by A. W. Gray
Absolutely nothing, really. She’d seen the older man and the squatty guy, both wearing ski masks, but wouldn’t know either one of them if he walked up to her on the street and pinched her bottom. Other than the flushing toilet and the dripping shower she’d heard one sound, the faraway whining of a motor. Sounded like a boat, which could mean they were holding her close to a lake. Which narrowed her location to about five thousand bodies of water in the Dallas area. Margaret Ann Carpenter had never felt so helpless in her life.
There was movement outside the bathroom door. Meg stiffened. The squatty man came into view, complete with ski mask, set a tray in the food slot, and retreated into darkness. A plastic hospital serving cover hid the food from view, but a spicy odor wafted up her nostrils. Spaghetti, or maybe lasagna.
She was suddenly ravenous and tried to remember when she’d last eaten. Had she been here two days? Three? However long, she hadn’t touched the micro waved frozen dinners they’d left her. She’d had tea and one of those horrendous little crumpets with Mrs. Dunn on Sunday, was that her last food? No, wait. She’d stopped off at a McDonald’s on her way to the school Sunday afternoon. Great gadzooks, Meg thought, is that to be my legacy? That the condemned woman went to meet her Maker with nothing but a Big Mac with cheese in her stomach, and that two days old?
She went over and picked up the tray, lugged it back over to the bed and removed the cover.
It was lasagna, deliriously runny, served on a paper plate and accompanied by a Styrofoam cup of red Kool-Aid. A white plastic spoon lay alongside the plate—no weapon that, Meg instantly thought—and beside the spoon was a…She blinked.
Beside the spoon was a perfectly formed miniature pink rose, its petals curled up in the shape of a candle flame. Meg lifted up the flower by its stem and sniffed its freshness. Recently picked. Her eyes widened in surprise.
A rose for my nose, she thought, how absolutely freaking quaint. Me Esmeralda, him Quasimodo. Next he’ll be swinging back and forth on the church bell.
All fear left Meg in a rush. She was suddenly furious, as absolutely goddam mad as she’d ever been in her life. She poked the rose, stem and all, through the wire and dropped it on the floor outside the cage. “You go right straight to hell.” she screamed. The sound reverberated through the house, and then dissolved in total silence.
As Meg’s angry words reached his ears, Basil Gershwin winced in the darkness as if he’d been slapped. And he felt as if he had been slapped, a broad kicking him in the teeth one more time. All his life, always the same. Jesus, he’d sneaked the flowers in past Randolph Money just for her, and had planned to give her a rose with every meal. Make things nicer for her.
Basil slumped down in the chair. His eyes narrowed to slits. He must have been crazy, liking this broad. Broads weren’t nothing, none of them.
His chin moved up and down in a brief nod. If that’s the way she wanted it, good. Made things a lot easier that way.
23
Frank didn’t think the federal surveillance man had done a good job of hiding the transmitter and said so. The guy winked in turn at Tate, at Turner, and then said to Frank, “What, you don’t like my sewing?”
“I think I’d spot it.” Frank said.
The federal man was named Weir, and at the moment was closing a rip in the suitcase lining with a needle and thread. The repair wasn’t that obvious, but on close inspection would stand out, the seam crooked where two pieces of satin material joined inside the lid. He said, “It occur to you that I might want you to find it?” and went on about his business.
“He means,” Turner said, “that he’d want you to find it if you were one of the bad guys. Which we all know you’re not, right?” The FBI agent smirked at Tate, who smiled and tugged at the cloth that hung loosely at the nape of her neck.
Weir was bald, with a fringe of hair around the back and over his ears and one tuft dead center above his forehead. “The trick is to make it look like I’m trying to hide it, when really I want it found. We don’t want to be too obvious here.”
The four were in the study at Morgan Carpenter’s house, ceiling fans whirling overhead, reading tables placed around the room. Tate was behind the mahogany desk with Turner and Frank seated across from her, craning their necks to watch the bugging job. Weir did his work with the suitcase open on one of the tables, bundles of hundred-dollar bills stacked in rows inside. The surveillance man was slightly red-faced, his complexion darkening each time he glanced at the money.
