“Here.” Tate put the sawed-off on the floor. “You hold him.” He slapped the dog sharply—left side of the head, right side, left, right. Now he shook the dog’s head sharply from side to side. The dog protested weakly, tried feebly to pull away.
“Do it again,” Bernhardt said.
Two more slaps, and the dog’s protest was stronger. His eyes were open, for the first time focused, no longer glazed.
“Okay.” Tentatively, Bernhardt released his supporting embrace, first the dog’s front legs, then the hind legs.
“Hey.” Tate said. “Lookee there—he’s doing it, making it. Way to go, Crusher.” Whereupon the dog sighed, let his eyes close as he settled to the floor, once more to sleep.
“He’s going to be okay,” Bernhardt said. “Don’t you think so?” As he spoke, he went to the dining room door, closed it.
“Yeah,” Tate answered, laconically nodding. “Yeah, I’d say he’ll be all right.”
The two men went to the dining room table. They sat side by side with the sawed-off on the table between them.
“So?” Tate spoke so softly that only Bernhardt could hear. “So now what? We lay back while Louise hands over a fortune? Is that it?”
“This guy’s talking about disfigurement. And the way he says it—the feeling I get—that’s what he’ll do.” He paused, his eyes locked with Tate’s. Then: “If Louise wants to hand over the jewels, I’m not going to stop her.”
“Yeah, well—” Tate drew a long, lugubrious breath. “Well, it’s her call. Except that I still like the idea of us skimming off a little cream. Christ, it’s not like there’s any accountant looking over our shoulders.”
“I’ll see what she says.”
“That lady …” Tate shook his head, a gesture that expressed both irony and futility—and, yes, a certain sadness, reflecting on the human condition. “When you think about it, she’s in a pretty shitty corner. But she’s got guts, seems like to me. She’s—what?—stubborn, I guess I’d say.” As he said it, Tate smiled, looked slyly at Bernhardt. “Like you. You’re stubborn, too.”
Bernhardt returned the smile. At five o’clock in the morning, he was too exhausted even to frame a properly modest response. Then, back to business: “Listen, C.B., you don’t have to stay for the whole show. I mean, you’re welcome—I’d like to have you stay. But I’ve got my thousand dollars’ worth.”
“When d’you figure this Chinese guy’s going to call?”
“I’ve no idea. Sometime in the next few hours, certainly.”
“You have to arrange a swap. That can get tricky.”
“Maybe,” Bernhardt answered. Then, tentatively, feeling his way: “Or maybe not. If I take this guy at his word, all I’ve got to do is deliver the brown paper sack, and then back off until he releases Paula and Angela.”
“And that’s it? The end? Seventy-five thousand for you and twenty-five for me—you’re going to walk away from that?”
“We have to get the women back. Then let’s see what happens.”
Tate studied Bernhardt carefully before he said, “You’ve got an idea. I can see it in your face. I know that expression.”
“Call it the germ of an idea.”
“The cops?”
“No,” Bernhardt said, impatiently shaking his head. “We’ve been through this, what’ll happen if we call the cops.”
“I wasn’t saying call the cops. I was saying talk to the cops. Your buddy in Homicide, that’s what I meant.”
Yawning, Bernhardt looked at his watch. “Listen, C.B., I’ve got to sleep.” He gathered himself, rose to his feet. “If you want to stay, fine. Take my bed. I’ll sleep on the couch in the living room.”
“So it’s not the cops. It’s something else.”
Bernhardt knelt, took Crusher in his arms again. Straightening, he shook his head. “No,” he answered, “it’s not the cops.”
“Something else, then.”
“No comment.”
MONDAY, APRIL 23rd
8:25 A.M., PDT
WHEN SHE WAS A little girl, her bed had been a place of refuge, her safe haven, her secret place. Pull the blankets over her head, remain very quiet, and the goblins would pass, slouching off toward another part of the forest. Whenever her parents had punished her, that rare occasion, her bed was her sanctuary of sobs. Even when she was in her early twenties, married to the wrong man for the wrong reasons, an emotional disaster, she’d found refuge in bed, burrowed down among the covers, sobbing as she tried to make herself even smaller than she felt as she listened to her husband, drunk, prowling the house beyond her bedroom door as he mouthed bits of obscene dialogue that, sometimes, she recognized in the screenplays he wrote, the low-budget thrillers that had made him rich.
