“Surely she’s authorized payment, or you two wouldn’t be here,” The Suave Man said.
This wasn’t going at all how Jack had hoped. Remembering the director’s admonition that the money mustn’t change hands until they had his aunt, Jack took the only step he could think of. He closed the case and quietly snapped shut the clasps.
For the first time anger wove through The Suave Man’s voice. “If you don’t give me what’s coming to me, I’m afraid things may get rough. I could just take that case from you. I am bigger than you, you know.”
“Barely,” Hitchcock said, “and as you can see, I am bigger than you.”
The cool returned to The Suave Man’s voice. “And if you’ll be so kind as to look toward the confessional on your left, you’ll see something small that is bigger than all three of us.”
Jack hadn’t noticed in the gloom of the church that the confessional door was open. A little light above it glowed, indicating that a penitent sat inside. Now, at a signal from the man, a thin steel cylinder crept forward from the shadows inside.
“That cylinder is a silencer and is attached at the other end to a high-powered pistol, which in turn is attached to the hand of a very dear friend, who is, I assure you, a crack shot. In just a moment she’ll aim the pistol directly at your heart. Please believe me when I say that she will be able to shoot, and no one will hear a thing, especially with that lovely hymn playing.”
“Now see here,” Hitchcock began loudly. People in front turned and scowled.
“Quiet,” the man hissed, “or this boy won’t live to taste his first kiss.”
Hitchcock gave a little wave to those who turned to look. “Sorry,” he mouthed.
“Now,” The Suave Man whispered, regaining his composure, “let’s all behave normally. Sing along to the lovely hymn. It’s my friend’s favorite. But if you don’t hand over the bag by the last note, her trigger finger might just slip.”
Am I already dead? Jack thought. Why didn’t he feel his heart pounding? He knew it was, but all he felt was a wet clay of fear molding onto his bones.
The Suave Man had trumped them. Their audience of one was an audience of two. Jack tried to think, but the man had said to sing. Already Hitchcock had taken up the verse. But singing wouldn’t help them escape. Jack listened to the song. “Amazing Grace.” Jack’s mother loved this hymn too. But he and Schultzie had made up another version during a caving trip. Mom had laughed but told him never to sing it in public. But maybe she wouldn’t mind in this case. Jack sang the hymn, just as The Suave Man demanded, but with a slight change:
“When I eat beans
It always seems
An odor fills the room.
The gasps of those
Who hold their nose
Tells me it ain’t perfume.”
Immediately the people in front of Jack twisted around to stare at him. Those closest said “Shhhh” or “Quiet!” The pallbearers turned back to see what the trouble was. One pointed at Jack. Good, Jack thought. Let’s see if I can get the whole church staring at me. The Suave Man touched the bag at Jack’s side. Jack pulled it up close to his chest and wrapped his arms around it. He clung to it like a life jacket, though its paper filling seemed insubstantial when he thought about the pistol in the confessional now taking aim. At least if I get shot, he thought, people will see this man trying to pull a makeup case from a dead boy’s arms. There will be witnesses. The man wouldn’t want that. Jack’s mouth was dry. He was trying to work up some spit so he could sing a second verse, when a booming English baritone beside him sang out:
“My teacher’s face
Is a disgrace,
As wide as a rugby ball.
But that’s ho-hum
Compared to her bum,
Which spreads from wall to wall.”
Jack owl-eyed Hitchcock. He had never heard that version before, but he liked it a lot, particularly because of the stir it was causing in the pews near the front. The pistol was level now and emerged inch by inch from the darkness. Jack gripped the bag more tightly with his right hand, while his left crept over to clutch Hitchcock’s wrist. The feel of the rough wool turtleneck calmed him a bit. He breathed deeply.
“My teacher’s face is a disgrace . . . ,” Jack sang with Hitchcock, as loud as he could.
The reflection of votive candles flickered off thick round glasses in the confessional as the pistol sight lined up with them. Jack squeezed Hitchcock’s arm, singing all the while. The makeup case slipped as he shifted his grip. A hot sizzle started in his stomach and threatened to push past his chest and erupt from his mouth. He wondered if he’d see his mom, or meet his dad—a family together at last.
