The gang all looked at one another. Murch’s Mom said, “Well, it would be easier.”
Kelp said, “But that’s not the way it’s done. That’s not the way it’s done.”
Dortmunder said, “You mean in that goddam book?”
“I mean anywhere. But, all right, in the book. Could you imagine the gang in that book taking their masks off and sitting down with the victim and watch Bride of Frankenstein?”
“I really really promise,” Jimmy said.
Dortmunder yanked his mask off and threw it into a corner. “I’ll take the kid’s word for it,” he said.
“So do I,” said Murch’s Mom, and pulled her own mask off. “This thing flattens my hair anyway.”
Murch took his hands down from his face. “Boy, that’s a strain on the arms,” he said.
May took off her mask, looked at it, and said, “I always thought this thing was pretty silly anyway.”
Kelp, the only one in the room with a Mickey Mouse mask on, said, “You people don’t seem to understand. If you don’t do a thing right, how do you expect to get away with anything?”
“Be quiet,” Murch’s Mom said. “I’m watching the movie.”
May said to Jimmy, “Come here, sit with me.”
I’m a little old for sitting on people’s laps, Jimmy said.
“Okay,” May said. “Then I’ll sit on yours.”
Jimmy laughed. “You win,” he said. “I’ll sit on your lap.”
They all arranged themselves in their chairs before the television set again, as they had been before Jimmy had come back. Kelp looked at them all., looked at the kid, looked at the TV, shook his Mickey Mouse–masked head, shrugged, pulled the mask off, flipped it away, and sat down to watch the movie.
The hermit and the monster ate dinner together. “Food good,” said the monster. The hermit gave him a cigar.
Chapter 20
* * *
When Dortmunder woke up, he was stiff as board. He sat up, creaking in every joint, and discovered that his air mattress had developed a leak during the night. In order to have something for them to sleep on, without having to cart half a dozen beds out here from New York, Murch and his Mom had bought a bunch of inflatable air mattresses, the kind that people use in their swimming pools. And Dortmunder’s had sprung a leak during the night, lowering him slowly to the dining room floor, on which he had done the rest of his sleeping. The result being that he was now so stiff he could barely move.
Gray–white daylight crept through the boarded windows, showing him the empty room, the black hole in the center of the ceiling where a chandelier had been removed, and the other two air mattresses. Murch’s was empty, but a blanketed mound breathed slowly and evenly on the other one; Dortmunder felt fatalistic irritation at that. Kelp’s air mattress had not leaked, he was over there sleeping like a baby.
Last night, after the movie, the kid had been put back up in his room with the door locked, for whatever good it might do. But he’d been asleep by then–Dortmunder had had to carry him upstairs–so maybe he was still around. In any event, mattresses had been blown up for the ladies in the living room and for the gentlemen next door in the dining room, and to the pitter–pat of rain on the floor–the roof leaked–they had all gone off to sleep.
Speaking of pitter–pat, there wasn’t any. Dortmunder frowned at the windows, but the boards were too close together for him to see out or even to tell what kind of day it was; though this light did seem too pale to be direct sunshine. Anyway, the rain had apparently stopped.
Well, there was nothing for it but to get up, or at least to make the attempt. Also, there was the smell of coffee in the air, which made Dortmunder’s stomach growl softly to itself in anticipation. Last night’s Lurps had been better than nothing, but they weren’t exactly the kind of meal he was used to.
“Urn,” he said, when he leaned forward, and, “Oof,” when he stretched one hand out on the floor and shifted his weight over onto it. “Aggghh,” he said, when he heaved his body heavily over onto one knee, and, “Oh, Jee–sus,” when at last he struggled to his feet.
What a back. It felt as though somebody had pounded a lot of finishing nails into it last night. He bent, twisted, arched his back, and listened to his body creak and snap and complain. Moving a lot like Boris Karloff in that movie last night–in fact, he looked a bit like that character–he staggered out of the dining room and into the living room, where he found May, Murch’s Mom and the kid sitting at the card table, playing hearts. May said, “Good morning. There’s hot water on the hibachi, if you want to make yourself some coffee.”
“I don’t want to make myself some coffee,” Dortmunder said. “My mattress leaked, I slept on the floor, I’m too stiff to bend over.”
“In other words,” May said, “you want me to make it.”
“That’s right,” Dortmunder said.
“After this hand,” May said.
Dortmunder grunted, and went over to open the door and look out at the world. The sky was very gray and the ground was very wet and there was still a damp chill in the air.
“Shut that door,” Murch’s Mom called. “It’s nice and warm in here, let’s keep it that way.”
Dortmunder shut the door. “Where’s Stan?” he said.
Murch’s Mom said, “He went to get some groceries.”
“Groceries?”
May said, “Jimmy says he’s an expert at scrambled eggs.”
