by Jim Stevens
“The egg rolls are ready for the steamer. All he’s waiting for is the customer to call.”
“Leaves quite a bit on the reassurance table.” Kennard says. “I’m going to bed. This kidnapping thing is exhausting.”
Kennard is probably tired from all the napping he’s done.
“Leave your cell phone,” I tell him.
He pulls it out of his coat pocket and hands it to me. It’s similar to Tiffany’s. I have no clue how it works and wonder why it doesn’t light up when I press the buttons at random.
I should really sit down and learn the ins and outs of a cell phone, but I’m afraid as soon as I do some genius will come up with a better device and render the cell phone obsolete. I’d be back in the same boat.
CHAPTER 5
The sun comes up over Lake Michigan and generates enough solar energy into the condo’s front room to power Las Vegas for a week.
I roll off the lumpy couch, my back tells me I should have slept on the floor. How Kennard can nap so well on a surface with more hills than Rome is beyond me. I hobble to the window and press my back against the warm pane to allow the heat to penetrate into my lumbar region. Next, I drop to my hands and knees, do a series of yoga cat cows, and finish with three down dogs, three upper back bends, and a forward fold. In the shower, I get the water as hot as I can stand it and let it attack my lower back with its own fury. The good news is that I can move much better. The bad news is I’ll need a skin graft for my fried epidermis.
I get dressed; then head straight for the kitchen where I load up Mr. Coffee, and hit Brew.
“What’s for breakfast, Dad?” Care asks, wiping the sleep out of her eyes.
“What do you want?”
“Donuts.”
“Care, donuts are bad for you.”
“Even the hole?”
“That’s the worst part. How about oatmeal?”
“I hate oatmeal. Pop Tarts?”
“Granola?”
“Goldfish?”
“Eggs Benedict on homemade muffins, with a side of fresh fruit?”
“How about a Fruit Roll-up?”
We’re talking menu items which may not exist in this kitchen. “Help me look.”
Like a lucky prospector, the first cabinet Care opens reveals a cornucopia of sugar-saturated junk food: Applejacks, Frosted Flakes, Sugar Smacks, Trix, Kit-Kats, Hostess Twinkies, and HoHo’s. Kennard and Schnooks must be on a special high fructose corn syrup diet.
“We’ll have toast.” I make the decision for the both of us.
Kelly joins us ten minutes later.
“You’re still half-asleep,” I tell her.
“More like three-quarters, Dad.”
A very faint, odd, buzzing sound perks her ears like a dog hearing an intruder. Kelly gets up, leaves the room. She returns carrying Kennard’s cell phone. “Somebody’s leaving a text,” she says as she hands the phone to me.
I look at the phone. “How do I get it out?”
Kelly grabs the phone back. “Dad, you are so lame.” She runs her thumb along the touchpad a few times, waits, and reads the message out loud. “If you want to see her alive, bring the money to the pay phone in front of the Grant Park Tennis Courts at nine p.m. Alone.” Kelly hands me the phone. “Is there anything for breakfast?”
I reread the message on the small screen, then answer. “Toast.”
“I hate toast.”
“How can anybody hate toast?”
“Have oatmeal,” Care suggests.
“I hate oatmeal more than I hate toast.”
“You’re having toast.” I make the second major decision of the day.
Oland arrives twenty minutes later, wearing a Hawaiian shirt festooned with bright orchids, a pair of shorts with the pockets on the sides, and green flip-flops.
“Casual day?” I ask.
“Important to see, not be seen,” Oland schools us.
“Ah, your Honolulu tourist outfit,” I tell him. “Good cover.”
We awaken Kennard around nine-thirty. He reads the message, walks into the kitchen, and devours a huge bowl of Fruit Loops. He reminds me of my ex-in-laws. They were all good sleepers — with excellent appetites.
“What are we going to do? What’s the plan?” He asks, after slurping the remaining milk from his bowl.
“So much to do, so little time,” Oland tells him.
