Jimmy The Kid

by Donald Westlake

“I been sitting here,” she said. “Wondering what’s going on.”

  “It would take a while to tell, Mom.”

  “I saw the Caddy bounce,” she said.

  “That was part of it.”

  “I wish I had springs like that in the cab,” she said. “Climb aboard.” She shifted into first, and Murch stepped up into the bus as she eased it forward and off onto the shoulder of the road.

  May had now led the boy from the Cadillac to the back seat of the Caprice, Kelp had handcuffed Van Gelden to the steering wheel, and Dortmunder had filled his pockets with guns and was standing beside the Cadillac looking mulish. When Murch and his Mom came over from the school bus Dortmunder said, “Stan, you drive.”

  “Right.”

  Murch’s Mom got in the back seat with May and Jimmy. “Well, hello, Jimmy,” she said. “I see you’re playing Mickey Mouse.”

  May shook her head. “It’s not quite like that,” she said. Inside his mask, Jimmy said, “I really am a bit old for this kind of psychological reassurance.”

  “Hmp,” Murch’s Mom said. “A smart aleck.”

  In the front seat, Kelp sat in the middle, with Murch on his left and Dortmunder on his right. As Murch started the engine, Kelp said to Dortmunder, “Can I have my gun back?”

  “No,” Dortmunder said. He looked around at the setting they were leaving, giving everything the same impartial look of disgust; truck, school bus, planks, Cadillac, chauffeur. “Hands up,” he muttered, and the Caprice drove off in a flurry of falling leaves.

  Chapter 14

  * * *

  Dortmunder said, “What’s taking so long? We been driving for forty–five minutes.”

  “I’ve been taking some extra turns and cutbacks,” Murch said, “to confuse the boy’s sense of direction. That’s what they did in the book.”

  “In the meantime,” Dortmunder said, “the cops are out looking by now.”

  “We should have picked up the detour signs,” Kelp said. “We shouldn’t have left them behind like that.”

  “We don’t need them any more,” Dortmunder told him. “And I don’t want to waste any more time.” To Murch he said, “So let’s go straight to the farmhouse. No more extra turns.”

  “Well,” Murch said.

  Dortmunder looked at him. “What do you mean, well?”

  “Well, the fact is,” Murch said. He was blinking a lot as he drove, and looking troubled, even embarrassed. “The fact is,” he said, “I think I took too many extra turns and cutbacks already.”

  “You’re lost?”

  “Well,” Murch said, “not exactly lost.”

  “What do you mean, not exactly lost?”

  “Well, there was a road I thought was down this way, and it isn’t here. I can’t seem to find it.”

  “If you can’t seem to find the road you’re looking for,” Dortmunder said, “that means you’re lost. Exactly lost.”

  “It would help if the sun was out,” Murch said. It was late afternoon now, and the sky was filling with clouds.

  “I think it’s gonna rain,” Kelp said.

  Dortmunder nodded. “And we’re lost.”

  “If I take the next left,” Murch said, “we should be all right.”

  “You think so,” Dortmunder said.

  “Maybe,” Murch said.

  Chapter 15

  * * *

  “There it is,” Murch said. “This time I’m positive.”

  “The last time you were positive,” Kelp said, “I almost got bit by a dog.”

  The three men peered squinting out the windshield, through the streaming sheets of rain at the structure vaguely showing in the headlights. This was the fourth dirt road they’d taken since the simultaneous arrival of darkness and rain, and tempers in the car were generally frayed. Jimmy had gone to sleep, with his head propped against May’s arm, but everybody else was wide awake and jittery. Twice on other dirt roads they’d become stuck in the mud, and Kelp and Dortmunder had had to get out and push. Once, when they’d found a house that had looked right to Murch, they’d discovered just after Kelp got out of the car that it was the wrong house, occupied by several human beings and at least one big German Shepherd.

  “Right house or wrong house,” Dortmunder said, “just don’t get us stuck again.”

  “I’m doing my best,” Murch said. “Besides, that’s definitely the right house.”

  “I’m your mother, Stan,” Murch’s Mom said, “and I’ll tell you right now, if you’re wrong again, don’t ever stand in front of my cab.”

  Murch, leaning forward over the steering wheel, scrinching his face up as he tried to see, kept the gearshift in low and his foot gently on the accelerator. They thumped and jounced slowly through the potholes, and the structure out front gradually became more and more visible. A house, weathered clapboard, with an open front porch. Boarded–up windows. No lights anywhere.

  “It is the right house!” Murch cried. “By golly, it really is!”

  “How come you sound surprised?” Dortmunder asked him, but Murch’s Mom was leaning forward, her head between Dortmunder and her son, and she said, “Stan, you’re right. That’s the place, it definitely is.”

  “By golly,” Murch said. “By golly.”

  The dirt road made a sweep around the front of the house, then petered away into the woods to the right. Murch jounced them as close to the stoop as he could, then stopped the car and said, “We made it.”

