Snatch

by Gregory Mcdonald

  When Toby drove, it took him a while to discover how the pedal and steering wheel worked.

  “Go get those dudes!” Spike shouted. Toby was nudging other cars gently. “Smash ’em! Smash ’em!”

  A plaid car came from nowhere and hit them so hard their car rocked sideways.

  “Why, you bastids!” Spike tried to stand up in the car to get out. He shook his fist at them. “Let me outa here! I’ll kill the bastids!”

  Toby started the car with a jerk and Spike fell back into his seat.

  “Ah, dumb kid,” Spike said when the ride was over. “Whaddaya you know? Nothin’! Nothin’ at all. All you think life is is fun fun fun fun.”

  Ultimately, they came to the line at the base of Uncle Whimsy’s Hat.

  Spike put his hands on his hips, leaned back and stared up at the top. Directly over them, on little tracks, the gondolas were zooming in and out of The Hat, down the sides. “Jeez, kid. Look at that.”

  “Let’s get in line, Spike.”

  Spike waggled his head. “Not safe.”

  “Whaddaya mean, ‘not safe’? Spike, it’s been working for years!”

  “Not safe,” Spike said.

  Quietly, Toby said, “Chicken.”

  Spike took a step toward him. “Whad you say?”

  “Cluck-cluck-cluck,” Toby said. “Chicken!”

  “Don’ you never say nothin’ like that to me!”

  “All right, then. Let’s get in line.”

  “No.”

  “CLUCK-CLUCK-CLUCK!”

  “Dumb kid, whadda you know?”

  “I know you’re a chicken.”

  Spike looked at the ground, at the people waiting in line to go on the ride down Uncle Whimsy’s Hat. He looked at the ground again.

  “Cluck,” Toby said.

  Spike broke into the head of the line, pushing people aside. Toby stayed right with him.

  * * *

  The shadows were longer.

  Spike sat on a cement bench. His face was ashen. His lips were slack. His hands were shaking.

  Toby stood on the sidewalk, facing him.

  “Have I still got my eye?” Spike felt for it with his fingers.

  “Yeah.”

  On the ride coming down The Hat, through The Hat, down, down, plunging through black tunnels, roaring out into sunlit space, twirling around in midair, down, down, rushing down, Spike sat, back straight, clutching the safety bar with both hands. His mouth was open, his neck muscles strained.

  He was bellowing, “Oh—hhhhhhhh!”

  Laughing, Toby joined him. “Ah—hhhhhhh!”

  Going through the pitch-black tunnels, Toby had the impression Spike’s head was a white balloon on a string being towed along beside him.

  It wasn’t until the little gondola slowed down, near the bottom, that Toby realized Spike wasn’t having fun.

  Spike wanted to get out of the gondola immediately. He saw the platform, but his movements were uncertain. His knees wobbled.

  Spike was a shaken man. He went to the nearest bench and sat down.

  “That’s enough for today, kid,” he finally said. “This place gives me the creeps. Hard to remember nothin’s real, ya know?”

  He stood up, putting his hand on the back of Toby’s neck.

  “Let’s go back to the motel now.”

  “We can come back tomorrow, though. Right, Spike?”

  “Sure, sure,” Spike said.

  “There’s lots we haven’t seen yet.”

  “Yeah,” Spike said as they walked along. “The Wax Museum. The Duck Pond. Princess Daphne’s Flower Castle…”

  Thirty-Three

  Bernard Silvermine saw the green four-door sedan pull into the parking lot in front of the Red Star-Silvermine Motel and park immediately in front of the main door, where there was a sign saying, NO PARKING—LOADING AREA.

  A heavy man rolled out of the driver’s seat, slammed the door and stood a moment looking at the motel. He wore a rumpled green tweed suit. Before he adjusted his jacket there was a noticeable bulge under his left shoulder.

  When the man stood at the reception counter, Bernard Silvermine looked up at him inquiringly, but said nothing.

  The man put a school photo of Toby on the counter. Bernard noticed that in laying the picture on the counter, the man had his thumb on Toby’s face.

