by Ed McBain
A male voice. No one she’s ever heard before.
“Yes?” she says.
Her heart is suddenly beating faster. Is this another accomplice? The blonde, the black woman, and now…
“This is Rick Chaffee, night editor at the Cape October Tribune?”
“Yes?”
“I hope I’m not—”
“What is it?” Alice says.
“We got a call from some woman… we get many such calls, Mrs. Glendenning, especially since Iraqi Freedom. You have no idea how many people see anthrax bubbling in their toilet bowls, or hear bombs ticking in their closet…”
Charlie is already shaking his head in warning.
“But this woman—”
“What woman?” Alice asks.
“Woman named Rose Garrity, does that name mean anything to you?”
“Yes?”
“Said she’s your housekeeper, is that correct?”
“What’s this about, Mr…. Jaffe, did you say?”
“Chaffee. C-H. Is she your housekeeper, ma’am?”
Charlie is shaking his head again.
“Yes, she is,” Alice says.
“Well, ma’am, she called here some ten minutes ago to say she informed the police and then the FBI that your children were—”
“No,” Alice says.
“—kidnapped the other day…”
“No, that isn’t true.”
“It isn’t, huh?”
“It isn’t.”
“Claims there’s been no action from either the local police or the—”
“Perhaps that’s because nothing’s happened here. Mrs. Garrity is mistaken.”
“She seemed pretty sure some black woman—”
“I just told you she’s wrong,” Alice says, and slams the receiver down onto its cradle. She picks it up again at once, begins dialing a number by heart. Her eyes are blazing.
“Hello?”
“Are you trying to get my kids killed?” she yells into the phone.
“Mrs. Glen—?”
“Stay away from this, do you hear me?”
“I’m so worried about them…”
“Shut up!” Alice yells.
The line goes silent.
“Do you hear me, Rosie?”
“I was only trying to—”
“No! Don’t try to help, don’t try to do anything at all. Just keep your damn nose out of it!” she yells, and slams the receiver down again.
“Wow,” Charlie says.
“Yeah, wow,” Alice says.
But she knows the damage has already been done.
7
The three men meet in a roadside joint that calls itself the Redbird Café. Not far from the Fort Myers airport, the Redbird is a shack adjacent to a gasoline station, open only for breakfast and lunch on weekdays, but also for dinner on weekends. This is now seven-thirty on a Friday night, and the three men are eating dinner.
Rafe has ordered the broiled catfish dinner with green beans and fries. The other two men are eating fried pork chops with mashed potatoes and the green beans. All three men are drinking coffee. They’re dressed casually, these three, Rafe wearing the blue jeans and denim shirt he always wears when he’s driving, the other two also wearing jeans and what look like Western shirts with those little darts over the pockets. The two men are wearing boots. Rafe is wearing loafers, which are easy to drive in. His rig is parked outside, alongside the Plymouth both the other men arrived in.
All three men did time at Rogers State Prison in Reidsville for violation of Code 16-13-30 of the Georgia State Statutes. That’s where they met, each serving what the three of them called “bullshit narcotics violations.” The prison facility was a small one, housing only twelve-hundred-some-odd inmates, some of them pretty odd, as the old joke went. It was easy for the men to make each other’s acquaintance in the yard, especially since their so-called crimes were similar in nature.
The Redbird is almost empty at this hour, but the men are speaking softly, anyway. Hell, they’re discussing big bucks here. It makes them feel important to be discussing $250,000 in hundred-dollar bills, even if the bills are counterfeit, even if their voices are low.
“Super-bills, huh?” Danny Lowell says.
“Is what the cops called them.”
“You ever hear of super-bills, Jimbo?”
“Never in my life.”
“So good you can’t tell ’em from the real thing,” Rafe says, and picks up some fries with his fingers and shovels them into his mouth.
“Is what your sister-in-law said, right?”
“Is what the cops said.”
“Two-fifty large, right?”
“Is how much they turned over to this black chick.”
