Snatch

by Gregory Mcdonald

  “Yes?”

  “He is someone you know personally?”

  “I have met with him several times. Of course.”

  “He is unknown to me.”

  Teddy had to make that point. Ria had been right: the national news organizations had been on the phone all morning asking for confirmation of the Ambassador’s statement that the King did not have a secret intelligence force operating in the United States. Teddy had not spoken with them.

  The King simply said, “Yes. He is.”

  “At this moment, I do not share your confidence in him.”

  “You are in a position, Teddy, where you have every reason to be critical. Overcritical.”

  “I’m not sure I’m being overcritical. The other night, questioning me and the staff at the Residence, he struck me as impatient, brusque, abrasive—”

  “You can hardly blame him for being impatient, Teddy.”

  “On occasion, I was convinced that he wasn’t even listening. He acted like he knew the answers to questions before he heard them.”

  “He’s a bright man, Teddy. I’m sure the process of questioning people can be tiresome.”

  “For some reason, I seemed to detect genuine animosity on his part for me.”

  “He told me.” The King paused. “He told me how wrong and…irresponsible…he thought you were to allow your family to be traveling, especially for pleasure, at such a time as this.”

  “I admit that,” Teddy said. “But I have obligations to my family as well.”

  “I understand.”

  “Last night, Turnbull told Christina about the phone call I had received saying that if I offer the Resolution, Toby will be killed. She had been believing this was a matter of kidnap-for-ransom.”

  “I’m sure the Colonel thought it better she know the truth.”

  “Frankly, Your Majesty, I think it was uncommonly cruel of him.”

  “Let’s not quarrel with the man’s methods just now. He has an impossible job to do, and little time in which to do it.”

  “I do not have your faith in him.”

  “But you do have faith in me, Teddy?”

  The phone was hurting Teddy’s ear. He tried to relax his hand. “Of course.”

  “Teodoro, I am arranging to come to New York.”

  “May I ask that you do not do so?”

  “I thought I should be with you and your wife—”

  “Your Majesty, you cannot submit the Resolution yourself.”

  “No. I realize that. It would make the Resolution appear far more controversial than it already is. It would extend the debate.”

  “Also,” Teddy said, “it would greatly lessen the chances for the Resolution’s being accepted.”

  “Yes. I understand that. Clearly. And I cannot ask either the Ambassador to the United States or the Ambassador to the Court of Saint James’s to substitute for you in submitting the Resolution—”

  “That would make the Resolution look like a ploy—something we’re just throwing out while really trying to accomplish something else.”

  His Majesty said, “I’m afraid I’m entirely dependent upon you, Rinaldi.”

  “Your sudden arrival here would have two negative effects. First, it would direct too much press attention to the Resolution—too many spotlights on the negotiations as they now stand. Other ambassadors would begin grandstanding. I suspect several would vote against us just to strike a tough, popular pose in the world’s press.”

  “I could explain I have arrived suddenly in the United States for medical reasons. Americans are always quick to believe other nations have no doctors.”

  “Second, Your Majesty, your arrival here would give us the usual intense security problems.”

  “I’m used to that.”

  “Pardon me, sir, for being blunt.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “You’d be using personnel who instead should be out looking for my son.”

  There was a long pause. Teddy envisioned His Majesty sitting at his massive desk under the white, fluttering canopy on the terrace, looking out at the Arabian Sea through his dark sunglasses.

  “I never thought of that, Teddy. You are quite right. I am delighted to witness that you are thinking clearly.”

  “May we speak of Turnbull again?”

  “Colonel Turnbull? I thought we—”

  “No, sir, we haven’t. You have arranged matters in such a way that I do not know Colonel Turnbull; I do not know the people he has working for him; I do not know the manner in which he and his people work.”

  “I thought it wise—”

  “It may have been wise. But, at this moment, my ignorance of him is not helpful.”

  “Again, I fear I must apologize to you.”

  “No, sir.”

  “What can I say? Colonel Augustus Turnbull is a native, having been—”

  “He is?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought he was brought up English.”

