At the Point of a. 38

10

Lillian LaCroix was her real name, though people sometimes wouldn’t believe it. She didn’t consider herself a professional, and she had never been able to utter the phrase “call girl,” even in privacy. She had a circle of friends, that was all, and when one of them happened to be down, he was usually nice enough to call, and she was nice enough to come over, and he was nice enough to make her a cash present when he left, though some of her friends preferred to wait and give her something for Christmas. There were even a few who never offered her a cent. That didn’t mean that she refused to go out with them the next time, if she had nothing better to do that evening. She was completely unmercenary. All she wanted was enough to live nicely, without having to get married, the fool’s way out.

She was blonde, not because she was naturally blonde, but that was the way her friends liked her. She tanned nicely. Sexual exercise was the only exercise she got, so she was on a diet most of the time. She was thirty-one. She had an excellent sense of humor, and was a successful over-the-counter speculator, using information dropped in her ear by friends, who had no reason to lie. She didn’t drink or drug. Laziness was her only vice.

When Andrew Weinberger called, she was reading the financial page of the Times with her glasses on. She remembered him at once-an attorney from one of the big New York firms. They chatted, and then he asked if there was any possible chance that she could visit him in his room at the St. Albans.

She frowned, but kept it out of her voice. “You mean right away?”

“If you can make it. I’ve got a meeting coming up with some of the world’s leading bores, and there’s only one way I can get through it and keep my sanity.”

She suggested alternatives, but he had his wife with him this trip, which meant he was going to be tied up for meals. The meeting was likely to continue all afternoon and into the evening, perhaps most of the next day. But he thought it would be marvelous to see her. His wife was visiting family in Coral Gables.

Lillian reached his room at 10:45. He was nearly bald, with a mottled forehead, a big laugh. He was wearing flowered shorts and a loose poolside shirt. They were easy with each other at once. It was that way sometimes.

“No time to kid around,” he said. “I’m a busy, busy man.”

She saluted, and pulled her first zipper. “You’re sure your wife-”

“No problem. She just called me from there.”

She burst out of her clothes. He was delighted to see this happen, and said some nice things. Like everybody, she enjoyed getting compliments. Lying down, she kissed him seriously, and that was enough to get him up. She was glad it was easy, because the truth was, she liked to keep her mornings to herself, so she could adjust gradually to the day. But Weinberger was no trouble. She took him in her mouth for a moment, and he kissed her the same way, and when it was all over he was hardly breathing hard.

She kissed him fondly. “Beautiful. I didn’t go all the way myself, but that’s all right sometimes. I don’t have to run right away, do I? Can we talk?” There was a knock at the door. They both stiffened, and Lillian made a pass at the corner of the sheet. It had happened once or twice that a wife had walked in on her, and that was the kind of unpleasantness she didn’t care for, that ruined her mood for days.

“Some hotel thing,” Weinberger said. He went to the door naked. “Who is it?”

“Special delivery package for Weinberger.”

“Leave it at the desk and I’ll pick it up later.”

“No, you have to sign. Securities.”

Weinberger looked back at Lillian and shrugged. “Shall I go in the bathroom?” she said.

“No need to.”

She covered herself. Weinberger pulled on his shorts. He opened only enough to admit a parcel. The door was knocked out of his hand, striking his bare toes.

Two men exploded into the room. That was the only way to describe it: an explosion. They jumped inside and closed the door. They were dark, and overdressed for Miami Beach, with jackets that matched their pants, white shirts and ties. They were dressed for a funeral, except for one thing. They were carrying machine pistols, the frightening kind with the long clip.

Lillian had been pleasantly relaxed, but the suddenness of the intrusion had sent her back hard against the headboard, pulling the sheet with her. Weinberger was hopping in pain. The guns kept him silent. He was scared, and from the way the young men looked at him, he had reason to be.

“You come with us,” one of the intruders said. “Both.”