  “Leave the headlights on,” Dortmunder told him.

  In the back seat, the stopping of the car had awakened Jimmy. Sitting up, trying to rub his eyes and discovering he had some sort of rubber thing over his head, he said, “Hey!”

  “Take it easy, Jimmy,” May said, patting him soothingly on the arm. “Everything’s all right.”

  In darkness, his head covered by something that both felt and smelled unpleasant, surrounded by strangers whose voices he didn’t recognize, Jimmy felt a swift moment of panic. Reality and dream swam together in his mind, and he had no idea where he was or what was happening or what was real.

  But after a person has been in analysis for nearly four years, it becomes second nature to automatically study and dissect all dreams and dream fragments. With his mind busily seeking the symbolic content of darkness, rubber masks, and strange voices, he couldn’t completely lose control, or remain panic–stricken for very long. “Oh,” he said, sighing with relief, “it’s just the kidnappers.”

  “That’s right,” May said. “Nothing to worry about.”

  “I was really scared for a second there,” he said.

  “We’re going to get out of the car now,” May told him. “It’s raining, and we have some stairs to go up, so hold my hand.”

  “All right.”

  They transferred themselves from car to house, getting drenched in the process, and Murch, coming last, switched off the headlights before going up into the house.

  It had apparently been several years since anybody had lived here. Except for a non–working gas stove in the kitchen, a framed newspaper photograph of moon–walking astronauts on the wall in the living room, and a badly stained mattress in one of the bedrooms upstairs, the place had been completely empty when Murch and his Mom had found it. Since then, they’d driven out three carloads of furnishings, and Murch had discovered that the toilet upstairs would work if the tank was filled with buckets full of water from the hand–pump well in the back yard. “The only thing is,” he’d told the others earlier, “you don’t flush for everything.”

  May and Murch’s Mom led Jimmy directly upstairs, lighting their way with two of the flashlights Murch had brought out on one of his earlier trips. The bedroom they’d chosen didn’t have bars over the windows, like the room in Child Heist, but it did have boards nailed over the windows, which was just as good. And it had a solid door that could be locked with a key from the outside.

  May had carried her mask up with her, and Murch’s Mom had borrowed her son’s; they put them both o
n now, before taking Jimmy’s mask off. May said, “This is where you’re going to live for the next day or two. Until we get the money from your father.”

  Jimmy looked around. Vaguely in the beams of the two flashlights he could see the cot with pajamas laid out on it, and the folding chair piled with half a dozen comic books. The two windows were both covered with boards on the outside. “It’s cold in here,” he said.

  “There’s lots of blankets on the bed,” May told him. “And I’ll bring you up some hot dinner pretty soon.”

  The two women started to leave, and Jimmy said, “May I keep one of the flashlights? So I can read the comic books.”

  “Sure,” May said, and gave him hers. Then she and Murch’s Mom went out to the hall and took their masks off again. They locked the door, left the key in the lock, and went downstairs.

  Murch had lit the three kerosene lanterns he’d stashed here, and the living room looked almost livable. Wet clothing now hung from the nails and hooks left in the walls. Kelp was sitting at the card table in his undershirt, playing solitaire, and Dortmunder was wringing out his shirt. The smell of wet cloth mixed with the odor of kerosene smoke; combined with the boarded up windows and the exaggerated shadows on the walls and the darkness beyond the interior doorways, it was more like being in a cave underground than in a house.

  Dortmunder said, “The kid okay?”

  Murch’s Mom said, “He’s in better shape than we are.”

  “I’ll get us something to eat,” May said, and went over to the stone fireplace in the corner of the room. Murch had brought out charcoal and a hibachi, two large cans to boil water in, and some field rations nicknamed Lurps; officially Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol Rations, they were dry rations in plastic bags, which converted into casseroles like beef–and–rice or pork–and–beans when hot water was added. There were also instant coffee, cream, and plastic cups and dishes.

  Dortmunder said to Murch, “You drive your mother to a phone booth now. You can find one, can’t you?”

  Murch was astonished. “Go out now? In that rain?”

  May, her hands full of Lurps, said, “You’ve got to let the boy’s father know he’s all right.”

  “Sure,” Dortmunder said. “There’s also the little matter of the ransom.” To Murch’s Mom he said, “You know what to say?”

  “Why not?” She patted her jacket pocket. “I’ll just read it to him out of the book.”

  “The book,” Dortmunder said sourly. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

  “And when you come back,” May said, “I’ll have some nice warm dinner for you.”

  “Hah!” shouted Kelp, and slapped a card down on the table with such force that everybody jumped and stared at him. “I got it out!” he said, and gave everybody a happy smile. At their frowning expressions, he explained, “That doesn’t happen very much.”

  “It better not,” Dortmunder said.