  “Ever seen that child before?” the man asked.

  Bernard Silvermine looked at the sweaty thumbprint. “Who are you?”

  The man’s tone was official, if not authoritative. “You, or someone else at this motel, reported to the Federal Bureau of Investigation your suspicion that a boy staying at this motel the night before last in the company of an unidentified man was the victim of kidnap.”

  “Are you with the F.B.I.?” Bernard Silvermine asked mildly.

  The man’s small eyes were impudent, Bernard Silvermine thought. “How else would I know you reported it?”

  “That I don’t know,” Bernard Silvermine said. “But I know you’re not with the F.B.I.”

  “I’m with a private police agency,” the man said. His hand went to his back pocket.

  “That’s all right,” Bernard Silvermine said. “There’s no need to show me credentials.” He picked up Toby’s picture, held it in the light of the plate-glass windows, shook his head and said, “That’s not the boy, anyway.”

  “It’s not?”

  Bernard Silvermine put the photograph back on the counter.

  “No, indeedy,” he said. “The boy who was here had red hair and freckles.”

  The man took the picture off the counter. He hesitated before putting it back in his pocket. He appeared to have more questions for Bernard Silvermine, but didn’t seem immediately sure what they were.

  “I wonder,” Bernard Silvermine said, “if you’d be good enough to remove your car from my loading zone?”

  Outside, a chambermaid was trying to get her laundry wagon by the green sedan.

  Bernard Silvermine said, “I mean, like move it. Now.”

  He watched the heavy man cross the lobby, push through the glass door and, with deliberate slowness, get into the car and start it while the chambermaid waited in the hot sun.

  I wonder if Toby’s mother knows, Bernard Silvermine thought, that someone else is looking for her son—and that that someone is no particular friend.

  Thirty-Four

  “I wonder if you could help me,” Christina said to the young woman behind the car rental counter at San Francisco Airport. “I’m Mrs. Cummings. I live in Los Altos Hills….”

  Christina had given the same story to the other two car rental agencies at the airport and drawn a blank.

  She held the piece of paper Bernard Silvermine had given her with the registration number written on it.

  “…Do you ride bicycles?” she suddenly asked the young woman behind the counter.

  “Yes, I do,” the young woman said. “My husband races.”

  The two women smiled at each other at the thought of a representative of a car rental agency riding a bicycle.

  “My son has a very precious bicycle,” Christina said. “He paid for it himself. A Motobecane Gran Record.”

  There was clear recognition in the young woman’s face. “That’s a hell of a bike,” she said.

  “Not inexpensive,” Christina agreed.

  “Does your son race? I mean, your son must be pretty young.”

  “I think he means to try,” Christina said. Oh, my. Don’t they make Motobecane Gran Records for youngsters? She had first seen one only the previous week. Her pro at the All Stars’ Tennis Camp had one. This person knows bicycles. Have I made a mistake? “Actually, he’s my husband’s son,” Christina said. “He’s seventeen.”

  “Oh. I was wondering. That’s a professional kind of bike for a kid. I mean, a little kid.”

  Christina nodded. “It’s a very good bike. Anyway, he had it with him at the ball field the other night, and a car hit it. Squished it.”

&
nbsp; The young woman’s face fell.

  Christina assured her, “My son wasn’t on it. The bicycle was just on the grass, you see….”

  The young woman’s face didn’t seem relieved. My God. This person is struck dumb by the tragedy of a bike’s being run over.

  “Anyway”—Christina held up the piece of paper—“my neighbor-friend, Mrs. Scalise, took down the registration number of the car that ran over the bike and gave it to me. See? 7np 4484. And she said she thought she saw one of those car-rental stickers near the back bumper. I’m just wondering if the car belongs to your agency, and if possibly you could give me the name and address of whoever rented the car from you?”

  The young woman had read the registration number. She said, “We’re not liable for accidents—”

  “Oh, no,” Christina said quickly, “I’m not thinking that. I’m just thinking that I’d write to the person who squished the bike—”

  “He might have insurance,” the girl said. “Well, he ought to have insurance.”