The Scylla of childhood traumas and the Charybdis of a disastrous marriage …
And now, once more burrowed in a nest of blankets, terrified, her eyes closed, Paula listened.
Just as, last night, once she and Angela had gone to bed, she’d listened. She’d listened, and Crusher, lying on the floor at the foot of the bed, had also listened. Once, soon after she’d gone to bed, she’d heard Crusher growl. Frightened, she’d taken the revolver from the drawer of the nightstand. But then Crusher had subsided. Reassured, she put the revolver away, settled down, closed her eyes—finally drifted off to sleep. The time, she calculated later, must have been about eleven-thirty.
Then there’d been the sound of a crash, a confusion of breaking glass, of wood splintering, of hostile voices raised—Crusher barking, Angela screaming. Eyes streaming, blinded, nose and throat seared, choking, gagging, she’d groped desperately for the nightstand, the drawer, the revolver. But just as she found the revolver something struck her forearm, a numbing blow. Then she’d felt their hands: two men wearing gas masks, fugitives from a horror movie. They’d pinned her against the wall, one of them with his forearm jammed against her throat. The men had spoken in Chinese: short, indecipherable words. From the next room had come the other sounds: Angela, furiously swearing, other Chinese voices shouting her down, finally silencing her.
And, worst of all, she heard Crusher. The dog was whimpering, not barking. Her first coherent thought, irrationally, had been sorrow for Alan, when he found Crusher dead on the bedroom floor.
While, in the eddying clouds of yellowish gas, in darkness, the four men, all Chinese, went about their business.
Military precision was the catch-all cliché.
They’d even brought two raincoats and two pairs of oversize sneakers. She’d only been wearing panties, no bra, no nightgown. Roughly, they’d bundled her into the raincoat, told her to hurry as she buttoned the coat, then slipped her feet unwillingly into the shoes. During the time it had taken her to dress, that part of her mind still capable of lucid thought told her that, of its kind, this kidnapping was a model of precision.
Just as, now, the same still-rational segment of her mind was calculating the odds on her own mortality. The handicapper’s conclusion: fifty-fifty that she would be dead by this time tomorrow.
Slowly, Paula let her eyes come open.
It was a tiny bedroom, barely large enough to accommodate a double bed, a dresser, two nightstands, and one small armchair.
A Chinese man sat in the armchair. He was a slightly built man, unhealthy looking. His hands were small, his neck was skinny. He wore a heavy wool sweater, corduroy trousers, and slightly soiled white running shoes. Cradled in his lap he held a large automatic pistol.
“You’re awake. Are you all right? I was told to ask.” His voice was bland, his eyes were expressionless.
I was told to ask …
Implying, perhaps, a criminal organization. Suggesting, therefore, that the odds on her living another day might have improved, however minutely. An organization might act more rationally.
“I have to use the bathroom.”
“Ah.” He nodded, rose, went to the closet. Yes, it was the same raincoat they’d given her last night. He took the coat
from its hook, tossed it on the bed, returned to his chair, resumed his previous position. As she maneuvered into the coat without exposing her body to him, the inward image of an old soft-core porno film perversely materialized: How to Undress in Front of Your Husband.
8:40 A.M., PDT
WHEN SHE OPENED THE bathroom door and stepped out into the short hallway that led back to the bedroom, two men were waiting in the hallway. The newcomer, about forty, was also Chinese. He was dressed in designer jeans, beautifully burnished loafers, and a hundred-dollar Madras shirt. His black hair was expensively styled. He was smiling politely. He was unarmed.
“You’re Paula.”
Gathering the raincoat closer, she silently nodded. She was barefooted, and the uncarpeted hallway floor was uncomfortably cold. Slowly, she advanced on the two men, who stood opposite the door to the bedroom.
“I’d like to put my shoes on. And I’d like a comb.”