“What makes me nervous,” Jimmy Coombes says, “is there’s a kidnapping involved here. I don’t know what the law is here in Florida, but back home, you do a kidnapping, you’re looking at the ‘Seven Deadly Sins,’ man. That means life without parole. I ain’t eager to do that kind of time.”
“I don’t think it’s the same in Florida,” Rafe says. “Besides, we wouldn’t be involved in no kidnapping.”
“I tend to agree with James,” Danny says. “We’d in effect be sharing in the proceeds of the crime, and that might be cause to link us to the crime as co-conspirators or whatever. If Florida has as tough a kidnapping law as Georgia, we could be looking at the long one, Rafe.”
Jimmy hates it when Danny sounds like a fuckin jailhouse lawyer. He also hates to be called either James or Jimbo, when his fuckin name is Jimmy. At the same time, Danny is agreeing with him. They have to be careful here. Doing time for kidnapping ain’t no walk in the park.
“There is no way we could be linked to the snatch,” Rafe says. “We don’t even know who these people are. How can we possibly get linked to a conspiracy?”
“Conspiracy to commit kidnapping,” Danny says reasonably, and looks to Jimmy for confirmation.
“Which is another thing that bothers me,” Jimmy says. “Our not knowing who they are.”
“That’s why we’re here,” Rafe says.
“Are your chops okay?” Jimmy says.
“Yeah, they’re fine,” Danny says. “Why?”
“Mine are a little overdone.”
“They have to cook pork that way. Because of trichinosis,” Danny says.
“They don’t have to burn the fuckin things,” Jimmy says.
“Mine are fine,” Danny says, and shrugs.
“I got a cholesterol problem,” Jimmy says, “I eat red meat—”
“Pork is white meat.”
“Yeah, bullshit,” Jimmy says. “I eat beef, pork, maybe once a month, twice if I wanna live real dangerously. So when I order pork chops, I don’t expect to get burnt shoe leather. I mean, this is a treat for me, eating pork.”
“So send them back if they’re not the way you want them,” Danny says.
“I’m almost finished with them already.”
“Then finish them already.”
“I’m just saying,” Jimmy says, “this is supposed to be a fuckin treat here. Instead, they’re burned to a crisp.”
The men eat in silence for several moments.
“Also,” Danny says, “there’s more than one of them. That’s what you said, right, Rafe?”
“Yeah, but one of them’s a chick. Maybe both of them, for all I know,” Rafe says. “Maybe these two chicks got it in their heads to steal my sister-in-law’s kids. They know she’s coming into big money…”
“You’re sure about that, huh?”
“Positive. It’s a double indemnity policy. It’ll pay two-fifty.”
“When it pays,” Danny says.
“If it pays,” Jimmy says.
“It’ll pay,” Rafe assures them. “Besides, who cares about the policy? We’re talking about the fake money here. We’re talking about two-fifty large already in the hands of whoever’s got the kids. We’re talking about retrieving that money.”
“Who we don’t e
ven know who they are,” Danny says.
“Miss?” Jimmy says, and raises his hand to the waitress. She signals that she hears him, finishes taking the order at a table across the room, and then comes over to them.
“Freshen it?” she asks.
“Please,” Jimmy says. “Also, my chops were overdone.”
“Gee, I’m sorry about that,” she says.
She’s maybe eighteen years old, little blonde girl in a yellow uniform, big tits and frizzy hair, Southern accent thick as molasses.
“You’da told me, I’da ast the chef to do them all over again,” she says. “You want me to do that now?”
“No, that’s okay,” Jimmy says.
“Won’t take a minute,” she says.
“I’m fine, thanks,” Jimmy says.
“Y’all want more coffee, too?” she asks the other two men.