“I always make my own breakfast,” Jimmy said. “Mrs. Engelberg is hopeless.” Looking slyly at Murch’s Mom he said, “You wouldn’t be shooting the moon, would you?”
“Of course not,” Murch’s Mom said. “With this hand?” Dortmunder walked slowly around the room, bending this way and that, shrugging his shoulders, twisting his head around. Everything hurt. His wrists hurt. He said, “Isn’t that hand over?”
“Not quite,” Murch’s Mom said.
Dortmunder went over and looked at the hand. They each had two cards left and it was Murch’s Mom’s lead. Dortmunder, kibitzing over her shoulder, saw that she had the ace of clubs and the ten of diamonds left. “Well, I might as well get rid of my last winner,” she said, and tossed out the ace of clubs.
Dortmunder walked around to kibitz May’s hand, while Jimmy said, “I thought you weren’t shooting the moon.”
“I’m not,” Murch’s Mom said. “I just don’t want to get stuck with the last lead.”
“Sure,” Jimmy said.
May had to play second, on Murch’s Mom’s ace of clubs, and she had the ace of hearts and the jack of diamonds. Dortmunder watched May’s hand hover over the jack of diamonds, which would beat Murch’s Mom’s final ten of diamonds lead, then hover over the ace of hearts.
Then it hovered over the jack of diamonds again. Then the ace of hearts again.
Dortmunder’s stomach growled. Loudly.
“Oh, all right,” May said, and threw the jack of diamonds, holding back the ace of hearts.
“I didn’t say anything,” Dortmunder said.
“Your stomach did,” May told him.
“I can’t help that.” Dortmunder went on around the table to look at Jimmy’s hand. The kid had the king of hearts and the queen of diamonds, and he barely hesitated at all before throwing the king of hearts. “If you want to shoot the moon,” he said, “I might as well help.”
Murch’s Mom, drawing in the trick, looked at the kid with sudden sharp suspicion. “What have you done, you bad boy?” she asked, and tossed out the ten of diamonds.
“Oh, dear,” May said, and dropped the ace of hearts on it.
“I kept a stopper,” Jimmy said calmly. He dropped the queen of diamonds and said, “That’s twenty–five for you and one for me.”
“And coffee for me,” Dortmunder said.
“Yes yes,” May said.
Murch’s Mom, who was well–known as a poor loser, wrote down the scores and said, “You think you’re pretty cute, don’t you?”
“I’ve lear
ned over the course of years,” Jimmy told her, “that defensive play is much more profitable in the long run.”
“The course of years? Are you kidding me?”
His face as innocent as a choirboy’s, Jimmy said, “What’s the score, anyway?”
Murch’s Mom tossed the pad across the table to him. “Read it yourself,” she said.
Dortmunder got his coffee from May, who then went back to her game. Dortmunder walked around and around, drinking coffee and trying to limber up, and after a while Murch came in, with eggs and milk and butter and bread and a newspaper and a frying pan and a pale blue flight bag that said Air France on it and God knows what else. Dortmunder said, “We gonna live here?”
Murch’s Mom said, “There’s things we need. Don’t complain all the time.”
Dortmunder said, “What’s with the Air France bag?”
May was pulling clothing out of it; sweater, socks, trousers, all boy–size. “Jimmy doesn’t have anything to wear,” she said. “It’s too cold for what he had on, and that’s all dirty now anyway.”
Murch said to Jimmy, “I’m sorry, kid, they didn’t have an avocado.”
“That’s okay,” Jimmy said. “We can make a fine salad without it.”
Dortmunder said, “Avocado?” Things, it seemed to him, were getting out of hand; Air France bags, avocados. However, nobody else in this room seemed to think things were getting out of hand, and he knew better than to raise the question with any of them, so he went back to the dining room.
Where Kelp was wide awake, sitting up, reading Child Heist. “Morning,” Kelp said, grinning from ear to ear. “I slept like a top. How about you?”
“Like a bottom,” Dortmunder told him. “My mattress leaked.”
“Oh, that’s a shame.”
“Don’t you ever get tired of that book?”
“Well, we got the money switch coming up this afternoon,” Kelp said. “I thought I ought to refresh my memory, read that chapter again. You oughta take a look at it, too.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Absolutely,” Kelp said. “Chapter twelve. Page a hundred and nine.”
Chapter 21
* * *
At exactly four P.M. Ruth, in a pay phone at a Shell station in Patchogue, Long Island, made the second call.
“Myers residence.”
“Let me talk to George Myers.”
“Who’s calling, please?”
“Tell him,” Ruth said, “it’s the people who have his kid.”
“One moment, please.”
But it was only fifteen or twenty seconds before Myers was on the phone, saying, “How’s Bobby? Is he all right?”
“He’s fine,” Ruth said. “You’ve got the money?”
“Yes. Can’t I speak to him?”
“He isn’t here. You do right, you’ll have him back tonight.”
“I’ll do what you say, don’t worry about that.”