  “He was born on a farm near Dahrbahr. His father was a plantation overseer. Didn’t your father have a plantation near there, Teddy?”

  “I see.”

  “His father was killed in a farm accident. Augustus and his mother went to England, where he was educated. He joined the British Army, was decorated two or three times and eventually trained in Army Intelligence.”

  “Oh.”

  “A rather fine record, as I read it. He came home and joined our Intelligence Service only after a distinguished career with British Intelligence. Of course, it’s always so hard to know what these intelligence people actually have done. So much of their lives are closed to us.”

  “Your Majesty, you consider Augustus Turnbull a loyal subject?”

  “Yes. Indeed I do. Why not?”

  “Then I request that you apply to him the maximum pressure. Toby must be returned safely to us before the Resolution is submitted Monday night.”

  There was another long pause. “Mr. Ambassador,” the King asked, “are you giving me an ultimatum?”

  “I’m requesting that maximum pressure be placed on Augustus Turnbull.” Teddy noticed that during this conversation his fingers had shredded the near edge of his blotter. “You see…” Teddy swallowed slowly. “We don’t have much time….”

  “No,” His Majesty said, “we don’t. Teddy, maximum pressure is being exerted on Augustus Turnbull and his people there. I have complete confidence in him. Give us the weekend.”

  “We only have the weekend.”

  “And, Mr. Ambassador? Monday, in the light of facts then prevailing, I will give you a directive. You will follow that directive.”

  It was not a question.

  “Goodbye, Mr. Ambassador.”

  Thirty

  From the motel room not only could Toby hear the music from the carousel, but through the window from almost a mile away he could see Uncle Whimsy’s mountain-sized Stovepipe Hat.

  He had gotten up and peeked at it through the edge of the window shade at dawn. Somehow he had known it would be there that morning, right in the middle of his window, regardless of whether the window faced north, south, east or west. It had to be there. It was the symbol of Uncle Whimsy, of Fantazyland, which he had seen on comic-book covers, in magazines, on television a thousand times.

  Toby had known he would get to see Uncle Whimsy’s great Hat, as tall as the sky, in reality sometime.

  Quietly, he had crawled back into bed. Beyond the shades, the sunlight on the window became brighter and brighter. The air conditioner went on and off. With increasing urgency and frequency, Toby’s stomach notified him he was hungry. He told it to be patient and kept still.

  Finally, Spike rolled onto his back.

  “Ho-hum,” said Toby loudly. “Ho-hum.”

  Spike raised his elbows and rubbed his eyes with his fists.

  Toby jumped up, opened the window shades, went into the bathroom, brushed his teeth, showered, dressed in the shorts and sneakers, socks and shirt Spike had bought
him the day before, combed his hair somewhat.

  When he came out, Spike was sitting on the edge of his bed. He was rolling his glass eye around on the palm of his hand. He carried it with him into the bathroom, tossing it into the air and catching it as he walked.

  Toby waited.

  First he waited while Spike shaved and then while Spike showered. He waited while Spike dressed. He waited while Spike went to the bureau mirror and popped the glass eye back into his socket.

  “Goin’ to get a newspaper. You wait here.”

  “Breakfast,” Toby said. “Food. Don’t you want your coffee?”

  “Dunno about breakfast.”

  Spike swung the door closed behind him.

  And Toby, showered, dressed, ravenously hungry, waited while Spike went to the lobby for a newspaper.

  He stood at the window, staring at Uncle Whimsy’s Stovepipe Hat standing up like a mountain in the landscape. Its black, cylindrical sides glistened in the morning sunlight. The carousel music was light on the morning air. Occasionally, there was the sound of a man’s voice announcing something through a public address system. Toby could not make out the words exactly, but the tone of voice was cheerful. And frequently there was an enormous roar, deeper in tone and louder in volume than any jet engine Toby had ever heard. He tried to envision what sort of a machine would make such a roar. What would it do? Maybe the machine existed simply because of the lovely, awful noise it could make.

