Murch’s Mom, leaving the phone off the hook, stepped out of the booth and went over to the Roadrunner. She had seen tools on the back seat; yes, there was a nice big monkey wrench. She picked it up, hefted it, and went over to stand in front of the motorcyclists, who were sitting on their throbbing machines, filling their faces with whoppers. She didn’t say anything; not that it would have been possible in any event. She stood looking at them. She thumped the monkey wrench gently into the palm of her left hand. She lifted it, thumped it gently again, lifted it, thumped it, lifted it, thumped it.
They became aware of her. Their eyes followed the small movements of the monkey wrench. They looked at one another, and they looked at Murch’s Mom’s face. Methodically, without any appearance of undue haste but nevertheless efficiently, they stuffed their mouths with the rest of their whoppers, packed their pockets with french fries, tied their Cokes to their gas tanks with little leather straps, and drove away.
Murch’s Mom went back to the phone booth. She put down the monkey wrench and picked up the phone. “Hello,” she said. “You still there?”
“I’m still here!”
“You don’t have to yell,” Murch’s Mom said. She was being very calm.
“I don’t?”
“No. But you have to call that goddam car!”
The Cadillac breezed past the tomato juice bottle with the instructions in it; milk doesn’t come in bottles any more, it comes in plastic cartons. Harrington, on the phone, said to his secretary, “Tell him our client’s feeling is he can loan him the seventeen, but he’ll need some form of security other than the department store. Tell him, off the record, our client is quite frankly worried about that marital situation of his.”
“Yes, sir,” said the secretary.
“Should be any second now,” Murch said.
Dortmunder twisted around and looked back. No suitcase came falling through the air.
The Cadillac sailed past the Hope exit, over the overpass and on, toward the Delaware Water Gap.
Back at the deserted farmhouse, May and Kelp and Jimmy sat at the card table. “Knock with two,” Jimmy said, and spread out his rummy hand.
“Ouch,” said Kelp.
“I have to get through to that car!”
“When I’m in Washington, we can arrange the meeting with Congressman Henley and then perhaps get a little action.”
Murch said, “I think maybe something went wrong.”
Dortmunder didn’t say anything.
“And if anything else comes up,” Harrington said, “you should be able to reach me at home certainly by six o’clock.”
“Yes, sir,” said the secretary.
Harrington hung up. He said to Maurice, “Nothing’s happened yet, eh?”
“No, sir,” said the man, who wasn’t Maurice at all. That’s right; it was the FBI man, Kirby.
“What’s that up ahead?” Harrington asked.
“The Delaware Water Gap.”
“Oh, really?” Harrington said, and the phone rang. Expecting his secretary to be calling back, he picked it up and said, “Hello?”
Some woman screamed gibberish at him.
“I beg your pardon?”
“What the hell are you doing on the goddam phone!”
“What? Oh, for heaven’s sake, it’s the kidnapper!”
Kirby slammed on the brakes, and the Caddy slued all over the road. Kirby shouted, “Where? Where?”
“Don’t drive like that!” Harrington cried. “Maurice never drives like that!”
“Where’s the kidnapper?” Kirby had become calmer again, was driving forward, was looking all around without quite acknowledging the glares of the other drivers passing him, the ones he’d just barely missed when he’d braked so abruptly.
“On the phone,” Harrington said. The woman was babbling away on the phone, rancorous and belligerent, and Harrington said, “I am sorry. I had no idea. If you’d told me, of course, I would have–”
“Where are you?”
“Where am I? Where you told me to be, on route 80.”
“But where?”
“Just crossing the Delaware Water Gap,” Harrington said. “Isn’t that strange. I’ve lived so close to it for so many years, and I’ve just never had occasion to travel this way before. It’s really quite–”
“The Delaware Water Gap? You’ve over–you’re way the hell and–you went too far!”
“I did?”
“You’ve got to come back. Listen, what you do, you turn around and come back, and I’ll go get a road map. Come back, don’t drive too fast, stay off the goddam phone and I’ll call you again.”
“All right,” Harrington said, and leaned forward to say to Kirby, “We have to go back.”
Kirby said, “Do you have a quarter? It’s a toll bridge.” Murch’s Mom left the phone booth and went over to the Roadrunner. She tossed the wrench on the back seat and went through the glove compartment, looking for a road map. Pennsylvania, New York, Delaware, Connecticut, Utah. Utah? No New Jersey.
There was a Mobil station across the highway from the Burger King. Murch’s Mom risked life and limb to run across route 46, get a New Jersey map, and run back again. She studied the map, and then called Harrington again. This was costing a fortune; she’d brought almost ten dollars in change, and it might not be enough.
“Hello?”
“Look,” Murch’s Mom said. “This is very simple, so just do it and don’t screw up.”
“I really don’t think you have to take that tone with me,” Harrington said. “If you’d told me earlier that you meant to contact me on this phone, I would have made sure the line was kept open.”