They both nod. Danny, in fact, lifts his cup and puts it on her tray, smiling. He fancies himself a ladies’ man even though he’s ugly as homemade sin. That’s another thing Jimmy doesn’t like about him. His vanity. Vanity just ain’t appropriate on a man. The waitress fills their cups, returns Danny’s smile even though he’s ugly, and leaves the table. Jimmy is having very serious doubts here about going into an enterprise with a man like Danny, who calls him Jimbo and James and who thinks he’s handsome as hell when he ain’t. Also, kidnapping is a serious offense.
“Also,” he says, thinking out loud, “suppose there’s more than just the two chicks? Or suppose it’s just the black chick your sister-in-law knows about, plus some guys, let’s say. Maybe some hardened criminals, let’s say, and not some small-time drug shits like the three of us. We go after that money…”
“He’s got a point, Rafe. We could be walking into a hornet’s nest here.”
“Or not,” Rafe says. “Instead, we could be walking away with two hundred and fifty thou in bills that look so real you can lick them off the page.”
“If it’s true.”
“It’s what the cops said.”
“Cops,” Jimmy says.
“You trust what cops say?” Danny says.
“The bills have to look good,” Rafe says. “You think they’d endanger those kids’ lives? Come on, be reasonable.”
“He’s got a point, James,” Danny says.
“So let’s say, for the sake of argument,” Jimmy says, “these bills do look like the real thing…”
“Exactly my point,” Rafe says.
“And let’s also say, for the sake of argument, that we manage to somehow get our hands on these bills…”
“And split them three ways, don’t forget.”
“What does that come to?” Danny asks.
“Eighty-three K for each of us.”
“Comes to a big thousand bucks a year,” Jimmy says.
“I don’t follow.”
“Assuming Florida’s as tough on kidnapping—”
“We don’t know that for sure.”
“—and assuming I live to be eighty-three years old,” Jimmy says.
“Behind bars,” Danny says, nodding in agreement.
The table goes silent.
“So what are you saying here?” Rafe asks.
“I’m saying count me out,” Jimmy says.
“Me, too,” Danny says.
Rafe sits alone at the table long after his so-called friends have got into their car and driven off. Man, he thinks, you can’t count on a fucking soul these days. Asshole buddies in the lockup—well, not literally—they get a taste of fresh air and then chicken out of the sweetest little setup anyone could ever want. Two-fifty large sitting out there someplace in the hands of two dizzy chicks, just waiting to be ripped off. Well, he can’t do it alone, that’s for sure, everybody needs their back covered, man.
He drinks a second cup of coffee, checks the cash Danny and Jimmy left on the table as their share of the bill and tip, adds his own share to it, and then calls the little blonde waitress over.
“S’pose I oughta get out of here, huh?” he says with a grin. “Before you start charging me rent.”
“Oh, don’t let that worry you none,” she says. “We got plenty to do here ’fore we close.”
“What time would that be?” he asks.
“We’re usually out of here by ten.”
The clock on the wall reads five minutes to nine.
“What do you do then?” he asks. “After you get out of here?”
She knows at once he’s putting the moves on her. She takes a deep breath to fill out the uniform chest, rolls her big blue eyes, and says, “Well, usually, my boyfriend picks me up here.”
“How about tonight? Is he picking you up tonight?”
“I reckon,” she says, without a trace of regret. “Did you want me to take this now?” she asks, and lifts the plate with the cash and the bill on it.
“Sure,” he says. “Thanks.”
Her rejection annoys him even more than his so-called pals’ did. Telling him, in effect, she prefers a pimply faced kid who probably slings burgers at McDonald’s to a sophisticated thirty-five-year-old man who’s been around the block a few times, sweetheart, and who can teach you some tricks you never learned here at the old Redbird Café. He’s beginning to regret having left a fifteen percent tip on the plate. Ten percent would’ve been enough. More than she’d see down here in a week. Pay for a fuckin two-week vacation. He leaves the table before she comes back.
His rig is parked outside.
He settles himself in the cab, starts the engine, and then turns on the cell phone. Nothing he can do down here anymore, he might as well head back home. He dials his home number, lets it ring three times, and is surprised when a voice he doesn’t recognize answers.
