by Michael Mayo
“I might be,” said Lansky. “How much are you asking for this vehicle?”
Spence said $300 and the card players busted out laughing. I elbowed my buddy in the side.
“Tell you what, Mr. Lansky. How about we bring it in and you give us whatever is fair. You tell us what other kinds of trucks—”
“And cars,” Spence interrupted.
“Trucks and cars you might be in the market for, and we’ll see what we can do.” We settled on $50 for the grocery truck, but not until the guys playing cards had more laughs at our expense. “We’ve got a couple of real desperadoes here. . . . How many men did you have to kill to get this fucking thing? Did you have cops on your tail all the way from the Bronx?”
I could tell Spence was steamed, so I turned to Lansky for distraction.
“Tell us what you want. Name a car or truck that you can use and tell us what you’ll pay for it.”
The card players laughed even harder. Vito said, “Benny would look good in a Packard Twin Six. Hell, so would I.”
I said, “We’ll only steal one. How much?”
Lansky grinned a little, lit a cigarette, and said, “If you can get your hands on a Packard Twin Six, I’ll give you a thousand.” The card players laughed even harder. Spence said two thousand and we settled on twelve hundred.
Lansky had one of the other guys give us fifty bucks for the truck. By the time we left, the Brierley’s Grocery lettering had been stripped off, with most of the green sides repainted shiny black.
The next day I told Mother Moon what Spence and I had done and gave her $15 out of my share of the truck money. I explained how we’d said we’d boost a Packard Twin Six but weren’t sure how to go about it. Fords were everywhere but a Packard was a rich-man’s car and a Twin Six was the top of the line. She pocketed the bills, fired up her pipe, and said, “The office where they sell ’em is up on Broadway at Sixty-First. Ought to find a few of them there.”
That afternoon, we walked up to Columbus Circle, right across the street from a Packard dealership. Sure enough, they had the cars. We cased the joint for days without any luck or ideas for stealing such a fancy ride. Then Spence figured out a way.
We had to wait three days for the right guy in the right car. We saw some beautiful Twin Sixes but none of them were right for what Spence had in mind. That one showed up on Friday afternoon. It was about two years old and pretty dirty, with a dented rear fender where the spare tire was supposed to be. The spare was in the backseat. I pulled a big square of white cloth out of my pocket, folded it into a triangle, and tied two corners together. Spence put on his dark glasses, and we were off.
The guy with the dented Packard spent a half hour talking to a salesman, and was none too happy about what he heard. When he finally finished, he drove uptown on Broadway. We followed on the sidewalk until the car stopped at a light.
We approached the vehicle, the two of us being a tall guy in an overcoat and dark glasses carrying a kid in his arms. Spence said, “Sir, please can you help us, it’s my son. If you could take us to a hospital.”
I had my arm in a white sling and bawled like a baby.
“Get in.” The man opened the rear door. Spence bundled me in the back next to the spare tire and hurried to the passenger seat, all the while muttering his thank-yous.
As the driver turned south, I pulled the pistol out of my sling and jammed the muzzle under his right ear.
Shrugging out of the overcoat, Spence said, “Pull over to the curb.”
The car stopped and the shaken driver clambered out. Spence made his way around the gearshift to get behind the big wooden steering wheel. For a moment he looked confused, sweat beading his forehead as his hands lay helplessly beside the wheel. Then he grabbed the gearshift knob, shoving the lever toward the dash. The gears grated, and then the guy was back on the running board, grabbing at Spence.
He yelled that we couldn’t steal his car in broad daylight and I reached over and smashed him in the nose with the butt of my Detective Special.
Spence got the car in gear and we lurched away from the curb into traffic. But that stubborn son of a bitch held on. I smashed at rigid fingers, and when he still wouldn’t let go, I stuck the pistol in his face. I had a fraction of a second to decide if I would pull the trigger on a man who’d done me no harm, and I think I’d actually cocked the pistol when he finally let go. At least, that’s the way I remember it.
By then, Spence was pushing the car through traffic, swerving between lanes. I yelled out. “The hat! Put on the hat!”
