How do you get rest when you're restless, I wondered? Sure, my head ached like the Bambino had been using it as a fungo bat. But my mind was filled with the flotsam and jetsam of my life, where I had been, where I was at, where I was going, all of it ebbing and flowing and making me sort of queasy. I felt like tying one on, but I couldn't afford to cloud my mind any more than it was already. Bereft of booze, I somehow managed to get through the day, aimlessly if not painlessly.
I had set the alarm clock for earlier than usual but, as it happened, it wasn't necessary. I awoke just as the night was giving way to a wintry, leaden dawn. I threw on some duds and headed for the office while others were still reading their morning papers and tsk-tsking over the latest foul news. I reached the office even before Joe had arrived to man the elevator. It bugged me that the landlord still hadn't fixed the sign on my door, but I had bigger fish to fry today.
For the next few hours I didn't fry any fish. I fidgeted instead, waiting for the call that would send me into action. I fixed some coffee in the back room. It tasted better than the usual dishwater Dotty prepared, but I promised myself that I would put up with her bilge as long as I could get her back safely.
Ten o'clock and still no call. I sipped some more brew and stewed some more in my sour juices. Ten-fifteen. I was beginning to wonder if the Llama and Dough hadn't changed their plans. My blood ran cold as I imagined those Latin lowlifes selling my Dotty into white slavery and forcing her to spend her days as a prostitute. Why those dirty…
Rrrrnggg. It was the Llama.
“Buenos dias, Señor DeWitt. And how are you today, my friend?”
“I'm not your friend, Llama. Get that straight.” Anger rose in me like oil gushing from a Standard Oil rig. “So let's get right down to business.”
“So impatient you are,” he clucked. “You gringos should take life easy. There is so much to enjoy, no?”
He was baiting me and enjoying every bit of it. I counted to ten in an effort to calm myself. Losing my temper wasn't going to help.
“Just tell me what I have to do to get her back,” I said.
“Tonight you will bring me the five thousand dollars in what you people call unmarked bills. Don't have any bills larger than fifty dollars, comprende? You and the money will come alone. That is very important. If we see any signs that you have brought someone with you—muerte, the girl dies.” He paused. “And that would be such a shame since she's such a lovely señorita with much beauty.”
I could feel my anger surging.
“Where do we make the swap?”
“You know the old deserted pier that's next to Pete's Crab Shack? You meet me there at midnight. Until then…”
“Hey, wait a minute,” I yelled. “I want to speak with the girl or the deal's off. Comprende? I wasn't born yesterday, you know.”
“Oh, when was your birthday, Señor?”
“It was…” I realized that he was baiting me again. “Listen, Llama, you got the girl there or not?”
“But of course I do. I wasn't born—how you say?—yesterday either. Don't hang up the phone.”
About fifteen seconds later I heard Dotty's voice. “Mr. D, Mr. D?”
“Yes, Dotty. Are you all right?”
“Yes, Mr. D,” she sobbed. “I'm all right. But I sure wish I had my book to read.”
She's kidnapped and the only thing daffy Dotty can think of is her book. “Just stay calm, Dotty, and everything will be just fine. You'll be free tonight.”
“Do I have to be at work on time tomorrow, Mr. D?”
I asked myself why I was going to rescue her. Couldn't I let nature take its course? I quickly banished that ungenerous but reasonable thought.
“Don't worry, Dotty, you can have the rest of the week off.”
“Gee, thanks, Mr. D. Will that be with or without pay?”
My rhetorical question now seemed more reasonable and less ugly. I decided to quit while Dotty was still ahead.
“Let me talk to the Llama, Dotty. I'll see you tonight.”
The Llama came back on the line. I made sure that I had the instructions straight. Then I hung up. There were miles and miles to go before I could sleep.
I called Phil as I had promised to do once I had heard from the Llama. He kept muttering “good, good,” as I recounted the Llama's instructions.