Jacked gazed into the round, black hole of the pistol’s barrel, perfectly circular, perfectly aligned.
And then he couldn’t see anything at all, except for the chests of the six pallbearers who surrounded him.
“I’m afraid we’ll need to ask you two gentlemen to leave,” the biggest pallbearer said.
“Why?” Jack asked. He never thought he’d be glad to have six huge men getting ready to toss him out of a church.
“Your singing. Show some respect.”
“But I thought singing was allowed in church. My mom always said, ‘He who sings prays twice.’ I figure with as loud as I was singing, I was praying enough for ten people.”
The pallbearer looked at Hitchcock and said, “You just going to let your son mouth off like that? What kind of father are you?”
“I am a poet, sir,” said Hitchcock, “and I would never discourage my son from expressing himself!”
Son? Jack thought. No man had ever claimed him as such. Jack pressed the charm around his neck through the shirt fabric. He smiled at the director.
“You two creeps are interrupting the service. Now go before I throw you out.” The man looked big enough to carry out the threat, which was exactly what Jack wanted him to do. But an escort was what they needed, not a semipolite request to leave.
“But don’t you want to hear the verse about my teacher’s underpants?” Jack said.
“That’s it!” The pallbearer grabbed Jack like he was a football and stomped toward the door. Two more of them took Hitchcock by his arms, and the others surrounded them. The Suave Man was pushed out of the huddle of men, who blocked his every attempt to reach Jack.
Curbside, muscled arms hailed a cab, tossed Jack and his bag into the backseat, and then piled Hitchcock on top of him.
“Here’s two bits. Take these clowns as far away as you can on that,” one of the pallbearers told the cabbie. He slammed the door and watched the cab with crossed arms, his five buddies beside him. The Suave Man’s fancy shoes peeped out from behind the wall of pallbearers, but not a hair of his head was visible.
“Okay. Where to?” the cabbie asked Hitchcock.
The line of pallbearers formed a wall beside the cab. The Suave Man tried to push his way between them.
“In the cinema,” Hitchcock said, “our primary function is to create an emotion, and our second job is to sustain that emotion. We’ve awakened his greed. Now we must nail it in place.”
Hitchcock caught The Suave Man’s eye and called loudly out the open window, “Wells Fargo Bank. We have something we urgently need to deposit in their safe. And step on it.”
The cabbie eyed them suspiciously in the rearview mirror. “You got enough money? It’s ten cents a mile. Two bits won’t cover it.”
Jack opened the case he still clung to and pulled out a bill. “Will a hundred dollars do?” he called as loudly as Hitchcock.
The cab tore forward as The Suave Man pushed past the pallbearers and reached for the door.
“Wells Fargo,” the cabbie said. “Steppin’ on it!”
“WELL, OUR ESCAPE WAS BRILLIANTLY played,” Hitchcock said.
Jack bounded through the door and into the lobby of the Fairmont. He wanted to jump over the furniture and kiss the red-and-black carpet. He wanted to hug the marbled columns
. Instead he hugged Hitchcock. There’s nothing like a brush with death to sharpen up the colors of life, and Jack had just had a gun pointed at his heart. A heart he could now feel pounding in his chest, and he was grateful for every beat. He plopped into a chair, tossing the empty makeup case beside him.
“I liked your version of the song. Maybe you can teach me more someday,” Jack said.
“I made it up on the spot,” Hitchcock replied. He too took a chair, though in contrast to Jack, he seemed momentarily calm—like a Buddha in a bubble bath—his hands linked upon his belly. But a ghost of worry danced around his brow.
Jack bounced in his chair. “Did you see his expression when the cab drove away? And the way he was completely fooled by the money?”
Hitchcock frowned. “My dear boy, the scene was brilliant but not flawlessly executed.”
“Huh?”
“Our flight was completely ad-libbed. Thank goodness you were so clever when things escaped our control. It was touch and go . . .” Hitchcock closed his eyes, though his brow remained furrowed. For the first time Jack noticed the little beads of sweat that had gathered on his bald head.