Spence reached into his chauffeur’s coat, and pulled out the matching cap we’d bought from Brill Brothers Uniforms. Maybe it was this obvious little disguise or maybe we’d gotten far enough away, but Spence was able to slow down, and then he looked like a real chauffeur driving an expensive car with a wealthy young brat in the back. We attracted no more attention, either from civilians or cops, as we zipped through Hell’s Kitchen and into Chelsea. We stashed the Packard in an alley and called Lansky.
He knocked off $50 for the dented fender.
We busted our buttons that night, happy with the solid wad of bills in our pockets. Mother Moon had never been so glad to see me. She had a wonderful weekend with the pipe at the Sans Souci opium parlor.
But after the initial excitement had faded and I thought back on it, I realized that I was bothered by what we’d done. It was hard for me to figure, because the whole business of stealing cars was so exciting. But the man’s frightened face came back to me too easily and too clearly, and I had to understand that I’d been ready to shoot him. But would I have pulled the trigger when it came to that? I couldn’t say. It’s one thing to steal a grocery truck or to fix the World Series or to bribe a cop who expects to be bribed, but it’s another thing to shoot a guy because he has a car that you want.
I puzzled over that one for several years.
Chapter Ten
FRIDAY, MARCH 4, 1932
VALLEY GREEN, NEW JERSEY
After Dr. Cloninger’s ambulance took away the ex-Yale assholes, and Cameron and Flora had tottered upstairs, I tried to find Connie Nix. She wasn’t in the kitchen or anywhere downstairs, so I figured it was best to leave her alone. It was well after midnight anyway. I returned to the library and Ethan Pennyweight’s private reading room, where I got a clean glass and had a tot of brandy.
The ornate lamp cast a warm glow, and the chair sagged comfortably as I sat down to enjoy the drink. I could understand why even a rich guy like Spence’s father-in-law would want this little secret place. As I was studying one of his French picture books, a small movement in the shadows distracted me. It sounded like the rats I remembered at Mother Moon’s. I tilted the heavy glass lamp and the light revealed another part of the wall, a part that was made of sheet metal. I got up and gave it a tap. It made a hollow sound. A moment later I heard a vibration and then a grinding whir. I was looking at the outside of the dumbwaiter shaft that rose from the kitchen to the first floor and the family’s rooms upstairs. We had a larger one like it at the speak, to move stuff from the basement.
I returned to the good brandy, sharp and smooth at the same time, and wondered if Connie Halloran had moved into the Chelsea yet. Probably. Should I call to find out? Probably not. Wait till tomorrow, during the day. Should I call my speak to find out if she was working that night? No, they’d be busy. No sense bothering anybody. But that was an excuse too. I was afraid if I called, I’d find that she wasn’t there, and that Frenchy and Marie Therese didn’t know where she was.
And then Connie Nix’s face replaced Connie Halloran’s, and I remembered how she stood so close to me in that same little room just a few hours earlier. I finished the brandy and went upstairs.
The doors to all the bedrooms were closed. Still, I could hear drunken laughter coming from Flora’s room, and saw light under the door to Catherine Pennyweight’s suite. I knocked. She told me to come in.
Baby Ethan was kicking around in his crib. Mrs. Pennyw
eight was in her chair with a cup of tea. She was watching the baby intently.
“You going to keep the kid up here or do you want me to move him to the library?” I said by way of hello.
“He’ll stay with me tonight. Something’s not agreeing with him. Flora and Cameron probably got him too excited this afternoon.”
“OK, but you ought to know that I’m probably going to have to go back to the city soon. There are some things I need to take care of.”
“Yes, I understand you had some unpleasantness with a policeman. It will be fine, I’m sure.” She wasn’t really paying any attention to me. She didn’t care about anything but the kid.
As I left Mrs. Pennyweight’s room, Cameron Rivers swung open Flora’s door, and stood with one shoulder leaning on the frame. She wore a thin robe. The light reflected off the mirrored walls behind her was strong enough to reveal high, sharply pointed breasts, and a less focused pubic blur in the gap between her thighs. Her crooked leer was supposed to be sexy. Flora’s laughter rang out, “Oh, Cammy, stop that. You are simply too wicked for words.”