He drew an arc in the air with his gun, to be sure Lillian knew she was included. In spite of her easy life, she had never made the mistake of thinking that people were basically kind and gentle. For too many of her friends, sex was a battle, and when it was finished they wanted to think they were the winners. Outside of this strip of sand and hotels, the world was an ugly place, and here were two delegates from that world, their nerves stretched to a point where any sign of contempt or distaste would push them over the mysterious borderline into open insanity.

“Andrew,” she said warningly. “It’s a tax deduction.”

She saw that he had read the danger correctly, and had decided to ride with it. One of the thieves had his back to the door, holding his weapon tightly in crossed arms, that long clip sticking out toward Lillian like a penis. The other looked into the bathroom, moving like a wind-up toy. Excitement came off him in waves. Everything about him was tight, stiff-very scary. But Lillian felt a twinge of the sexual response she had missed with Weinberger.

“Dress,” the young man said.

Again he moved the gun barrel. Lillian didn’t get the accent, but it came over her all at once that they couldn’t be Americans, and they were too heavily armed to be simple hotel thieves. Weinberger was not only rich, he was something in Republican politics. What had she got herself mixed up in here?

Really alarmed now, she came off the bed clutching the sheet.

“I say to you hurry,” the youth repeated, his gunbarrel shaking with urgency.

“But why me?” Lillian said. “I’m only here for half an hour.”

The young man didn’t like her to talk. He lunged, swinging the gun. She stumbled and went sprawling, absolutely naked except for her jewels. The young man almost fell over her, and for an instant she wondered if rape was on the program, along with whatever else.

The man at the door said sharply, “No, no. Only if necessary.”

Lillian rolled away. At least one of their visitors, she knew now, was closer to the insanity borderline than most people, and if he wanted her to hurry, she was perfectly willing to hurry. Her clothes had come off here and there, and she had to move around nimbly picking them up and putting them on. Weinberger pulled on the loose shirt he had been wearing when she came, and put his feet into sandals. He had recovered some of his coolness. She remembered hearing it said once, admiringly, that he was a good man to stay on the right side of. Even in the silly shirt, he looked tough and competent. It was a style she liked.

He put a cigar in his mouth. One of the gunmen slapped it away.

That made their point. Lillian’s young man kept trembling his gun barrel at her, and she tried to move fast without showing everybody how frightened she was. She was wearing a violet pants suit, a little too tight, not the costume she would have picked to go to a kidnapping. She wondered suddenly about Weinberger’s wife. He had never said anything on the subject. There was going to be publicity here, and how would Mrs. Weinberger take it?

They didn’t let her do anything about her face. Having recently made love, there were small repairs she needed to make. Her hair was all right; she wore it tousled anyway. Weinberger saw what was in her mind. He said in an unexcited voice, “Lillian, I don’t think I told you before. You look terrific.”

One of the young men had a small suitcase for his gun. The other put his inside his jacket. It was too big to be carried that way, but he already looked strange and dangerous without the bulge.

They were herded along the corridor to a room on the same floor. This was a big corner room, the sitting room of a $100-a-day suite, and it was jammed with people.

No one was talking. That was the worrying thing-the silence. This became more and more weird. From the glances that were exchanged when they came in, she picked up that everybody there knew Weinberger. Wives were with them, a few teenagers, several frightened children. She counted guns. Including the two she already knew about, she saw six, with a young man accompanying each, all in the same dismal kind of clothes. With that many weapons showing, with the atmosphere of terror so thick that you could have eaten it with a spoon, it was surprising to Lillian that there was room for any other feeling. But she saw the looks pass. Each group had been rounded up from a bedroom, and instead of coming in with Mrs. Weinberger, Weinberger had come in with Lillian, and they had both obviously just been rousted out of the same bed. Which was too goddamn bad!