“So you and the cops could set up some sort of trap,” Murch’s Mom said. “That’s what we didn’t want.”
“The authorities have assured me they will do nothing to endanger–”
“Yeah, yeah. Let’s get on with it, all right?”
“Certainly. The ball’s in your court.”
“The what?”
“You’re in charge,” Harrington said.
Murch’s mom sighed “Sure,” she said. “Do you have a New Jersey map in the car?”
“I’ll check with Maurice. I mean Kirby. I mean Maurice!”
Under the overpass, Murch said, “What the hell do you suppose is going on?”
“I suppose,” Dortmunder said, “I suppose I let myself get talked into another Kelp special, that’s what I suppose. You notice he isn’t here.”
“Somebody had to watch the kid.”
Dortmunder opened the car door and got out.
“Where you goin’?”
“Look things over,” Dortmunder said. He walked along the verge of the road, out from under the overpass and far enough away so he could look up at the highway. He stood there looking at cars go by in both directions. He stood there, trucks and cars going by. The Cadillac went by, in the wrong direction. It was too far away to see the license plate, but it was the right color and it had the whip antenna and that was definitely somebody in a chauffeur’s cap at the wheel. And somebody else in the back seat.
Harrington leaned over the New Jersey map. “Yes,” he said. “Hackettstown. I see it.”
Dortmunder walked back and got into the Mustang. “It just went by the wrong way,” he said.
Murch stared at him. “The Cadillac?”
“I think something’s wrong,” Dortmunder said. “That’s my personal opinion.”
“We better go talk to Mom,” Murch said. He started the Mustang and headed south on the county road.
It was ten miles south on the county road to route 46. Then they had to turn left and travel five more miles to get to the Burger King, where they found Murch’s Mom sitting morosely in the Roadrunner, eating a whopper. They stopped beside her, and Murch got out and said, “Mom, what–”
Murch’s Mom sprayed whopper in all directions. Leaping out of the Roadrunner she cried, “What are you doing here?”
Dortmunder said,
“They went by the wrong way. What’s going on?”
“They’re on the way back! I just went through the whole thing with them, they’re turning around at the Hackettstown exit. They’re on the way!”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” said Dortmunder. “What happened the first time?”
“He was on the phone, I couldn’t get through. Will you hurry? He’ll get there, somebody else’ll pick up the suitcase.”
Murch and Dortmunder jumped back into the Mustang and took off. Murch’s Mom watched them go, and shook her head. “I swear to God,” she said aloud. “I just swear to God.”
At the Hackettstown exit, the Cadillac took the off ramp onto county road 517, turned left, took 517 north for about a hundred feet, took the westbound on ramp, and got back up on Interstate 80. Kirby said, “I suppose I can step it up a little bit now.”
“I should think so,” Harrington said. “We’re terribly late, apparently.”
Kirby, grinning a little, tipped the chauffeur’s cap back on his forehead and hunched a bit over the wheel. His foot became heavy on the accelerator. The Cadillac tires began to dig in. Harrington, feeling the pressure of the seat back against his spine, began to regret his acquiescence.
State Trooper Hubert L. Duckbundy, driving in an unmarked patrol car which made it possible for him to catch speeders but impossible for rape or robbery victims to contact him in their moment of travail, cruised along at sixty–one, eleven miles an hour above the speed limit, enjoying the fall scenery and waiting for somebody else to do sixty–two, when he suddenly was passed. A silver gray Cadillac, New Jersey plate number WAX 361, chauffeur driven, was abruptly out front, and going like hell.
Well, well. Trooper Duckbundy accelerated and started the clock. There was nothing more pleasing in the life of a man who brought fifteen thousand, two hundred eighty–seven dollars and ninety cents a year home to his wife and three children than slapping a speeding violation on the operator of a luxury car. There, you bastard, was the general theme of the encounter, and for Trooper Duckbundy its satisfactions never palled.
Let’s give this one a full mile on the clock, Trooper Duckbundy thought, just to be sure he doesn’t wiggle out. Ninety–two miles an hour. Oh, my, yes.
But within half a mile the Cadillac’s brake lights suddenly went on. Had the driver noticed he was being paced? The Hope exit was near here, maybe the Cadillac meant to leave the Interstate there. If so, Trooper Duckbundy would have to pull him over now, with less than a mile on the clock.
But the Cadillac was more than merely slowing down. Its right directional was on, it was angling over onto the shoulder of the road. Trooper Duckbundy slowed to a crawl, watching the events occurring ahead of him. There’s something funny about that, he thought.
The Cadillac stopped. A well–dressed man hopped out of the back seat, picked up a piece of trash from the highway verge, and hopped back into the car again. Trooper Duckbundy’s gray Fury II was almost even with the Cadillac when the Cadillac suddenly surged forward again, spraying gravel out behind itself and shouldering itself out onto the highway directly in Trooper Duckbundy’s path.