“The second transmitter,” Tate said, leaning back, “is the one you darlings probably wouldn’t find. Excuse me, Frank, I mean those darlings. This is a Braunflas, a German make. Let’s don’t hear any ‘Buy American’ chants, okay? It’s transparent, flexible as a contact lens, and fits down in between two of the stacks. Would you like to know how I’m going to make a case on you, Frank?”
“Let’s talk about what I’m supposed to do,” Frank said. “I’m tired of hearing how you’re going to shaft me.”
“You’ll be really weary of it, before I’m through. We know you’re going to expect a transmitter, so we’ll give you one. Let the boys have some fun over, Look how stupid these authorities are, they don’t even know how to sew up a seam, right? So while they find the one transmitter, the other’s going to be ticking away. You know a little about evidence, don’t you? Sure, you were on the police force.”
Frank yawned, doing his best to look bored, his stomach churning, scared to death he’d mess up somehow and cause harm to Meg. He doubted if he’d get another night’s sleep the rest of his life, if that happened. “What time are they supposed to call?” he said.
Agent Turner leaned forward. “Come on, Frank, you don’t need no fucking phone call. Bet you got it memorized, every phone booth you’re going to, and exactly where you’re dropping the money within six inches either way. Give us a break.” He wore his FBI windbreaker with khaki Dockers, and cowboy boots with scarred toes.
“Evidence is something that builds,” Felicia Tate said. “And if you think good-boy alley speeches are going to fool anyone, you’re terribly mistaken. You people have obviously got some on-the-job training in legal matters, and you’re smart enough to know I can do nothing with the fact that these kidnappers you never heard of have suddenly specified Mr. Frank White as their delivery man. Just a coincidence—perhaps they picked your name out of the phone book, right? So we’re assuming our bad boys would find the dummy transmitter anyway, since they’re going to be expecting one. But if they come up with the main bug, someone’s giving them information. That’s going to be a problem for you, because your people can’t go around with a beep-beeping suitcase, right? But if you tell them about the second transmitter, that’s evidence you’re involved. Four people know it exists; you, me, Dave here, and the surveillance man. If the second transmitter suddenly winds up stuck to the fender of a southbound city bus, you have problems. Sticky wicket, Frank. How are you going to handle that? How are you going to tip your friends off without giving me some courtroom ammunition?”
“You’ve been wrong all along,” Frank said. “Now you’re even wronger.”
Turner and Tate exchanged a look. Weir stood still with the second transmitter, inside a tiny plastic case, grasped between a thumb and forefinger.
“Sure we’re wrong, Frank,” Turner finally said. “So let’s just sit here in suspense and wait for this fucking phone call. Bet you’re on pins and needles wondering what the guy’s going to tell us, huh?”
Sundown came early, as Old Sol ducked behind the boiling thunder-heads that filled the horizon. The approaching storm had already wreaked havoc in Abilene, Mineral Wells, Weatherford, and points west, and six o’clock weathermen warned Dallas to batten down the hatches and prepare for a big one.
The phone in the study rang at seven-thirty on the dot. Morgan Carpenter now sat behind the desk, his wife bolt upright in an armchair, her face creased in wor
ry lines. Turner was perched on the edge of the desk, his shins dangling, his ankles crossed. Felicia Tate sat in an attentive posture beside Sis Carpenter. Frank and Weir sat at one of the reading tables with the suitcase, now closed and latched, in between them on its side. The surveillance man regarded Frank with a bland smile.
Morgan Carpenter picked up the phone and said, “Yeah?” Then he listened and said, “Yeah?” again, listened some more and said, “Shoot,” while reaching for a ballpoint and writing pad.
Frank hunched nearer the table, watching the silver-haired man write furiously, listening to him say, “Slow down, I’m having trouble following,” and watching him write some more. Finally Carpenter said, “I gotcha,” hung up the phone and looked at Frank. “This is bullshit,” Carpenter said.
Sis Carpenter stood up to read what her husband had written. Felicia Tate spun the writing pad around so it was right side up to her. Sis Carpenter said, “It’s at the Hillcrest intersection, on LBJ Freeway.”
“I know where the hell it is,” Carpenter said. “It’s still bullshit.”