_____
Tiffany is already in the chair with her feet soaking in some oily water when we arrive. She has reserved the three closest chairs around her for our use. Care and Kelly waste no time taking off their shoes and climbing into chairs lined up on a three-foot riser.
Luckily, the Rose Nail Salon isn’t busy. There’s only one other customer soaking her toes. There are twelve chairs in total, two of which are labeled Happy Finger Massager. I would think it would be difficult to have your nails painted while vibrating.
“This is so cool,” Care says.
Small Asian women sit at the girls’ feet and chatter away in a foreign tongue, I don’t, and never will, recognize.
“Here’s a chair for you too, Mr. Sherlock,” Tiffany says, patting the armrest.
“I’ll pass.”
I personally believe people should clip his or her own toenails. Some necessary functions of life should not be left to the hands of others.
“Climb up,” Tiffany says beckoning me into the chair. “A pedicure will do wonders for your feet as well as your disposition. I really think you should consider making it a part of your weekly routine.”
I stand in the middle of the room. The chemical odor starts to make me dizzy. “Thank you so much for your suggestion, Tiffany. I’ll see if I can fit my mani-pedi in between my visits to the unemployment line and the food stamp office.”
“Dad, I’m going to need new sandals after this,” Kelly informs me.
“Me, too,” Care joins in.
“Excuse me,” I say to the Asian toenail specialist. “Do you know Eldora and Kennard Horsley?”
“Schnooks?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Not the answer I expected.
“Talk to boss,” she adds.
“They’re not like hair stylists. They know their place,” Tiffany informs me. I have evidently violated the nail salon rules of proper etiquette. Shame on me.
Another Asian woman, maybe four-foot-nine and eighty pounds dripping wet, comes over. She might be petite, but her presence sends fear into the workers eyes. “How you?”
“Fine, thanks. Do you remember Eldora or Schnooks Horsley being here yesterday?” I ask.
“Ruby Slipper Red.”
“That’s a yes.” Tiffany says. She prides herself in being able to translate any housekeeper or subservient worker’s tongue.
“Did anything seem different or strange while she was here?”
“Schnooks strange.”
I’m not sure if this is an answer or a question.
Tiffany helps out, “That’s a yes.”
“Was it strange when she left?”
“First card reject, second one too, third time charm.”
She might not be grammatically fluent in American English, but she has no trouble with our monetary system. “Do you remember seeing her get into a cab after she left?”
“No.”
“No, you didn’t see her, or no cab?”
“No, no.”
“That’s a ‘No, no’, Mr. Sherlock.” Tiffany chuckles at her own cleverness.
From an investigative standpoint, this sojourn so far is a waste of time and effort. My girls on the other hand (no pun intended), are having a wonderful experience. They especially like the spacers put in between their toes to insure proper drying of the Purple Passion Pastel on Care and the Hot Chick Pink on Kelly.
While the three females finish luxuriating in the comfy chairs, I go out onto Lincoln and walk south towards Fullerton. The closest cab stand is half-way down the block, in front of a Mexican restaurant; it’s
empty. The street is busy even though the better restaurants and bars are not yet open for business. A door-to-door canvas would be total waste of time. I return to collect the three mani-pedi’d females.
“Dad, can we go shopping now?” Kelly asks.
“Only if there’s a ninety-nine cent store close by.”
“I wonder if they have price checks at a ninety-nine cent store?” Tiffany muses.
_____
Our next stop is the tennis facility in Grant Park.
It’s the worst day imaginable to visit. Not only is the Taste of Chicago, the city’s annual tribute to gluttony and overpriced small portions of food in full swing, it’s July third, the night of the Grant Park Fireworks Spectacular. Chicago either couldn’t read a calendar or just wanted to be different, so they decided to do their fireworks the night before everybody else. Maybe the politicians took bribes to “look the other way” when they first scheduled the event.
Tiffany parks her Lexus 430 in a handicapped spot, pulls a “gimp sticker” out of her glove compartment, and hangs it on the rear view mirror.