Well, enough is enough. As the Cadillac tore away along the highway, tires screaming, Trooper Duckbundy switched on the red flasher light mounted on his dashboard, hit the siren, and gave chase.
“Damn,” Kirby said, looking in the rearview mirror. They were just passing the off ramp for the Hope exit.
Harrington, struggling against the acceleration to get the message out of the tomato juice bottle, said, “What’s wrong?”
“State trooper,” Kirby said. “One of those goddam unmarked cars.” He braked reluctantly, angling over toward the shoulder again.
Harrington at last got the paper out of the bottle. Then he looked around, saw the flashing red light and saw the siren, and said, “State trooper? But there aren’t supposed to be any police around!”
“I’ll get rid of him,” Kirby said. “No problem.”
The Cadillac came to a stop next to the railing of the overpass. The patrol car stopped in front of it, angled across to block it from getting away. The siren was turned off, but the flashing light remained on. Trooper Duckbundy, adjusting his hat and his belt and his trousers and his tie, came walking slowly back to the Cadillac, where Kirby pressed the button that slid the window down. “Going a little fast there, fella,” Trooper Duckbundy said.
Kirby flashed his FBI ID card. “It’s okay,” he said. “A special situation.”
Trooper Duckbundy saw that it was an ID card, but that was all. “License and registration is all I need,” he said. He saw the prosperous–looking fella in the back seat. Mm–hm.
“You don’t understand,” Kirby said. “I’m FBI. This is a special situation here.”
“Oh, yeah?” Trooper Duckbundy knew about this stuff, too. “And I guess that’s a Senator or something in the backseat, is it? Well, let me tell you, we don’t like you people thumbing your noses at New Jersey.”
“No, you’ve got it wrong. This–”
“No, I don’t have it wrong,” Trooper Duckbundy said. “We get a lot of this over on the Turnpike–diplomats, political big shots, going from the UN down to Washington, do eighty, ninety, a hundred miles an hour down through the chemical plants.”
“It isn’t–”
“You think you got immunity,” Trooper Duckbundy said. “Just say a tire blows at ninety miles an hour, what kind of immunity you got then? And how many innocent people are you endangering, you ever think of that?”
Another police car, this one very well marked indeed, pulled to a stop behind the Cadillac, and the trooper got out to join the action. Harrington said to Kirby, urgently, “They’re not supposed to be here!” He’d read the note from the tomato juice bottle by now. “This is where we leave the money!”
“Oh, hell,” Kirby said.
The second trooper arrived. “We got a problem here?”
“What we have here,” Trooper Duckbundy said, “is some sort of politico, a big shot. Thinks he’s immune to blowouts.”
“Is that right?”
“Now look,” Kirby said.
The second trooper said to Kirby, “Just a minute there. I’m speaking with the other officer.”
Coming like hell, Murch roared toward the intersection of the county road and Interstate 80. As they neared the overpass Dortmunder said, “Isn’t that police cars?”
But he’d only had a quick glimpse before the angle was wrong. Murch said, as he braked to a stop under the overpass, “I don’t think so. What would they have police cars for?”
“Some sort of trap.”
“Be a dumb kind of trap,” Murch said, “with police cars.” Stopped, he shifted into park but left the engine running. “Better go see if it’s there already.”
“Right.”
Dortmunder got out of the car and went walking over to the other verge of the county road, where the suitcase would land. There wasn’t anything there. He walked farther from the overpass, looked up, and saw the Cadillac sandwiched between police cars. The one in back looked like a police car. The one in front was unmarked, but it had a flashing red light revolving behind the windshield.
“Uh huh,” Dortmunder said, and walked back to the Mustang and got in next to Murch. “Two police cars,” he said. “Also the Cadillac.”
Murch shifted into drive.
“No,” Dortmunder said. “We can’t leave.”
“Why not?”
“If it’s a trap, they’ll spring it when we try to get away. If we stay here after we’ve seen them, it could be a coincidence, we could be just two guys that stopped to look at a road map. We got a road map?”
Murch shifted into park. “I don’t know,” he said.
Dortmunder looked in the glove compartment and found a road map. He looked at it. “Illinois?”
“Don’t ask me,” Murch said. “I just took this car out of a parking lot. The plates I took off it were Jersey, same as the plates I put on.”
“A road map is a road map,” Dortmunder said. He opened it up, and he and Murch spent some time studying the highways of Illinois.
Up above, Kirby had managed finally to get the word kidnap spoken and heard. The second trooper had gone off to radio the barracks for confirmation. Trooper Duckbundy stood frowning at Kirby in a welter of uncertainty. Kirby was angry for more reasons than he could name. And Harrington was hopping up and down on the back seat, saying, “Get them away from here! Get them away!”
Jimmy The Kid Page 15