“On the phone,” Tate said. “That was…?”
“Probably the same guy as on the tape,” Carpenter said. “Sounded like he had a mouthful of spaghetti. It could be my brother and I wouldn’t know the difference.” He continued to watch Frank and speak to the room at large. “He’s supposed to lock the money up in the tail section of his car until they tell him to take it out. He drives to the Doubletree Inn, asks the desk clerk for any messages for Harold Classen. There’s supposed to be a reservation under that name, but after he gets the message he’s supposed to tell them there’s been a mistake, that he’s staying downtown someplace.”
“They made the reservation,” Tate said, “because they knew the hotel wouldn’t take messages for somebody that wasn’t about to check in. So far their thinking’s not so bad.”
Carpenter squinted over Frank’s head, at the clock on the wall above the library entry. “Guy says he’s got twenty minutes to show at the Doubletree.”
Turner spoke up “How’re they going to know what time he gets there, to pick up a written message, unless they’ve got somebody hanging around? Maybe we should get a couple of guys to watch the lobby.’
“I don’t think that would help,” Tate said. “They’re holding all the cards right now, and they know we can’t afford to be late. Also they may have a lot of confidence in Frank. Know he’s going to be prompt.” She smiled at Frank.
Frank scratched his chest. The wire with which Weir had fitted him moments earlier was uncomfortable against his skin. “It’s a good twelve-, fifteen-minute drive from here,” Frank said. “I think I’d better get going.”
“That wire,” Tate pointed at the tiny mike clipped to Frank’s collar. “In case you’re thinking of getting cutesy and putting it out of commission, don’t. We’ll never be more than eight blocks away, and we can pick you up on the beeper even if we can’t hear you.”
Frank gave Tale a sideways glance, then climbed to his feet and hefted the suitcase off of the reading table. One corner of Agent Turner’s mouth pulled to one side. “Just a second, Stanley. Mr. Carpenter, the guy said he’s supposed to lock the money in the tail section? Not the trunk.”
Carpenter checked his writing pad. “That’s the way I wrote it down.”
Turner grinned. “Lot of coincidence here, Frank. You’re driving a Jeep. Funnv the guy’d know you don’t have a trunk. Ain’t it, Alphonse?”
As Frank carried the suitcase out the front door, Sis Carpenter squeezed his arm and smiled at him. He paused and said softly, “Thanks,” then went outside.
He didn’t speak to any of the federal people as he descended the two steps onto the drive, and loaded the suitcase into the back end of his Cherokee. The air was warm, beginning to cool as the front lumbered in. Nine million dollars didn’t weigh nearly as much as he’d expected; the suitcase was light and easy to handle. He closed the tail door with a thunk, inserted his key, and clicked the lock into place. Turner, Tate, and Weir climbed into the back of a white panel truck with “Doran Cleaners” painted on its side, underneath a logo showing four shirts on hangers. As Turner closed the door from within, he formed a pistol with his hand and shot Frank with an imaginary bullet. Frank ignored him.
He climbed into the Jeep, sat with the key poised near the ignition while he drew a deep breath, then started the engine and turned on his lights. The headlamp beams reflected from the bumper of the panel truck. Frank drove a hundred feet forward, made the turnaround, and headed up the drive toward the street. The panel truck followed two car lengths behind. Frank made a left and kept his gaze on the rearview. The truck hesitated at the end of the driveway, and then turned in the opposite direction. Frank watched the FBI vehicle’s taillights recede, then concentrated on the road ahead. A clipped-nail moon, surrounded by four bravely twinkling stars, rode in the upper left portion of his windshield. As Frank made the turn onto Walnut Hill Lane, a gash of lightning illuminated the approaching thunderheads.
A pebble had lodged in the Cherokee’s tire tread, the rapid click-click slowing in tempo as Frank pulled in underneath the awning at the Doubletree Inn. The cloud bank had now obliterated the moon, and drops of rain splattered against the hood and windshield. Frank parked at the curb and got out, jamming his hands into his pockets and hunching his shoulders. The cool front had blown in in earnest, a strong fifty-degree wind whipping his hair and molding his pants against his legs. A spread-out double newspaper page fluttered in from the street and plastered itself against the Cherokee’s fender. Frank peeled off and wadded the newspaper, and reached for the electronic door locks to thunk the plungers down. He slammed the door, then, head down, jogged up to the entry and pushed his way through the revolving door.