“I’m not the one has to worry,” Ruth said. “I want you to get into your car with the money. Use the Lincoln. You can bring your chauffeur along, but nobody else.”
“All right,” Myers said. “All right.”
“Drive over to Northern State Parkway,” Ruth told him, “and get up on the eastbound. Drive at a steady fifty. We’ll meet you along the way.”
“Yes,” Myers said. “All right.”
“Do it now,” Ruth said, and hung up. Going outside, she got into the Pinto, drove away from the Shell station, and headed for the other phone booth.
Northward, a block from the Myers estate, Parker and Krauss sat in the Dodge and waited. Henley and Angie were back at the farmhouse, watching the kid.
“Here he comes,” Krauss said.
They watched the Lincoln go by, the chauffeur driving, Myers hunched forward nervously on the back seat. When it was two blocks away, Krauss started the Dodge, and they moved off in its wake.
After a few blocks Parker said, “He’s going the right way. And there’s nobody else with him.”
“Right. There’s a phone in this drugstore up here.”
They let the Lincoln go on, heading for Northern State Parkway. While Krauss stayed in the car, Parker went into the drugstore and called Ruth at the other pay phone. She had just arrived, and picked it up on the first ring. “Yes?”
“He’s on his way,” Parker said. “He’ll be taking the ramp in maybe two minutes.”
Ruth checked her watch, “Right,” she said.
Parker got back into the Dodge, and Krauss took off again in the wake of the Lincoln, which was no longer in sight. They entered the parkway, Krauss lifted them to sixty–five, and soon they passed the Lincoln, moving obediently at fifty in the right lane. In the back seat, Myers was still hunching forward.
In the phone booth, Ruth dialed the operator, and told her, “I want to call a mobile unit in a private car.”
“Do you have the number?”
“Yes, I do.”
Krauss reached their exit, took the off ramp, looped around under the parkway, and stopped next to the wall of the overpass. They’d chosen this exit with care, it having no nearby buildings or population. Potato fields stretched away flat and dry in all directions, with stands of trees in the distance. To the south the secondary road led to the first fringes of a town, but northward there were merely trees and the black top curving away out of sight.
In the limousine moving along the parkway like a slow black whale amid darting dolphins, George Myers leaned forward in his seat, staring at the road ahead, wondering when and how they would contact him. The suitcase full of money was on the seat beside him. Albert Judson, the chauffeur, kept his eyes on the road and the pace of the car at a steady fifty.
The telephone rang.
For the first few seconds, Myers was too disoriented to realize what that sound was. His concentration had been too exclusively outside the car, out ahead of him where the kidnappers were waiting. Now, startled, he looked quickly around, then suddenly understood. That’s why they wanted him to use the Lincoln; they intended to phone him.
He picked up the receiver, almost afraid of the black plastic. Tentatively, he held it to his face. “Hello?”
“Myers?” It was the same woman’s voice, cold and impersonal, with a tinge of roughness.
“Yes,” he said. “I know who you are.”
“Tell your chauffeur to stop at mile marker eighty–seven. At the small green sign. You’ll find a milk bottle there with a piece of paper in it. That will give you your instructions.”
“Yes, I will. But when–”
She had hung up. Myers held the phone a second longer, anxious, frustrated, then leaned forward again, saying, “Albert.”
The chauffeur slightly turned his head, offering an ear. “Sir?”
Myers cradled the telephone “We’re to stop at mile marker eighty–seven,” he said.
“Yes, sir.” And, a second later, “There’s number eighty–six.”
Myers watched the small green sign go by, then looked forward again.
It was a long mile, but at the end of it the chauffeur eased the Lincoln off onto the gravel and came to a smooth stop next to the sign with the cream numerals 87 on it. “Wait, Albert,” Myers said, and climbed from the car.
The milk bottle, looking like any piece of rubbish littering the edge of the highway, was on its side next to the sign. Picking it up, Myers fished the scrap of paper out of it, then tossed the bottle away and read the instructions;
Stop at next overpass. Drop suitcase on far verge of road below. Drive on.
Myers got back into the car. “We have to stop again at the next overpass,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
The chauffeur eased them back out amid the traffic, and now drove even more slowly than before, waiting for the overpass.
It was less than a mile later, just beyond an exit ramp. The chauffeur stopped the limousine on the gravel again and Myers got out, this time carrying the suitcase. Looking around, hearing the whisk
whisk whisk of traffic hurrying by, he wondered if the police were living up to their promise. They’d assured him they wouldn’t try to interfere with the money transfer in any way, wouldn’t try to set any traps. “Let’s get Bobby back first,” one of them had said, “and then we’ll go after the kidnappers.” That was the way Myers felt, too, and the condition he would have in any event insisted on. But was it possible they’d been lying to him? Could some of these other cars rushing by him contain plainclothes policemen?
Jimmy The Kid Page 13