  It was a temptation for him to sneak out of the motel room, as he did at the Red Star-Silvermine Motel, and get breakfast. The Motel Rancho O’Grady was much bigger, much busier. After Spike had registered the night before, he had returned to the car to get Toby. The only way to their room, Spike had said, was through the lobby. Even at that hour there had been many kids in the lobby, most of them wearing shorts and Uncle Whimsy T-shirts. Spike had hurried Toby through the lobby, even though Toby, too, was wearing shorts and at least no adult had looked at him. A few girls had looked at him; a couple of boys. Toby’s T-shirt read, valvoline.

  The longer he waited for Spike, the more he wished he had snuck out of the room before Spike had awoken and had breakfast.

  But, clearly, today he did not wish to make Spike angry.

  When the motel room door opened, Toby turned from the window.

  Spike did not have a newspaper in his hand.

  Spike’s head was so straight he appeared to be looking at Toby with both eyes.

  There was the roar of that mysterious machine from Fantazyland.

  “Telephones don’t work,” Spike said. “Fuckin’ telephones.”

  “I’m sorry,” Toby said.

  Spike sat on the edge of his bed. His shoulders were slumped. His head was low. He was staring at the floor.

  “Eggs,” Toby said. “Cereal. Bacon. Sausage. Orange juice. Toast. Coffee for you.”

  Spike said absently, “What? What’re you talkin’ about?”

  “Breakfast!” Toby said. “A little thing called breakfast! Breakfast is next!”

  “Oh, yeah.” Spike reached for the phone between the unmade beds. “Sure, kid. I’ll call up. We’ll have it here.”

  * * *

  Spike sent Toby to the bathroom while breakfast was being laid out in their room.

  Toby popped out of the bathroom and sat down at the portable table as soon as he heard the door close.

  Spike had repeated into the telephone everything Toby had said. And there everything was, jammed on the table: eggs, cereal, bacon, sausage, orange juice, toast and coffee.

  Toby began eating everything at once.

  Spike was slow to sit down. He drank a cup of coffee before he touched any food.

  Toby thought Spike was looking, sounding, acting like his math teacher the mornings he smelled of whiskey and the other kids said he had a hangover. Spike was moving slowly, not saying much. His face looked like he would be glad to burp. Even his real eye was slightly glassy. He did not smell of whiskey, though.

  After Spike began eating, Toby said, “Spike? If you wanted to hide a shoe, where would you hide it?”

  “What?”

  “Simple question: where would you hide a shoe?”

  “Stupid question.”

  “Sensible question. Where would you hide a shoe?”

  “Another one of your stories about damn fools who fly through the air in their pajamas?”

  “Where would you hide a shoe?”

  Spike blinked around the room. “Under the bed.”

  “Why under the bed?”

  “No one would see it there.”

  “They would, if they were looking for the shoe.”

  “Why would anybody be looking for the shoe?”

  “Are there many shoes under the bed?”

  “I dunno. I haven’t looked. Could be corpses, for all I know.” Spike stabbed his scrambled eggs. “Why are you talking this way? I didn’t take your shoe. Dumb kid.”

  “Ask me where I’d hide a shoe—if I had to hide a shoe.”

  “In a closet.”

  Toby shook his head. “First place anyone would look for a shoe. That’s where a shoe’s supposed to be.”

  “It is? I never put no shoes in no closets.”

  “Ask me.”

  “Ask you what, for Chrissake?”

  “If I had to hide a shoe,” Toby said, “I’d hide it in a shoe store.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Spike chewed thoughtfully. “Like hidin’ a needle in a haystack.”

  “No,” said Toby. “Like hiding a piece of hay in a haystack. I’d hide a needle in a sewing box.”

  “But a needle’s supposed to be in a sewing box.”

  “Yeah. But no one would expect you to hide a needle in a sewing box.”

  Toby munched awhile, then said, “Spike, where would you hide a speck of sand?”

  “Anywhere.”

  “A speck of sand you know other people are looking for.”

