, but didn’t expand on that. He did add, “Don’t worry. APd has plenty of experience in handling the weirdo types that celebrities can attract.” Apparently the detective meant that Hunny’s detractors were the weirdoes and Hunny was the celebrity, a nice attitudinal switch from two decades earlier that left Art, Antoine and Hunny looking satisfied.
The phone rang again. Hunny started, and then he stared at the thing with fright. Hunny’s kitchen wall clock — with its picture of a naked Jack Wrangler and the clock’s phallus-shaped big hand protruding from the one-time porn star’s groin —
showed that the time was just five fifty, forty minutes before the kidnappers said they would call back.
Sanders said, “Answer it. The call is being monitored.”
Sanders took out a cell phone. “I’ll be able to listen in on this.”
Hunny picked up the receiver and said, “Huntington Van Horn speaking.” After a moment, he relaxed and said, “Nelson, yes, it’s true. Apparently Mom has been kidnapped. But I can’t talk now, ‘cause we’re waiting for the kidnappers to call back. We have call-waiting, but I don’t want to get confused. I’m confused enough as it is.” He listened some more. “Uh-huh. Yes, but I don’t see why they’re calling off the search just because of the kidnapping, which we don’t even know for sure if it’s real.” More listening. Sanders was looking over at Nechemias and giving him just a hint of a family-tension-coming-to-the-fore eye roll.
“Oh, wait!” Hunny’s eyes got big. “It’s call-waiting. It might be the kidnappers calling early. Nelson, hang on.” Hunny hit flash. “Huntington Van Horn speaking.” He frowned. “Miriam, I just told Nelson, I can’t talk now. Do I have to spell it out for you with a red crayon? I am waiting for the kidnappers to call back with instructions, and… No, I am not going to go on Matt Lauer again, and, no, I am not going to go on Regis and Kelly at all. Unless somehow it would help get Mom back. Then I would go on. Look, I have to hang up. I’m sorry. I’ll talk to you when we know what on earth is going on with Mom and with —
everything else.”
Hunny hung up. “Oh, phooey! I just hung up on Nelson, 90 Richard Stevenson
too. Well, he’ll call back if it’s important. Anyway, I don’t even remember why he called.”
“Probably about your mom,” Antoine said. “Did Nelson say the sheriff is calling off the search?”
“Yes, the East Greenbush authorities got wind of the kidnapping, and also I suppose budget considerations are coming into play. Plus, it’s suppertime, and Methodists like to eat. Oh Lord, I wonder if the kidnappers are feeding Mom. She likes to eat at five thirty sharp, and now it’s past six.”
The phone rang again, and Hunny stared up at it. Sanders nodded, and Hunny gingerly picked up the receiver. “Huntington Van Horn speaking. Oh, no, I’m sorry. No, I can’t deal with that now. My mother is missing and I need to keep this line open.”
Hunny listened for a moment longer and then snapped, “I said I can’t deal with that now. Didn’t you hear me say that? Good- bye.”
Hunny hung up. “It was the Democratic Senatorial Campaign Fund. I sent them ten dollars once, and now they call every three days.”
Art said, “You should tell them that if they call again at meal time you’re going to give a billion dollars to the Republicans.
Though they might think you’re joking.”
“No, in fact if they call back I am going to make a big donation to the Democrats. Maybe fifty million or something. Oh, Lord, Art, I guess I do have to be a little careful with my money. If I give everybody at BJ’s a million — everybody except Dave DeCarlo, that is — and fifty million to the Democratic Senatorial Campaign Fund, and a thousand to Stu Hood, and a thousand to Mason Doebler, plus the flat-screen TVs at Golden Gardens, and then of course maybe half a billion to the Brienings, oh my God, I’m going to be down to my last couple of hundred million dollars. And then of course I promised the twins I’d put them through medical school, too. That’s sure to cost an arm and a leg.”
“Do you and Mr. Malanowski have children?” Sanders asked.