As if he were puzzled, the newcomer frowned. “Did you look in the medicine cabinet?”
“Yes. There’s no comb.”
Chin hesitated. Then, tentatively: “You’re welcome to use my comb.” As if to confirm the offer, he touched the back pocket of his perfectly fitting jeans.
“No, thanks.” With body language, she tried to express disdain.
“Well, then.” With the air of someone reluctantly turning to business before the preliminaries had been properly concluded, Chin gestured for her to enter the small, sparsely furnished living room that opened off the hallway to the right. “Well, then, if you’ll just go into the living room …” He gestured politely, then said something in Chinese to the other man, who went into the bedroom. Carrying the tennis shoes, he quickly reappeared. He gave the shoes to Chin, who was following Paula into the living room. Chin gestured her to a couch and gave her the shoes.
“This house is unoccupied,” Chin said, “and the gas is turned off. That’s why it’s cold.” Then, slightly raising his voice, he spoke again in Chinese. Moments later, followed by another Chinese man carrying a pistol, Angela appeared. Like Paula, she wore a raincoat and tennis shoes. Beneath the raincoat, Paula saw the hem of a nightgown. Did Angela feel more secure, wearing a nightgown beneath the coat?
As Angela sat beside her on the couch, Paula quickly surveyed the room, which was furnished with the nondescript couch, one mismatched armchair, and a glass-topped coffee table placed in front of the couch. Except for a wooden chopping board, a meat cleaver, and several neatly folded bath towels, the coffee table was bare. There was only one large picture window, completely covered by closely drawn Venetian blinds. The oak floor was uncarpeted. There was a musty odor of emptiness: stale air and dust and disuse.
When Chin spoke again in Chinese the two guards took up positions standing against the wall. Each man stood impassively, arms crossed. Each man held an automatic pistol.
For a moment Chin stared thoughtfully at the two women. Then, as if he had ordered his thoughts and was about to make a boardroom presentation, he began to speak:
“About six hours ago—call it two-thirty—I talked to Mr. Bernhardt. You’ll be glad to know that, yes, they found the jewels. Or, at least, I assume they found the jewels, since they didn’t deny it. So—” Chin permitted himself a small, self-satisfied smile. “So that’s the first problem solved. As things worked out, it was necessary to kill Jimmy Fabrese. There were many reasons, which I won’t get into. However—” He turned his attention to Paula. “However, as matters now stand, taking it from the police point of view, it appears that Mr. Bernhardt killed a member of the Mafia in cold blood, so that he could get to the jewels—which, of course, belong to the Mafia. Mr. Tate and Mrs. Rabb, of course, would also have very serious problems. But the authorities would probably go after Bernhardt first, as the mastermind. They—”
“Alan wouldn’t do that,” Paula flared. “He’s no killer.”
Chin nodded. “I agree. And, in fact, it’s true—he didn’t kill Fabrese. But he’ll have a difficult time proving it, I’m afraid. Fabrese was killed by a two-twenty-three bullet, two of them. The two-twenty-three-caliber cartridge is incredibly powerful. Bullets from that cartridge, at close range, go right through the body. So there would be no ballistics evidence to exonerate Mr. Bernhardt, because the chances of recovering the bullet are almost nonexistent. However—” He paused to refocus his thoughts. Then: “However, back to the treasure, which is now at Bernhardt’s flat. As you know, the plan was to put the jewels in a safe-deposit box. The banks open in about a half hour. Of course, I have people watching Bernhardt’s flat. They have orders to prevent either Bernhardt or Tate from reaching their cars, even if it means killing them in broad daylight on Vermont Street. Do you understand?” Chin directed the question at Paula.
“Have they been hurt?” Paula demanded. “Are they all right?”
“As long as they agree to turn over the jewels, they won’t be harmed. But if they don’t give me the treasure—well …” Pantomiming deep regret, Chin sighed, shrugged, spread his hands. “Well, you may as well know that if they refuse, then—” He gestured to the cleaver and the cutting board. “Then I’ve told them we’ll use that to chop off some of your fingers. Three fingers on each hand, I think. And probably part of your nose, too. For the nose, we’ll use a straight razor.”