  “Yes,” Christina said.

  “But I don’t want the agency held responsible.”

  “Of course not,” Christina said. “But don’t you think someone who squished a bike should be told he had done so? Especially a Motobecane Gran Record?”

  The young woman nodded firmly. “Especially a Motobecane Gran Record.”

  “At least,” Christina said, “he ought to be told what it was he squished.”

  “Indeed, yes.” The young woman took the paper. “I’ll find out what I can.”

  While the young woman was going through her agency records, Christina turned her back to the counter and looked at the airport.

  Such an odd mix of sights and sounds. There were little people with big suitcases, big people with little cases; people dressed in three-piece suits, people dressed in cut-offs and jerseys; people hurrying madly, people standing looking bored out of full consciousness. The general sounds were cavernous; the public address announcements penetrating; the occasional whine and roar of the jets taking off and landing oddly suppressed.

  Airports had always been happy places for Christina. She had met Teddy for the first time at an airport. She recalled the days flying back and forth from New York and college to spend weekends with him. Later, after they were married, flying from London to Geneva, New York to St. Croix for vacations…flying in His Majesty’s private jet.

  She wasn’t sure she’d ever like airports again. An airport, this airport, was where Toby hadn’t shown up when he was supposed to. Perhaps I’m obsessed by this airport, she thought. I keep coming back to it. In this airport, there has to be a lead, somewhere, somehow.

  “Mrs. Cummings?”

  Christina turned around. The young woman had a long, yellow piece of paper in her hand.

  “That car was rented by a Charles Mullins, a driver licensed by the state of New Jersey.”

  She handed Christina back the small piece of paper that had the registration number on it. “Here, I wrote down his name and home address for you.”

  Christina looked at the paper, feigning great interest in it. She still did not know what she wanted to know.

  “Tell me,” Christina said easily. “Has the man turned the car back in yet?”

  The young woman looked at her curiously.

  “What I mean is,” Christina said, “there’s no hurry in writing him if we know he hasn’t gone home yet.”

  “Oh.” The young woman consulted her piece of paper. “No. It’s an open-ended return.”

  “He has not returned the car?”

  “No. If he had, the computer would have marked it available.”

  “I can’t thank you enough,” Christina said. “It’s a small matter, of course, but my son—”

  The young woman flipped her index finger at Christina. “Squishing a good bike is no small matter.”

  Thirty-Five

  Christina ran the last few meters down Slave Alley in the dusk. She’d heard the phone ringing in the bungalow.

  Once inside the bungalow, she instantly picked up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  The reading lamp near the telephone was on.

  “Christina? Good guess.”

  “Teddy, listen—”

  “You were right about the flight Toby was supposed to be on. In fact, it looks like he was on it. There was a last-minute reservation for a man and a boy. Reservation in the name of Doland. Major Mustafa found one of the stewardesses who had served that flight and spoke to her by phone. Caught her between flights in Toronto. She remembers the man because, well, she saw him do something unusual to the boy, and—”

  “What do you mean, ‘do something unusual to the boy’? Teddy, what did he do to Toby?”

  “Nothing, really. It’s all right. A small thing.”

  “Teddy, you’d better tell me what the stewardess saw the man do to Toby!”

  “He twisted Toby’s fingers. Bent them back. Apparently to make him shut up. A childish thing, really.”

  “Was Toby all right? It must have hurt him.”

  “Well, Christina, this whole—”

  “Oh, Teddy.”

  “Anyway, he fits the description Mrs. Brown gave us of the guy at the airport. The stewardess remembers his glass eye. And her description of the boy pretty well fits Toby—age, coloring, dress.”

  “Teddy, listen. Toby is here.”

  “What?”

  “No, I’m sorry. Not here. I mean, on the West Coast. The man at the motel, the Red Star-Silvermine Motel, identified Toby from that little picture I keep in my wallet.”

  “Positively?”