“Just our pool boys, Tyler and Schuyler. They attend hvCC and CoCkeyed 91
live with their parents in Schodack. But their home situation is less than ideal, so Artie and I do what we can to look after them.”
Sanders said, “You mentioned someone you called the Brienings who might receive half a billion dollars. Are these relatives of yours?”
Hunny froze, and I could all but see the scenario unfolding inside his head: the Albany PD rescues Rita Van Horn from kidnappers and then notifies the Albany County DA, and Mom is immediately arrested for embezzlement.
Hunny said, “No, the Brienings are not relatives. Just good friends.” He peered up at Sanders, probably looking for doubt or suspicion in his face. Sanders did look mildly puzzled, but before he could say anything, the phone rang again.
Hunny looked up at Jack Wrangler. “Oh boy. But what’s going on? It’s not quite time yet.”
“Maybe they are unfashionably early,” Art said. “Kidnappers don’t have to be well-mannered.”
Hunny picked up the receiver again. “Huntington Van Horn speaking… No! No, Jane, not now! Look, okay, yes, all right, I give in, I will talk to Bill, since it seems that Anderson Cooper is nowhere to be seen, and Bill did take the trouble to drive all the way up here from New York. But it will just have to wait until later tonight or until tomorrow. Right now I just need to get my mom back. But do not phone here again in the next hour, and in fact I have asked you once and I will ask you one more time, puh-leez deal with me through my press representative, Marylou Whitney… No, Jane that person in my living room most certainly is Marylou Whitney. It’s the racing season at Saratoga, and Marylou is always up from Palm Beach for the month of August. In fact, the racing season just wouldn’t be the racing season without Marylou jetting in, and sometimes she stays over for a few days with Artie and me. Now, dearie, I really do have to be off, so you just cool your jets, okay, girl?”
Trinkus must have said something else, but Hunny wrinkled his nose and hung up.
92 Richard Stevenson
Antoine said, “Hunny, honey, I don’t know why you even lower yourself to talk to those conservative medias. They just gonna fuck you over, girl, you better believe it.”
“I know, dear one, that the only thing those folks are really up to is wrecking my last nerve. That’s what they get off on. But I want to go on Focks anyway and try to win over a few listeners. I think if some people see how nice and well-adjusted and happy-as-a-clam I am, and Art and I am, that will be doing a good deed for gay America. Gay people all over the country will thank me for it, and it’s just a responsibility I have to fulfill. It will help the cause of gay marriage and gay equality, so I must use this occasion to speak out.”
This sounded as if it could lead to Lawn getting more complaints from his Dartmouth classmates. But before I could say anything to that effect, Jack Wrangler’s member indicated that at last it was actually six thirty, and, on schedule, the phone rang once again.
ChAPteR thiRteen
“Oh, God, just don’t hurt her,” Hunny told the caller. “You can torture me if you want to, but my mom never hurt a flea, and she is just the sweetest old gal you’d ever want to run into —
everybody says that about her — and I am begging you just to let her go as soon as I drop off the money.”
Sanders was listening on his cell phone and nodding at Nechemias. Art, Antoine and I stood straining to hear any sound that leaked out from the receiver next to Hunny’s sweating ear, but I could make out only an occasional hiss or low growl.
“Yes, yes,” Hunny said. “I understand. No, no, I have not notified the police. Why would I do that?” He reached up and showed us his crossed fingers. “Twenty thousand dollars is nothing to me, and I will certainly pay you anything at all to get my dear mother safely back in my arms.”
Sanders’ eyebrows went up. Hunny seemed to be telling the kidnappers that they could have extracted a much larger sum from him, and perhaps they still might. But they did not up the ante, apparently, for Sanders began to nod again, and Hunny said,
“I understand. I should put the twenty thousand…did you say in a gym bag? Oh God. I don’t have a gym bag. I haven’t set foot in a gym since seventh grade. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Oh. Okay, a small suitcase. I have a small suitcase that is black with a purple ribbon on the handle so I can always spot it when the driver takes it out from the luggage compartment under the bus.”
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