“When did you become handicapped, Tiffany?” I ask.
“My doctor got it for me when I had an in-grown toenail, but don’t tell anyone. I don’t want to let anyone know I’m not perfect.”
“Your secret is safe with me.”
The one public pay phone, a gadget soon to become an urban relic, is located outside the building which is used for community programs and as an office for tennis court rentals. I pick up the receiver, put two quarters in the slot and dial. Some Lady Gaga song erupts out of Kelly’s pocket.
“Hello.”
I’m two feet away, staring right at her. “It’s Daddy, just called to say hello.”
“Very funny, Dad,” Kelly says and breaks the connection.
“You people go wander around,” I tell my troop.
“What are you going to do?” Tiffany asks, afraid she might miss something.
I memorize the pay phone’s number before answering her. “I’m going to wander around with a wandering eye.”
“I’ve seen you do that,” Tiffany says. “And it’s boring. Come on girls.”
Tiffany leads them in the direction of food and frolic, as I survey the scene.
I immediately conclude the ransom money will not be exchanged at this spot. Too congested with no hope of a quick getaway. This will merely be the starting place of a game of Ransom-a-go-go. There are high-rise balconies, rising eighty stories to the north of me. I wouldn’t be surprised if I’m being watched right now. There’s also a stairway access to the underground street and parking area and a walkway to the boat docks at the end of the marina. Maybe we should equip Kennard with lanterns. One if by land, two if by sea.
I walk the entire perimeter, making notes in my head, and mapping out the possible exit scenarios. With a million people in Grant Park tonight, it’ll be next to impossible to keep Kennard in sight at all times. I’d have him wired with enough electrodes to enliven Frankenstein.
An hour later Tiffany returns with my girls, both of them eating corn dogs.
“Tiffany, I don’t want them to eat that junk,” I scold my so-called assistant. “If anyone, I would have thought you’d know better.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Sherlock. I’ve only learned to say ‘no’ to men.”
“These are great, Dad,” Care tells me. “You should try one.”
“Come on, we’re leaving.”
“Where are we going?”
“What difference does it make? You’re not going to like it anyway.”
_____
There’s more screaming going on inside Kennard’s condo than at one of those boy band concerts I won’t let my daughters attend.
“What do you mean she let you take the money?”
“That’s not your money. That’s our money.”
“You’re not even married to the woman.”
Kennard has a stack of mug shots in front of him, but he’s too busy fending off the verbal assaults to pick out anyone who might ring a bell. “What am I supposed to do? Leave her, and let the kidnappers water board her?” Kennard shouts back at the group huddled around him.
“Schnooks could use a good flushing.”
“We should wait until we get a body part. Isn’t that standard procedure?”
“I think we should see proof of real suffering before we fork over a million bucks.”
You can’t tell the players without a scorecard. “Stop!” I bellow out over the din of questions. “Who are you people?”
“Welcome to my kinda family,” Tiffany says.
It takes a while for the proper introductions to be made, but the group consists of: Boo, sporting a new flip-curl style that does wonders for her face; Safari Horsley, Kennard’s older brother; Elmhurst Cavendish, son by Moomah’s third or fourth husband (depends on who you ask), and Kennard’s youngest half-brother; and Venus Wickwire, the baby, half-sister of the family. The only genetic aspect they share is excellent lung capacity.
“If it was your wife, you’d want to ransom her.” Kennard throws this out to the group as a whole. I hope the women are not offended.
“If it was my ex-wife, I’d pay them to keep her,” Safari tells the group.
“I want to know how you got the money,” Elmhurst, the calmest of the rabble rousers, asks.
“I got it from Moomah.”
“Moomah is in no condition to shell out any cash.”
“It’s the only way to get Schnooks back safe and sound,” Kennard explains.
“We could send in the cavalry for less money!” Safari shouts.
“Moomah wanted me to have it!” Kennard shouts back.