I tried not to smile as I walked toward the stairs. The woman blocked my way.
“You know, you were quite rude with Titus and Teddy. They were just having a little fun. We’re trying to cheer up dear Flora now that her husband has so callously abandoned her. Don’t you think a young woman like her needs friends to brighten her spirits?”
She leaned forward, fingered the edge of my lapel, and gave me a big-eyed look. Flora peeked around from behind her and giggled. I guess they thought I’d be embarrassed by standing so close to a half-naked woman as she caressed my chest. I returned the favor and gave her tit a friendly honk.
She squealed. Mrs. Pennyweight threw open her door and said sternly, “What’s going on out here?”
Flora and Cameron laughed harder and jumped back into her room. Mrs. Pennyweight gave me an angry stare.
It was quiet for the rest of the night. The trouble started just before dawn.
In the library, I heard faint noises from upstairs. Some movement, doors opening, quick footsteps. The house had thick walls, so at first I didn’t make anything of it, and then the sounds stopped. A minute or two later, a door slammed and I heard a woman’s loud scream from upstairs. It was a young woman, either Flora or Cameron. I grabbed my stick and was out in the big room when Flora yelled, “He’s gone! They’ve stolen little Ethan!”
She ran to the balcony railing and looked down, terrified and sobbing. “He’s gone, he’s gone. They’ve taken him!”
In that moment, I felt fear so pure and strong it cramped my stomach. Fuck, I’d failed. The goddamn bloody doll was for real. Spence had asked me to do this one thing, to protect his son, and I’d completely screwed it up, and there was nothing I’d ever be able to do to make it right. Ethan wasn’t my kid but I was responsible, and right then, maybe I understood a little of the horror that the Lindberghs were going through. But for me, it only lasted for that short terrifying moment.
Before I could even move toward the stairs, Mrs. Pennyweight appeared at the far end of the room. She came up from the basement by the servants’ stairs, moving fast, with something in her arms. I hoped like hell it was the kid and saw that it was.
She ignored her hysterical daughter and said sharply, “Quinn, come with me. This is an emergency,” as she hurried past me to the front door.
We got outside as Oh Boy was swinging the big Duesenberg around a Pierce-Arrow that had been left out front. Oh Boy skidded to a stop, jumped out in his shirtsleeves, and flung open the back door. We piled in and were thrown back when he stomped on the gas.
She had the kid wrapped tightly in a blanket, so at first all I could see of him was a pale blue face, so blue it was scary. His eyes were closed and he was coughing or hiccupping and his breath was shallow.
“He’s in distress,” she said as she pulled the blanket away and twisted around to face me on the seat with the baby kicking on her lap. “This has happened before but never this seriously. Here, take these.”
She unwrapped the blanket and gave me two corners to hold. Three crumpled empty boxes of the kid’s special food fell to the floor. She turned Ethan over on his stomach and put her hands around his ribs. She squeezed and released then pulled his arms up and repeated the motions over and over again, as if she was forcing him to breathe evenly.
The big car skidded into a hard left turn when we got to the gate and Oh Boy gave it more gas and laid on the horn. A Model A truck appeared in the headlights, dead ahead of us. Oh Boy never flinched. He kept the Duesy steady right down the middle of the blacktop. The truck veered away and slid off the road.
When I looked through the back window, it was reversing onto the road and turning to follow us. More headlights appeared behind us and another car weaved on screeching tires around the Ford. It looked like both of them were trying to keep up with us.
The .38 in my coat pocket thumped against my leg. Everything was happening so fast that I didn’t understand what was going on. Hell, right then all I felt was relief. The kid may have been sick but he hadn’t been snatched. It didn’t even occur to me to wonder where we were going.
Oh Boy swung into another hard left at a three-way intersection and we slid across the seat. Mrs. Pennyweight lost her rhythm with the breathing exercise and yelled, “Goddammit, Oliver, slow down! If you kill us, I’ll fire you!”