The lobby was practically deserted, with three check-ins—a man in a houndstooth jacket and two women in slacks—occupying one desk clerk’s time while the other clerk stood off to one side with folded arms. Frank approached the counter, his feet sinking down into richly padded carpet, and motioned. The idle clerk unfolded his arms and came over, regarding Frank through thick bifocals. Frank said, “You have a message for Harold Classen?”
The clerk wore a navy blue blazer with the green hotel emblem—twin trees with their mushroom-shaped top branches interlocked—on the breast pocket. He retreated, pulled a stack of folded papers from a slot, thumbed through them, and handed one to Frank. The clerk then punched up Harold Classen’s reservation on his computer screen. “You’ll be with us how long, Mr. Classen?”
“Won’t be,” Frank said. “My plans have changed, just picking up the message.”
The clerk’s lips puckered in irritation as he rattled the keys and punched the enter button. The screen went blank. Frank retreated to stand near a pillar in the middle of the lobby and look around. A man and a woman lounged near the exit, sharing a newspaper, and a group of uniformed bellmen stood before the concierge’s desk, shooting the bull. From within the cocktail lounge, trumpet music rose to a crescendo and then died away to a smattering of applause.
Frank unfolded the note. It was typewritten in bold pica characters, the spelling and punctuation letter-perfect. Frank tucked his chin and read in a soft voice into his collar mike.
“If you are on time, and we assume you are, you have about a half hour to reach the intersection of Southwestern Boulevard and Greenville Avenue. Humperdinck’s is a bar/restaurant on Greenville, two hundred yards north of the intersection, and that’s where the scavenger hunt begins.”
Frank paused. “Scavenger hunt” would be for the benefit of nosy hotel people. He cleared his throat and went on.
“Go into Humperdinck’s and sit at the bar. You’ll be paged for a call at exactly eight thirty-five. If you don’t answer, the game will be over, she’s pregnant, the rabbit dies. We’re depending on you, Frank. If you have any elves following you, suggest you apply the quirt to th
e reindeer and ditch them. Signed, Santa Claus.”
Frank glanced toward the check-in desk, where both clerks now stood and chewed the fat. Neither looked in his direction. He said into the mike, “There’s no signature. The ‘Signed, Santa Claus,’ that’s typewritten just the way I read it to you.” He started to fold the note, then paused. “Oh,” he said. “The part about ditching the elves. That’s written in the note, too, I didn’t make it up. Wouldn’t want you guys to think I’m getting ideas or anything.” He folded and put the note away, went out the revolving door, and then halted in consternation. Beyond the protection of the entrance canopy was a billowing, windblown curtain of rain.
Less than five minutes after Frank left the Doubletree Inn, two men wearing suits came into the lobby. Their padded shoulders were drenched and their hair was soaking wet. They approached the desk at a fast walk, flashed federal shields, and demanded to know who had made the reservation for Harold Classen and who’d delivered the message. As the clerk gazed at the snapped-open wallets, sweat broke out on his forehead and his glasses fogged.
He made the drive from the Doubletree Inn in under twenty minutes with his wipers thunking monotonously, and sheets of rain rippling the windshield. The gutters were swollen streams, torrents of water rushing over the curbs and covering the sidewalks. The green digital clock in the Cherokee read 8:23 as he whipped into Humperdinck’s parking lot, sending sheets of water out
from under his wheels. He parked in between a supercab pickup and a Mazda, got out, ducked his head, and made a run for the entrance, and reached the air-conditioned foyer with his drenched T-shirt clinging to his body. The sudden damp coldness on his chest and shoulders made him sneeze.
There was quite a crowd for a weeknight, four or five couples in the back shooting pool, men and women in twos and threes at the tables drinking beer, wine in stemmed glasses, or highballs mixed in brandy snifters. Frank ducked around a row of tables and made a beeline for the bar. Two young women in thigh-length shorts moved out of his path, then grinned at him as he went by. He lowered his gaze and kept on walking.