Slowly, desperately, Paula began to shake her head, the ultimate denial. “You’re bluffing. You’re trying to scare us.” As, beside her, Angela began to softly sob.
“You would be making a serious mistake,” Chin said, “if you believe that I’m bluffing. On the contrary, this is business. Strictly business. In exchange for the slight risk of being arrested, I stand to gain a million dollars or more. Those are once-in-a-lifetime odds. I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t take the gamble.”
“You’ve kidnapped us. That’s the death penalty.”
Chin chose not to reply.
12:05 P.M., EDT
WHEN BACARDO HAD FINISHED talking, Cella continued to walk with his customary deliberate stride. Cella wore a pearl-gray fedora, a dark blue cashmere topcoat, a white shirt, and a striped silk tie. Because his hands were clasped at the small of his back, his head was pitched forward as he walked. Two well-dressed bodyguards followed Bacardo and Cella at a distance of not more than twenty feet. At noon on a sparkling April day, with trees greening and plants blooming, Central Park South was a festival of diversity: young, old, rich, poor, reflective, boisterous—and, yes, drugged-out or insane. Or both.
Just ahead, three black teenagers, two boys and a girl, were sprawled on a park bench.
“Have you got three fives?” Cella asked.
“I think so.” Bacardo took out a sheaf of bills, riffled through them. “Yeah. Three fives.”
Cella gestured to the teenagers. Bacardo nodded, made the deal, sat beside Cella on the bench as the three blacks pranced gleefully away. Cella folded his arms, leaned back, crossed his legs, adjusted his creases. Looking straight ahead, he spoke quietly, judiciously:
“It’s good you told me about it, Tony. We never did much business together, the two of us. But I always liked the way you handled yourself. I always figured that without you, Don Carlo would never’ve gotten as far as he did.”
Also staring straight ahead, Bacardo made no response. With his eyes he briefly followed two young women as they passed. Both women wore tight-fitting jeans that clung to buttocks and pelvis. At age sixty, Bacardo reflected, the spectacle was more provocative than he could remember from earlier years.
“What it comes down to,” Cella said, “is whether she’s entitled to that much money. Don Carlo’s family—Maria and the kids, even though Maria’s a pain in the ass—they’re entitled, no question. But if we paid off every bastard kid our guys had—well—it just wouldn’t work.”
Watching the two women disappear behind a screen of pedestrians, Bacardo decided to make no reply. Cella, he’d decided, liked to work out problems as he talked.
“I remember Janice Frazer,”
Cella said. “God, she was something. That body—incredible. You remember?”
“Sure,” Bacardo answered. “I remember.”
“But she turned into a rummy, you say.”
“Afraid so.”
“And her child is forty years old.” Incredulously, Cella shook his head.
Bacardo sighed. “Yeah, I know. Time gets away from you.”
Cella sat silently for a moment, thoughtfully eyeing a horse-drawn carriage slowly making its way south on Fifth Avenue. The horse looked old and tired, plodding along with its head hung low. How old was the horse? Twenty? Older? Would the owner of the carriage work the horse until he dropped? Were there work rules for horses?
Finally Cella spoke: “So these jewels—are they dug up by now, or what?”
“I don’t know. I was going to call the PI—Bernhardt. But then I thought I should talk to you first.”
“You think, though, that they’re dug up.”
“I’m guessing, but I’d say yes. I mean, as far as I could see, everything checked out according to what Don Carlo said. So why should they wait?” Bacardo shrugged. “Get a shovel, dig up the stuff, put it someplace safe.”
“Hmmm.” Judiciously, Cella nodded. Then, quietly, he said, “What I don’t understand, Tony, is why you didn’t do the digging.”
Expecting the question, Bacardo was prepared. “That’s what I went out there to do. I mean, it was Don Carlo’s dying wish, about those jewels. But then Louise said there was someone on my tail.” As he spoke, Bacardo turned to look directly at the other man, hopeful of making eye contact. But Cella still sat impassively, eyes straight ahead. Waiting.
Meaning that everything, then, had been said. Everything but the words that would decide it all—
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