  “No doubt at all. Toby was there two nights ago. Again, the same description of the man with Toby. Mr. Silvermine thinks the man may have been a boxer.”

  “Did he have any idea where they might have gone?”

  “None. But I have the registration number of the car they were driving.”

  Teddy thought before speaking. “Give it to Colonel Turnbull.”

  “I checked it out as much as I could. The car is rented to a Charles Mullins, of New Jersey.”

  Teddy’s voice was becoming increasingly thoughtful. “I don’t think the name means anything, Christina. How many names has he used so far? Willins, Doland, Jackson—”

  “Teddy, the important thing is that the car hasn’t been returned to the rental agency yet. That means they’re still somewhere in this area.” Teddy did not say anything. “Here in the San Francisco Bay area.”

  Finally Teddy said, “I guess that narrows it down somewhat.”

  “Only somewhat,” she said. “But before we had the whole world to search! And now we have the car registration number.” Again, Teddy was saying nothing. “What do I do now?” Christina asked.

  “Give any information you have to Colonel Turnbull.”

  “Yes. All right. I will.”

  “The boss has complete faith in him.” Teddy was now using the voice he used in giving directives late at night: low, tired, efficient. “By the way, Christina, His Majesty is being totally supportive.”

  “Does he still say you have to give that speech?”

  Teddy’s voice became lower, tireder, more efficient. “There is no doubt in his mind about that, Christina.”

  Still standing, facing the side wall of the living room, Christina realized she was staring at a film-star poster on the wall. Seen from this short distance, the girl’s bathing suit was transparent.

  “Teddy? I don’t mean to add to your burdens, right now, and that’s not why I’m saying this….”

  “Saying what?”

  “After we get Toby back…What I mean is…we have to find some other way of life….I mean, if we’re going to live together….Teddy? Are you there?”

  “Yes.”

  “It was bad enough before, never seeing Toby, never being able to spend any time with you, I mean, real time, but I never knew, I never even thought Toby’s life could be at stake.” The poster on the wall blurr
ed watery. The upper part of her index finger was in her mouth. She was biting on it, hard. “I can’t stand this!”

  Quietly, Teddy said, “We have to stand this.”

  “I do love you, Teddy.”

  Teddy said, “Let’s keep doing the best we can.” He exhaled. “Are you sleeping?”

  “I fell asleep near dawn this morning. I slept a few hours.”

  “Is Colonel Turnbull there?”

  “No.” She looked at the end table. The bottle of bourbon had not been touched. “I haven’t seen him all day.”

  “I suggest you find him. Tell him about the car and the motel. Leave everything in his hands. Try to get some sleep.”

  “All right, Teddy.” She began to hang up, then raised the phone to her ear again. “Teddy?”

  “Yes?”

  “Sorry about what I said. But we have to do something else.”

  Teddy said, “It would be nice.”

  Christina said “Nothing like this must ever happen to us again.”

  After she hung up, she turned to get a tissue in the bathroom, not bothering to switch on the bedroom light. She was halfway across the bedroom when a man who had been sitting on the bed stood up.

  Thirty-Six

  “Let me turn on the light,” Colonel Turnbull said.

  He turned on the bedside lamp.

  Christina had one hand on top of the bureau, the other on her breasts. She was trying to suck in breath.

  “I’m so sorry to have given you a fright,” Colonel Turnbull said. “I was just coming out of the bathroom when I heard you dash in and answer the phone. I didn’t want to disturb you.” He waved his arm at the tiny bedroom. “There was no place else I could go.”

  Christina found enough breath to say, “That’s all right.” She put her foot out toward the bed. “Just let me sit down a moment.”

  Taking her by the arm, he helped her to sit on the edge of the bed.

  He was smiling.

  “I’m so sorry,” he repeated. “Was that your husband on the phone?”

  “Yes.” Her pulse was pounding in her ears. “Did you hear everything?”

  Again, he waved his arm around the room. “There was nowhere else I could go, you see. Perhaps I should have let you know I was here…but you sounded so…distraught.”