“Don't sweat it, pal. We'll have your Gal Friday back with you by the end of the evening and those two creeps wishing that they had never set foot north of the Rio Grande. Now here's what we're going to do…”
Phil said he would have a trusted friend bring the funny money in a suitcase and pick me up in front of my place at 11:00. Better to get to the rendezvous early since you never know what could delay travel even at that hour. Last evening he called our mutual friend Dilly Farkas, who agreed to do the driving.
“Unfortunately,” said Phil, “Dilly called back early this morning and said he couldn't. His old lady broke his arm when she found out he got a little on the side. Dilly said she was mad as a wet hen. Under duress, and blows from the wife's rolling pin, he confessed that the episode had occurred when he drove you someplace or other last week. He told her a crazy woman had violently accosted him while he was innocently waiting for you in his cab. The wife promised him another broken arm and two broken legs if he ever had anything more to do with her or any other slut, and worse for you if she ever laid eyes on your ugly kisser.”
Clearly, I had not read Dale Carnegie's How to Win Friends and Influence People carefully enough.
“But don't worry, Dickie boy, your driver will know what he's doing, and me and my guys will be cruising right behind you in another car. You won't be able to see us, nor will those crumbums we're going to nab, but … What's that?”
I could hear a woman's voice in the background. Phil said Louise wanted to say a few words to me and then I should go and relax and he would see me tonight.
“Hello, Phil? I just want to tell you to take good care of yourself, although I know you're big and strong enough to do so. I don't want anything to happen to you. You're such a nice man, you know that? We're going to celebrate when all this is over. So until then…”
It was a no-brainer: I'd take Louise over Mrs. Farkas anytime.
28
I had a dozen hours to kill—there I go using that word again—before the Polack's pal would pick me up. Stay calm, I told myself, the time would pass and I had to keep my wits about me. Dotty's life depended on that, and mine too. I checked and rechecked my .38 and took out some extra bullets for tonight. Couldn't tell if I'd be needing any or many.
Hanging around the office was getting me nowhere. Frankly, it was driving me nuts. I had to get out. I put on my coat, hat, and galoshes, which Two for Tango had returned to my office under my various threats of murder and mayhem. Then I beat the lunchtime crowd to a local chow house but wasn't in the mood for more than a BLT, some fries, and a cup of java. The time was dragging. I strolled a bit. The store windows, with their displays of holiday wares, interested me not a bit. Neither did the passersby heading to or from shopping or to or from filling their faces with food. I decided to take in a movie, any movie, just to pass the time. I bought my ticket and went in to see Jimmy Cagney in Ceiling Zero. Great little actor and dancer, Cagney. I had heard that this was a pretty good film, but you couldn't tell by me. My mind was too riveted on tonight's upcoming event to pay much attention to what Hollywood and Jimmy were telling me. I left the theater when the lights came on, unable to recall if I had chewed on a Mounds Bar or Almond Joy along with my popcorn.
It was almost dark when I exited. The December days were getting shorter and so was the time I had until I confronted the Llama. Yet I was in no hurry to get home. A drink or two and a chat with some of the imbibers at The Slippery Elbow beckoned, but I knew that I had to keep a clear head. There is a time and a place for hoisting my glass in tribute to John Barleycorn, but not now, not there.
It was only 5:00 when I got back to my apartment. Six
hours left. Somehow they passed without my going out and buying some Old Golds, downing a few drinks at home, or opening the window and yelling, “I'm going to get you, Llama and Dough, you lousy bastards!” A bowl of Campbell's tomato soup and a few saltines I called supper. Then I showered for the second time that day. (Couldn't remember the last time I did that.) The radio played news, music, and a program or two, but don't ask for details. Ten forty-five. I couldn't take the waiting any longer. I made sure that my piece was in my coat pocket and my blackjack in my back trouser pocket, turned out the lights, locked the door, and went outside to wait for my ride and who knows what.
A dark Ford was parked directly in front of the building. The driver opened the window on the passenger's side and motioned for me to get in either the front or the back. I chose the latter.
“Howya doin'?” the driver asked. “Phil said I should come early 'cause you're a worrywart and would be outside the building early.”