  “Why would anyone look for a speck of sand?”

  “You’d hide in on the beach.”

  “I would not.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’d never find it again.”

  “That’s true,” Toby said. They ate in silence for a while.

  Toby said, “Are we going to stay in this room all day?”

  “Why?”

  “I noticed you made me go into the bathroom when the man brought breakfast to us.”

  “Oh. Fac’ is, you needed to go to the bathroom, anyway.”

  Toby ate another piece of toast

  He then said, “I guess when people tell you and me to stay in a room, Spike, we have to do it. Right, Spike?”

  Spike looked annoyed. “It’s the telephone. Can’t get nobody to answer the telephone.”

  Faintly, they could hear the carousel music from Fantazyland.

  “Spike?”

  “Why don’t you stifle it? Punk kid.”

  “If you had to hide a kid, where would you hide him?”

  Spike glanced at the bathroom door.

  Then he stared at Toby.

  Toby said, “I think a school yard would be a pretty good place to hide a kid.”

  Spike continued to stare at him.

  “Don’t you think a school yard would be a pretty good place to hide a kid?”

  “Yeah, kid. Sure. A school yard would be a fine place to hide a kid.”

  He poured himself some more coffee.

  Toby said, “Anywhere there are lots of other kids.”

  Again, Fantazyland’s mysterious machine roared.

  Toby continued to look at Spike. The man’s fists were clenched tight. He was looking over his shoulder at the window, through the window, maybe seeing the top of Uncle Whimsy’s Hat.

  Spike picked up his coffee cup and took it to the window. His back was to Toby.

  After a moment, very cheerfully, Toby said, “Hey, Spike! We goin’ to Fantazyland now? Nice day for it….”

  Spike drained his coffee cup before turning around.


  “Fac’ is,” he said, “we are.”

  He left the coffee cup on the bureau and picked up the car keys.

  “Fac’ is, I’m sick of your conversation.”

  Thirty-One

  The old man in short pants, standing on a ladder puttying in a window, didn’t see her.

  “Good afternoon,” Christina said.

  The man looked down. “Hi.”

  “You’re Mr. Silvermine?”

  “Always have been,” the man said.

  “The person in the motel office said I might find you here.”

  “Well. You have.”

  Christina opened her wallet and handed it up to him.

  He squinted at it, took it in his hand, held it out of the sunlight. Then he looked at her.

  “Oh. You his mother?”

  “Yes. Do you recognize him?”

  “Sure do.” He handed the wallet back to her and, leaving his tools on top of the step ladder, climbed down. “Thought I hadn’t heard the end of this.”

  The man was looking carefully at her. “That man. Traveling with the boy. Your son. Jackson. Not the boy’s father, was he? Your husband?”

  “No.”

  “Thought not.” He shook his head, blinked. “This is the quietest kidnapping I’ve ever heard of—now that I know it’s a kidnapping. ’Spose there’s a reason for it? I mean, you all being so quiet about it.”

  “Yes.”

  “But the F.B.I. must be involved,” Mr. Silvermine said. “Ed Noakes is the only one I spoke to about it.”

  “No,” said Christina. “They’re not.”

  “Come on. Let’s go into the office. Get out of this sun, even though, like me, it’s past its prime.”

  Walking with him across the patch of lawn, Christina said, “I just wonder if there’s anything you can tell me. Anything. For example, by any chance do you have the registration of the car?”

  “Sure do. Didn’t give it to Ed Noakes ’cause I had just the faintest suspicion that I was bein’ a busybody. Not my role in life to harass people if they don’t need harassin’. Enough people have taken on that role for themselves.”

  In the office, he copied down the registration of the car on a slip of paper and handed it to her. “Not sure that will do you any good. Pretty sure it’s a rented car. People change cars these days faster than they change facial expressions. All the cars look alike, anyway, whether they call ’em Chryslers or Oldsmobiles. All the facial expressions look alike, too, come to think of it. Orthodontisized grills up front, ears you can’t see. Teeth everywhere you look. How about some iced tea?”