  Chapter 16

  * * *

  Using the flashlight sparingly, Jimmy pulled out the center double–page from one of the comic books, smoothed the crease in its middle by running it back and forth over the edge of the folding chair’s seat, and then slid it carefully under the hall door, directly beneath the knob. They hadn’t bothered to search him, so he still had his ballpoint pen, the inner cartridge of which was both thin enough and rigid enough to fit into the keyhole and slowly push the key out the other side.

  Plink.

  After that tiny sound, of the key hitting the comic book sheet on the hall floor, Jimmy waited, tense, his ear to the keyhole, until he was sure the sound had not been heard downstairs. Then, slowly, carefully, he drew the sheet of paper back into the room, and there was the key.

  Operating now in darkness, the flashlight in his hip pocket, Jimmy unlocked the door and tiptoed out to the corridor. Could it really be this easy, or were they testing his resourcefulness, leaving one of them hidden on guard upstairs here, to see what he might do?

  But apparently not. A little light showed from his right, and when he moved that way he could hear the voices downstairs. He already knew there were five of them, and when he reached the head of the stairs and looked down all five were there. One of the men and the older woman were putting on coats. The other woman was fiddling with a hibachi in the fireplace. The second man was playing solitaire at a card table (and from the looks of things cheating), and the third one was prowling back and forth, holding a wet shirt out and shaking it as though to hurry its drying.

  Five. They were either under–estimating him or over–estimating themselves; probably both. He waited till the couple with coats on went out and then, turning away from the staircase, he went exploring.

  It took ten minutes to discover that all the windows up here were boarded, and that there was no second staircase down. He also discovered, in that time, a wire coat–hanger, an eight–inch–piece of galvanized pipe, and a hall–full squirt can of 3–in–1 oil.

  But the big finds were in the attic, which he gained access to via a trapdoor in a bedroom closet. In the mountain school in Switzerland last summer he’d learned the chimney climb, going up funnel–type openings by pressing one’s back against one side and walking one’s feet up the other. He went up the closet walls that way, got into the attic, and made both finds almost at once. In an old metal toolbox were several rusty abandoned tools; a hammer, a screwdriver, pliers, a long slender tweezers. And off in a corner, behind several stacks of Grit, was a good long coil of rope.

  Pleased with himself, Jimmy used the rope to lower the toolbox, then dropped the rest of the rope down after it and walked his way back down the closet walls. It took two trips to carry everything back to his room, and on the second trip he paused at the head of the stairs again to see how his kidnappers were doing. The woman was now boiling water on the hibachi, and the two men were playing rummy. From the looks of things the woman would be bringing him food pretty soon so he shouldn’t stand around here wasting time.

  Going back to his room, he put the key in the lock on the outside, went into the room, and pulled the door shut. Then, using the tweezers from the toolbox, he carefully turned the key from inside; one revolution all the way around and the lock clicked into place.

  Now, to work.

  Chapter 17

  * * *

  Hanging up the phone after talking with the kidnapper, Herbert Harrington said, “Well. I can’t say I cared for that at all.”

  “Let’s listen to it,” the head FBI man said, and they all waited in silence while the technician ran the tape back to the beginning again.

  Herbert Harrington plucked his white handkerchief from his suit coat’s breast pocket and patted the tiny beads of perspiration that gleamed on his pale high forehead. A calm, methodical, successful corporation attorney of fifty–seven, he was used to emergencies and crises that ran at a Wall Street pace; weeks of gathering storm clouds, spotted with occasional conferences or public rumor denials, then a flurry of phone calls, a massing of capital along the disputed border, and then perhaps three days or a week or even a month of concentrated buying, selling, merging, bankruptcy declarations and the like. Drama with sweep to it, emotional climaxes as carefully grounded and prepared for as in grand opera.

  But this. They kidnap the boy at four o’clock in the afternoon, and by nine o’clock the same night they’re demanding one hundred fifty thousand dollars for him. In old bills. In an equivalent situation on Wall Street, it would be three or four working days before anybody even admitted the boy had been taken. Then, there’d be a period of weeks or months when the kidnappers would publicly maintain the posture that they meant to keep the boy, had no interest in selling him, and wouldn’t even consider any offers that might come their way. This log–jam, assisted by continued denials from Herbert Harrington or his spokesmen that (a) he was interested in negotiating a re–purchase, (b) that he was in a cash or tax position to make such a re–purchase possible, or (c) that in fact he had ever had such a son at all, would eventually be b
roken by tentative feelers from both sides. Dickering, threats, go–betweens, all the panoply of negotiation would then be mounted and gone through like the ritual of High Mass, and it would be even more weeks before anything like a dollar amount was ever mentioned. And in fact dollars would be the very least of it; there would be stock options, rebates, one–for–one stock transfers, sliding scales, an agreement with some meat on it. Instead of which–“All set,” the tape technician said.

  “Run it,” the head FBI man said. They all talked in clipped little sentences like that; Harrington felt himself getting a headache.

  From the machine, a voice said, “Hello?” and another voice said, “Is that Herbert Har–”