“Explain exactly how she put it,” Venus says.
“She said she had, quote ‘every intention of granting my request.’”
“I don’t think that’s what she meant,” Safari says.
“She was speaking metaphorically.”
“I don’t remember Moomah using metaphors when she was sane,” Venus says.
Kennard is starting to weaken. The family onslaught is taking its toll. He lifts his muffin top and loosens his belt a few notches. He sighs before defending his position. “She would’ve done the same for you, Venus.”
“So, you scooped up the cash and walked out of the vault like John Dillinger?” Elmhurst asks.
“No.”
Venus rephrases her prior query. “You brought a suitcase into the bank, swooped up the money, and carried it out?”
“So to speak,” Kennard answers.
“I’m going to have a long talk with that lady at the bank,” Elmhurst says.
While all this is going on, Tiffany, Kelly, Care, and I stand to the side and watch the performance, as if it were a play with very bad actors. I ask Tiffany, “The bank would let Kennard withdraw a million dollars from his mother’s account?”
“It wasn’t in her account.”
“Where was it, the Preferred Customer ATM machine with the million dollar limit?”
“It was in her safe deposit box,” Elmhurst says.
“A million dollars in cash?”
“It’s Moomah’s mad money,” Tiffany explains.
And I have a hard time paying my rent most months. “Does your dad know about this?”
“Why do you think you’re here, Mr. Sherlock?”
All this time Oland and his crew do an excellent job ignoring the verbal idiocy. The three of them sit at the table preparing for the swap. There must be a couple hundred bound stacks of fifty-dollar bills. One guy marks bills. Another guy counts and Oland arranges them on the table like little soldiers in a row.
I don’t know why they even bother marking the bills. This never works because there are millions of notes in circulation. How many bank tellers have ever checked a serial number on a bill? Answer: None.
One of the techs fits a bug the size of a dime outside the suitcase, right between the metal of the case and the plastic plate holding the w
heels in place. When the case is filled with the ransom money it will be one piece of luggage you’d never check at the gate.
Another tech places a bug in the heel of Kennard’s shoe. A wire is prepared to be strapped against Kennard’s body.
Safari, who sports a Panama hat with a leopard trim, announces, “The money’s coming out of your share of the estate, Kennard. If you would have asked us to vote on the expenditure it might be different, but since you didn’t, you lose.”
“How about if we vote now?” Kennard asks.
“Fine,” Safari says. “All in favor of spending a million dollars of Moomah’s money to ransom Kennard’s idiot girlfriend, Schnooks, raise your hand.”
It’s unanimous. The nays have it.
Kennard looks around the room, his eyes ending up on his daughter. “You’re not even voting for me?”
“I’ve never been real wild about Schnooks, Daddy,” Boo confesses.
Oland and I discuss the schematic of the Grant Park area. He’s marked the map with red dots on the spots his people will be stationed. One of his men gives me a not-so-happy stare. Oland says to me. “Many people not thrilled having to work on holiday.”
“You think I want to be here?”
I remind him of the underground routes and the path to the lake. He moves the red dots around on his map. Oland is positive the switch will be made in the crowd, and he positions his men on the west, south, and north sides of the tennis facility. I silently disagree, but since I know no one will listen to me, I don’t waste my breath.
There are a number of empty take-out containers resting on the counter in the kitchen. Cops not only eat well while on assignment, but also eat heartily. The family has scarfed up everything, so not a morsel of food is left for my consumption. I consider the breakfast selection in the cupboard, but decide starvation is a slower death than sugar overload.
At around five-thirty, the family members are exhausted from screaming and start in on Kennard’s liquor supply. Everyone pours their own, except Venus.
Kennard is escorted to the end of the dining room table where one of the techs pulls out some leads, some wire, and a roll of duct tape from his bag. “Take off your shirt,” he tells Kennard.
“Do I have to?”
“If you want, I can hide it in your pants, but I personally wouldn’t want this tape coming off my family jewels,” the cop tells him.