He paid no attention. Oh Boy was like that. He may have been too much of a worrywart, but once he got set on a task, he stuck with it. He slowed to make another left-hand turn and then sped up again. Looking through the back window, I got the impression of a big metal gate and trees on both sides. A little later, the front of a building filled the windshield and Oh Boy slowed. He followed a curved drive around it to a narrow road.
We lurched to a stop and Mrs. Pennyweight was out the car before it had settled on its springs. She and Oh Boy ran to a set of double doors, where two nurses in white were waiting to take the kid. They all hustled inside.
I turned off the engine and pocketed the keys. A nurse came running out, grabbed the crumpled food boxes from the backseat, and ran back into the building. Moments later, I heard the sound of another car, and the Pierce-Arrow that I’d seen earlier slid around the corner to a stop. Flora and Cameron in nightclothes and long coats tumbled out of the car and ran into the building. I found my stick.
Inside was a kind of admitting room with a counter at the back and corridors on either side. It had the nasty alcohol-medicine smell of a hospital. There was nobody behind the counter. I heard voices down one of the corridors and followed them to a crowded white treatment room with bright lights and a bed, where Cloninger and the nurses buzzed over little Ethan.
I couldn’t see him, of course, but through the babble I heard Mrs. Pennyweight say, “When you had him yesterday, did you feed him anything?”
Flora answered, her voice rising, “What are you talking about, he’s my son. We only gave him some . . . and then you steal him right out from under me and frighten me nearly to death. Even you can’t do that, Mother!”
Figuring that there was little chance anybody would try to kidnap the boy in that crowd, I wandered back outside and got my first good look at Cloninger’s acorn academy in the early light. A massive, new-looking four-story building with narrow windows rose up on one side. It reminded me of the Tombs back in the city but not nearly as big. The grounds were as carefully tended as a golf course and I could see five or six smaller older redbrick buildings nearby. I couldn’t tell what they were for. There was something cold and strange about the whole setup. It gave me the same creepy feeling I got when we first drove in through the dark woods. This was a place where bad things happened.
I was sitting in the Duesenberg when Oh Boy came out. He fumbled his makings from his shirt pocket, rolled a smoke, and explained.
Little Ethan had always been a sickly kid who sometimes couldn’t keep his food down and had spells where he had trouble breathing
. At least, he did until Cloninger put together a special diet that eliminated meats and butter and other stuff that everybody else ate. Cloninger actually went to Europe and brought the stuff back. They’d been testing various combinations for months to figure out what worked for the kid. At first, Oh Boy said, they thought that Mrs. Conway had got the days mixed up and little Ethan had his Saturday menu on Friday, or something. Or it may have been that he ate something he wasn’t supposed to have when Flora was showing him off to Cameron Rivers.
That morning, as soon as Mrs. Pennyweight realized that he was having an attack of whatever it was, she called Cloninger. He said to get the kid right over and to bring the empty boxes from his dinner. She didn’t even think to say anything to Flora. She just called Oh Boy for the car and took the kid down to the kitchen to fetch the boxes. That’s about the time Flora checked her mother’s rooms, saw that her son wasn’t there, and started screaming. The thing that Mrs. Pennyweight had been doing in the car was a variation on the “Schaefer method” that Cloninger had taught her to use whenever things got really rough for the little booger.
Oh Boy was in the middle of explaining it all when Cloninger sidled up to us. Oh Boy shied away from him. “Our paths cross again, Mr. Quinn. Trouble seems to follow you. First, poor Mr. Evans, then the two unfortunate young men last night, and now this, not that you had anything to do with it. We have located the source of the youngster’s problems.”
“Yeah? And what was that?”
Cloninger didn’t answer. Instead, he said, “Come, let me show you around my little establishment. There’s something I want you to see.”
Oh Boy took the opportunity to duck back into the Duesenberg. I went with Cloninger around to the other side of the big building, where a terrace faced the lake. On the other side of the water, a lot closer than I expected, was the Pennyweight house.