She knew two other men there, the hotel manager, Manny something, Manny Farber, and an older man, retired now, named Solomon. He was the one, in fact, who had recommended her to Weinberger. She thought at first that he wouldn’t admit knowing her, but he nodded and said quietly, “Lil. A hell of a thing.”

Weinberger said, “Has anybody said yet what it’s all about?”

Solomon lifted his hands. “Only too obvious.”

A little girl started to cry. Her mother pulled her close.

One of their abductors, a tick older than the others with guns, said harshly, “Stop that crying. We do not harm children.”

The child’s mother whispered something and the noise stopped. The gunman looked around slowly, pleased by all that had happened so far. Lillian didn’t care for this one’s looks. He wasn’t a man who often enjoyed himself. The others seemed to be telling themselves continually that fierceness was called for, but he had probably looked fierce for years, long enough so it had become habitual to him. He was far gone in something, possibly patriotism.

“We are waiting for one more,” he said. “I am Rashid Abd El-Din, a Palestinian. I am of the Black September, of which you have read. I have been locked up in a bug-infested Israeli prison for two years, and for cause, I assure you! I and the others are here to achieve certain ends. If we have time later we can debate the pros and cons and practical aspects of terrorism. Is this the best way to secure justice? We have decided, we in this room, that it is our way. Henceforth we conduct all arguments with guns. Palestine is an Arab land, torn from us by the Jews of the West, most of all by the Jews of the United States. You have raised billions to sustain the robber state. You are of high political standing. You direct your gold to Republicans and Democrats alike, so whatever candidate is elected, he is a pro-Israeli. That posturing puppet of a country would collapse in a week without support from here, without American dollars, American airplanes. And this we intend to make plain for the world to see.”

His audience-a captive audience if there ever was one-listened quietly, though there were signs of restlessness among his fellow Arabs. No doubt they had heard it before, and wanted to move along to the next stage. Which would be what? This was a collection of very rich men, and they and their families-and Lillian LaCroix thrown in for laughs-would fetch a pretty ransom.

“It is not a hospital you raise money for,” the Arab said, “or the battle against cancer. It is a nation of murderers, who bomb little children. After today it may not be so easy to raise those rivers of money. We have made a declaration of war against you. You realize that we are serious, we will back what we say with guns, with our lives. And if we die, you others will die with us.”

He lifted his narrow head, with a quick enlargement of the nostrils. It was a pose, but an effective one. He had brought a party of armed men across the Atlantic, into the enemy’s stronghold. But Lillian had always distrusted people who were that pleased with themselves. In the sack, they had little imagination and expected nothing but service. Her knees felt weak. For her to be included in this was really ridiculous. She had never decided what she thought about that whole Middle Eastern mess, who was right and who was wrong.

Another Arab came in, carrying his gun in a book bag. He gave Rashid a head-shake.

The leader said, “The seventh man cannot be found. We will settle for six.”

“What ransom are you asking?” Weinberger said.

“One million dollars per committeeman. An airplane to take us out of the country. We leave here now. I want you to look happy and careless, like vacationers. These are American guns, we are sure they will function well. Will everybody please listen intently for another minute. You understand that we have no intention of being captured. But there has been no warfare on American soil for one hundred years, and you are all of you civilians, possibly you have never seen a bloody death. I am assured that kidnapping is a bad crime in your country. Not as bad as some others, however. You,” he said, pointing with his gun.

Lillian’s stomach clenched. What she wanted most was not to be noticed. The crowd parted in front of the leader. He stopped, facing her.

“What is your name?”

“Mrs. LaCroix.”

“You were taken in the bedroom of the Jew Weinberger.” He flicked his fingernails across her breast. “Are you Jewish?”

“About one-tenth.”

“A perfumed whore.” he said, pronouncing the w. “Not Jewish, I have no reason to hate you.”

For a fraction of an instant, she thought he was about to tell her to go. When she saw from a change in his eyes what he really intended, she tried to seize the barrel of the gun as it rotated toward her. A three-round burst shattered her forearm and tore into her body.