I told him that Phil had that one right. He told me that the funny money was in the suitcase next to him and that he would drop me off a few blocks from the pier so the bad guys wouldn't get suspicious. Phil and his party of heavy hitters would be right behind to make sure everything went the way we wanted it to. “You can depend on Phil,” he said. As if I had a choice.
The driver—Stickshift Steve, he said to call him—eased the Ford in and out of traffic, neither speeding nor lagging behind so as to draw attention to us and our suitcase of fake ransom money. We got to our destination a half hour before I was due to arrive. He asked if I wanted to sit in the car for a while. I was too worked up. Besides, it might seem suspicious if I were being watched. The Llama had stipulated that I should come alone, and I didn't want to spit in the kasha, as some of my sheeny acquaintances so nicely put it. I thanked Stickshift Steve and got out of the car, along with the beat-up suitcase that Phil had provided.
A raw wind laden with drops of rain cut through me as I surveyed the rendezvous area. A fog was settling in, making it increasingly difficult to see what was what, let alone who was who. And it was dark. The city's lights shone in the distance, but the pier must have forgotten to pay its electric bill. My apartment had better lighting. But I figured that's the way the kidnappers wanted it: plenty dark. It was quiet, too, save for the cries of gulls and the sound of waves splashing. At one point I thought I heard the planks of the pier groan. Or was that someone crying out? Maybe yes, maybe no. I checked my watch. Eleven fifty-two. I started humming “I Cover the Waterfront” and then switched to “Slow Boat to China.” Eleven fifty-seven.
“I see that you are punctuated, amigo. It is good to be punctuated.”
It was the Llama. And he was punctuated, too. “Yeah, I got good manners. I'm always on time,” I said. I couldn't see his face but was able to make out a human form, maybe ten or fifteen yards away.
“Then for your good manners you will be rewarded.”
He began speaking in Spanish and a voice not too far away replied in kind. I couldn't see who possessed the voice but would have laid dollars to donuts that it was Dough's.
“Now, Señor Gummyshoe, we make what you call the 'swap'.”
The Llama's flashlight picked up two nearby figures, Dotty and Dough. The former had her hands tied behind her. The latter was holding a knife to her pretty throat. Despite the evening's chill I was sweating like a pig. My right index finger, which had been on my gun's trigger ever since I heard the Llama's voice, was getting itchy.
“Let her go, Dough,” I said, realizing then that I had a certain gift for poetic rhyme. “I've got the money here, so let her go.”
“You think my madre she raised stupid niños?” asked the Llama. “We make the swap, the money for the señorita, at the same moment. That way everyone feel hunky-dory, or hunky-dunky, or howdy-doody, or however you say.”
We agreed that the Llama would hold the flashlight so that Dotty, Dough, and I could come together. Once I showed the dough to Dough, Dotty would go free and we could all go our merry ways. Or so he said. Meanwhile, I was waiting for the Polack and his cohorts to come to our rescue and apprehend these two apes from the Andes. When would they make their move, I wondered. And how would they make sure that Dough didn't slit Dotty's throat? I wished I could whistle a Polish ditty and get Phil's attention, but I couldn't even whistle “Dixie” at this point.
“Señor,” said the Llama, “I would like to go home and see my wife, my children, and my mistress for Navidad, if you please. So are we going to make the little swap or not? And, by the way, do not try anything or to be the hero. You are not Zorro, you know? While you and my friend are making the swap, I will have you—what you say?—'covered'.”
I realized that it was now or never, no procrastinating, no piddling. “I got you, Llama.” I kept my right hand in my pocket on my .38, picked up the suitcase with my left hand, and walked slowly toward where the Llama's flashlight was pointing. I could hear footsteps. Then I saw Dough and Dotty. Dough still had his arm around her neck and a pretty good-sized blade at her throat. I put down the suitcase, opened it, and showed the funny money, which in the dark looked fully as honest as Honest Abe himself. Come on, Phil, I thought to myself, make your move. What are you waiting for?
“Now back away,” the Llama instructed, “while my friend counts the money. It won't take long. He's used to counting money.”
I did as he ordered, unsure as to my next move. Dough would probably be able to tell that the ransom money was fake. What then? I was getting the sweats.