“Touch and go . . . ,” Hitchcock repeated.
“Well . . . I’m glad we got away from that creep,” Jack said, “but we still don’t have my aunt.”
Hitchcock opened his eyes. “True. But the kidnapper now believes that you have the money. He’ll be more eager than ever to get his hands on it. When he contacts you again, and it is without question that he will, you will be in a better bargaining position to get your aunt back.”
“What did he mean about expenses?” Jack asked. “He said he had expenses to pay.”
Hitchcock’s plump lips pressed into a line. “I suppose kidnapping is a business, and the conscientious kidnapper must spend some time on his balance sheets.”
“But he said Aunt Edith had authorized payment of the ransom,” Jack added.
“Well, she would do, wouldn’t she?”
“He just wasn’t what I expected,” said Jack. He linked his hands on his stomach in imitation of the director and leaned back in the chair. “He didn’t look desperate for money. His clothes were nice.”
“He must be the guilty party. Don’t forget that he showed up with an armed accomplice and threatened to have you shot if he didn’t get the ransom! An innocent man doesn’t generally come to church to threaten or extort the congregants,” Hitchcock said. He gave Jack a little wink. “Except, of course, if he’s the minister.”
At the mention of the accomplice, Jack recalled the shadowy figure in the confessional. Those round glasses with the fiery reflections, like demon eyes. And that suave little man so gleeful in the pew behind him. Jack suddenly remembered where he’d seen him before.
“They were here!” His eyes darted around the busy lobby. “I remember seeing the kidnapper and his accomplice yesterday, when we were in the Tonga Room.”
“I don’t recall seeing the little man.” Hitchcock didn’t move.
“No. They came in after us. They sat down behind you.” Jack jumped from his seat. “They might be here now.” The columns, so lately the objects of possible embrace, now felt menacing, a potential hiding place for assassins in unholy horn-rims. The shadows around him grew, until the entire lobby seemed cave-dark.
Hitchcock looked around the vast lobby, the alarm clear on his face. “We need to talk,” he said. “Perhaps we should return to the privacy of my suite.”
• • •
When they reached their floor, Hitchcock headed for his rooms, but Jack pulled him toward Aunt Edith’s suite. “We better go in here, in case the kidnapper calls.”
Hitchcock hesitated. “Yes . . . perhaps it is best.” He pulled uncomfortably at his turtleneck collar. “I’ll just change out of this costume and nip over.”
“Can you bring back that big pad of paper?” Jack asked.
When Hitchcock was comfortably encased in his usual dark blue suit and they had settled in his aunt’s room, Jack took the pad. He closed his eyes, pressed his thumb into the pencil, and let a picture flow into his mind. Then he opened his eyes and drew. Unlike the simple lines for the storyboard, this would be a fully fleshed-out portrait.
While he sketched, he asked the director, “So, what do we do now?”
Hitchcock turned away from Jack. Behind his back his left hand cradled his right, which nervously fidgeted until Hitchcock curled it into a fist. “After our close call at the mission, there is really only one course of action left. I must insist that—” He stopped. His hand began its fidgeting again.
“Mr. Hitchcock,” Jack whispered. Then his stomach let out an enormous growl.
“There is only one thing to do.” Hitchcock turned to Jack with a relieved smile on his face. “Order room service.”
• • •
As Hitchcock ate his meal of steak and salad, Jack rolled a sauce-covered meatball back and forth on his plate. Despite his growling stomach, he didn’t feel like eating. Something was wrong with Mr. Hitchcock. He was preoccupied. He’d ordered a double brandy with lunch (and a malted milk for Jack). Every time Jack had asked what their next move was, he had merely replied, “lunch” or “dessert” or something equally evasive. Jack figured it was time to try again. He picked up the sketchpad and showed Hitchcock the drawing.
It was two mug shots, with profiles, of the kidnapper and his accomplice.
“I think we should go back to the mission and see if anyone recognizes these two,” he said.