“Hello?”
“Who’s this?” he asks.
“It’s your nickel, mister,” the woman says. “Who’s this?”
“This is Rafe Matthews, and I live there, ma’am! Now who the hell…?”
“Oh, golly, Mr. Matthews,” the woman says, “I’m sorry, this is Hattie Randolph. I’m sittin your kids while your missus is gone.”
“Gone? Gone where?”
“Down to Florida. To see her sister.”
“Cape October?”
“I reckon, sir. She gave me the number there, if you’d like it.”
“I have the number. When did she leave?”
“Early this afternoon. Said she should be there by tomorrow morning sometime.”
“Okay,” Rafe says.
He is already thinking.
“Did you want me to tell her anything? If she calls?”
“No, I’ll get in touch with her myself, Hattie, thanks. How are the kids?”
“Fine. I just put them to bed.”
“Well, give them a kiss for me in the morning, okay?”
“Yes, sir, I’ll do that.”
“Good night, Hattie.”
“Good night, Mr. Matthews,” she says.
He turns off the phone, and sits alone in the cab, in the dark, thinking. He doesn’t like the idea that Carol just picked up and left for Florida without first consulting him about it. On the other hand, the fact that she’s on the road and doesn’t expect to get down here in Florida till tomorrow morning means that she’ll be stopping at a motel to sleep over, which further means he’s free as a bird till morning, when he’ll give her a call to bawl her out.
Rafe doesn’t realize this about himself, but his usual way of dealing with disappointment or frustration is to look for female companionship. His rejection by first his former jailhouse cronies and next the big-titted little blonde waitress might have remained just mere annoyance if Carol had been home where she was supposed to be. Instead, he calls and gets some black woman he never heard of, while his wife is driving alone in the dark and sleeping Christ knows where on the road, and this pisses him off further, this truly pisses him off mightily.
Suddenly—
Or at least he thinks it’s suddenly.
He r
emembers the blonde who ran over Alice’s foot.
He activates the phone again. Dials Information. Presses the
SEND button.
“Cape October, Florida,” he says.
“Yes, sir?”
“Jennifer Reddy,” he says. “That’s R-E-D-D-Y. I don’t have an address.”
He waits.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the operator says. “I don’t have a listing with that spelling.”
“What do you have?” he asks, about to get angry all over again.
“I have a Ready-Quik Car Wash, and a Ready-Serv Rental…”
“No, this is a residential listing. And it’s not Ready, it’s Reddy. R-E-D-D-Y.”
“Could it be Redding, sir? R-E-D-D-I-N-G? I have a J. Redding on Mangrove Lane. Could that be it?”
“It might,” he says.
Redding, he thinks. Jennifer Redding.
“I’ll try it for you, sir.”
He hears the operator dialing. Hears the phone ringing on the other end.
“Hello?”
A woman’s voice. A Jennifer Redding voice. Crisp and young and sensual.
“Miss Redding?” he says.
“Yes.”
“This is Rafe Matthews?”
“Who?”
“I was at Alice Glendenning’s house when you stopped by yesterday.”
“Alice…? Oh. Yes.”
There is a silence on the line.
“So… uh… what is it?” Jennifer asks.
“I happened to notice you. Through the drapes.”
Another silence.
“I wouldn’t intrude this way,” he says, “but I know you’re a friend of Alice’s…”
“Well, actually, I ran her over,” Jennifer says.
“Yes, so I understand.”
“Is that what this is about?”
“No, no. Not at all.”
“Then why…?”
“Point is, I’m still in the neighborhood, more or less, and I was thinking you might like to meet me for a cup of coffee. Or something.”
“What do you mean by ‘more or less’?”
“Actually, I’m in Fort Myers. Near the airport here. Or we could meet for a drink. If you’d prefer a drink.”
“Why should we meet at all?” Jennifer asks. “For anything?”
“Well, like I said, I happened to notice you through the drapes…”
“And so?”