Just then a gull flew low and screeched as it passed overhead. Dough, who had been about to bend down and examine the ransom money, instinctively looked up. “Duck, Dotty,” I yelled and hit Dough with a flying tackle I had used in a high school football game that had resulted in a broken collarbone for me when my intended target stepped aside.
“No, I think it was a gull, Mr. D.”
Good old Dotty.
All hell was breaking loose. I was doing my best to turn Dough's face to pulp, the Llama was shooting wildly, and Dotty, I suppose, was looking for the gull. I sent Dough off to slumberland, took out my .38, and told the Llama that he'd better give up because he was surrounded by my friends, and I'd just as soon plug him with my .38 in any case. I didn't hear any more shots from the Llama, and I didn't hear the pitter-patter of oversized feet coming from the Polack and his crew. What I did hear was the sound of a motor boat starting up. I realized that this was to have been the means for the Llama and Dough to scram with the ransom money. Hampered by darkness, I moved hesitantly toward the dock, fired a shot in the air, and commanded the Llama to halt. The noise from the craft grew louder as it began to gather speed. “Until next time, when I will be sure to get you, hombre.” And with those menacing words the Llama escaped. I knew that we would meet again.
I made my way back to check on Dough, who was still counting sheep or vicunas or llamas or whatever. I yelled to Dotty that the coast was clear.
“But I just heard a boat, Mr. D. The coast wasn't clear,” she insisted.
I wanted to put some tape over her mouth but settled for untying her hands. She didn't seem the worse for wear, which was more than I could say for Mr. Dough. Even in the darkness I could make out that his face now looked more like the Frankenstein monster and less like Ricardo Cortez. I guess I didn't know my own strength.
“Hold it right there!” It was Phil, accompanied by three burly men, their flashlights shining on me. “Are you two okay?” he asked. “Where's the Llama?”
I explained all that happened and asked him why he had not arrived earlier. He gave a disgusted snort and said his car had hit one of the city's many potholes and had received a blowout. He and his men tried hailing a cab, but he knew that no sane cabbie was going to stop for four good-sized men who wanted to go to a deserted pier at night. So they had to make do with changing the tire.
Phil put some cuffs on Dough, who was just coming to, and tossed him into the trunk of his car as a prelude to dumping him o
ff at one of the police stations. Then the six of us squeezed into the car. The two guys who were squeezing next to Dotty failed to complain. I kept asking for details of her ordeal. She kept asking about gulls–how many lived around the city, did they have many baby gulls, and could you keep one in your apartment. Go figure. I was glad we let her off first. I told her that the police would probably call her the next day but that she should take the remainder of the week off. I told her she needed the rest. I told myself that if I heard one more word about gulls I'd put an ad in the paper asking the Llama to come back and take her. Fifteen minutes later we arrived at Phil's former precinct, delivered Dough to the uniforms, and spent an hour or so telling our story and signing some papers. “You won't be leaving town, will you, because we'll have to talk with you some more,” said one of the boys in blue.
“Nah, I won't be leaving,” I said. “Only if I can help it.” Then I walked out with Phil and the others. I said I'd take a cab home, but Phil insisted on driving me there. When I turned on the lights in my apartment, I realized that home never looked so good. The same went for my bed.
29
With Dough safely behind bars awaiting charges of kidnapping, and with the Black Llama on the lam for the time being, my life returned to routine, some of it good, some not so good, most of it pretty dull. Workwise, the only case that came my way was a two-day stint of tailing a businessman's wife to learn whether she was cheating on him. She was. There went another sap's happy holidays.
Meanwhile, Dotty, after taking a day off following her ordeal, returned to work, seemingly unchanged and untroubled. Oh yeah, there was one change. She appeared less obsessed with reading great works of literature. Her obsession had turned to gulls. Every day she brought in pictures of the feathered beasts for me to see and she talked about them incessantly. A case of gulls for the gullible, I noted silently. But at least I knew what I could give her as a Christmas gift: a secondhand book on gulls.
The Black Llama Caper Page 13