Hitchcock sighed. He rested the blunt ends of his knife and fork on the table. “I, too, have been thinking about what must be done.”
“Great!” said Jack.
“My dear boy,” Hitchcock began, “I think it is time that we revisit the police.”
“What? No!”
“Jack, I thought we could fool the kidnapper.”
“We did.”
“But as you noted, we didn’t get your aunt back,” Hitchcock said.
“We will.”
“But we don’t know that. In the cinema the director is God. He knows all. But this is a script that hasn’t been written, the cast of kidnappers not fully revealed. . . .”
“We can figure it out together,” Jack replied.
“The police are better equipped.”
“Mr. Hitchcock, if the police come, that’s it for me. The kidnappers will know. They’ll kill her. And I’ll be . . . sent to an orphanage.”
“Would you rather end up dead?”
“Dead?”
“Barely an hour ago there was a silenced pistol pointed at your chest,” Hitchcock said. He put his knife and fork down. “It was not a prop. And this is not a movie. I now know there are things here beyond the control of even the greatest director.”
The bottomless pit reared up inside Jack. He heard what Hitchcock was saying, but it dropped down inside him, and no sound came back out. Who was he trying to kid? He was a full orphan now. He had been for weeks. Maybe he was even already a ward of the state. Maybe he became one the moment his mother drove off that cliff. He should just accept it. But that wasn’t what he wanted to do.
“Don’t leave me,” he said.
“My dear boy, it’s what’s best for you. You’ll be safe.” He picked up the phone and dialed the hotel operator. “Please connect me to—”
A knock at the door startled them both.
“Mrs. Smith?” a voice called.
Jack approached the door and stood on tiptoe to peer out the peephole. “Oh my gosh! It’s the social worker from the police station.”
Hitchcock quietly put the phone back in its cradle. “Perhaps, as I said, it is for the best,” he said.
“No!” Jack’s eyes fell on the door to Aunt Edith’s bedroom. “Quick. Hide!” He shoved the mug shots of the kidnappers into the director’s hands.
“Mrs. Smith? Please don’t make me come back with the police.”
Jack pulled Hitchcock toward his aunt’s room. “She said you’re
a menace. If she sees you, she’ll take me away. Hide!”
“Jack. We mustn’t.”
“Please! She can’t see you, and she can’t know that Aunt Edith is missing. Please just wait until she’s gone and we can talk more. Please.” He shut the bedroom door and hurried to the suite’s entrance.
ALICE TRAPP PUSHED INTO THE room with a bureaucrat’s ease. She cradled her clipboard in her arms. The pen on its chain swung now before her like the pendulum of doom. She wore the same suit she had the previous day, or perhaps an identical one.
“Oh, hello, little boy,” she said to Jack. She waved the clipboard. “I’m afraid I was unable to fill out the report on your visit to the police station last night, since I never spoke to your parent or legal guardian.”
“My aunt Edith is unavailable at the moment,” Jack said.
“This is the aunt who was kidnapped?” Alice asked. She didn’t look at Jack as she spoke, instead surveying the room, making marks on her clipboard.
“That was just a story. For publicity.” Jack widened his eyes to make them as large and innocent as he could. “I got pancakes.”
“I see,” said Alice, “and did your aunt know you were working for the director? Had she signed a consent form?”
“Ummm . . .”
Alice walked around the room as she spoke, checking things off on her clipboard.
She opened the window. Check.
She ruffled the sheets folded at the base of the sofa. Check.
“Shouldn’t you be in school?” she asked.
Jack had a ready answer to that. “I arrived too late to enroll. I’m to go to summer school to make up the work I missed.”
Check.
Then she came to the room service cart.
And the brandy glass.
She dipped her pen into the remaining liquid, then tapped it on the rim. The sound rang through the suite like an out-of-tune piano. She held the pen up and stared at it, as if reading a thermometer. She sniffed the tip.
“Hmph.” She flipped through her papers to a bright pink page and made a check. Then another. Then she began to write a long sentence. With a final look at the brandy glass, she added the period like she was crushing a bug.
A Hitch at the Fairmont Page 9