Every Little Crook and Nanny

16: Little Lewis

Luther pointed to a wing chair alongside the inoperative fireplace and said, “Sit.”

Lewis climbed into the chair, folded his hands in his lap, and looked across the room to where Luther peered at him from behind his desk. Ida stood in the doorway, drying her hands on her apron. Luther kept staring at the boy. In the kitchen, an electric clock hummed discreetly.

“My watch is missing,” Lewis said.

“Never mind your watch, I want to ask you some questions,” Luther said.

“It was on the dresser,” Lewis said.

“I said never mind the watch,” Luther said. “Let’s talk about your father.”

“He’s the one who gave me the watch,” Lewis said. “For my birthday.”

“I don’t care what he gave you,” Luther said. “I want to know where he is now.”

“Who?”

“Your father.”

“In Italy.”

“Then it’s true,” Luther said, and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “John, it’s really true. He’s in Italy.”

“Who’s John?” Lewis asked, looking up at the ceiling.

“Where in Italy?” Luther asked.

“Capri.”

“It’s true,” Luther mumbled. “Oh, God, it’s true.”

“Do you have a cleaning lady?” Lewis asked.

“What?”

“Because maybe she stole the watch.”

“Nobody stole your damn watch. Who’s in charge there?”

“Where?”

“In Larchmont. At your house. At Many Maples. While your father’s away.”

“Nanny.”

“Does she know your voice?”

“Sure. My voice? Sure, she does.”

“I want you to talk to her on the telephone.”

“What for?”

“Because she won’t believe me. I want you to talk to her, and tell her you’re alive and well, and that she’d better get the money right away because we’re not kidding around here. Do you understand me?”

“What money?” Lewis asked.

“The money to guarantee your safe return.”

“What if she doesn’t get the money?” Ida asked suddenly.

“She’ll get it, don’t worry,” Luther said.

“Answer me, Luther.”

“I have answered you.”

“You’re not planning on hurting him, are you?”

“I am planning on getting the money,” Luther said.

“Because if you touch him...”

“Please be quiet, Ida.”

“If you lay a hand on him...”

“Quiet, quiet.”

“I’ll kill you,” Ida said gently.

“Very nice,” Luther said. He looked toward the ceiling. “Nice talk for a wife, eh, Martin? Very nice talk.”

“I mean it,” Ida said.

“Nobody’s going to kill anybody,” Luther said. “We’re...”

“My father might,” Lewis said. “He knows a lot of tough guys.”

“Your father does not know any tough guys,” Luther said.

“Oh yes, he does.”

“Oh no, he does not. When I was your age, I thought my father knew a lot of tough guys, too, but he didn’t. They were merely his normal drinking companions. They only seemed tough because I was a bright, sensitive child who...”

“Well, these guys are tough,” Lewis protested. “I saw them.”

“I do not wish to waste any more time discussing fantasy as opposed to objective reality, do you understand?” Luther said.

“No.”

“I’m going to call your house now...”

“They are tough. They have guns and everything.”

“Um-huh,” Luther said, “guns and everything.” He went to the telephone. “When I get your governess on the line, I want you to come here immediately and talk to her.”

Lewis, offended, would not answer.

“Do you hear me?”

Sulking, Lewis nodded briefly.

“Good,” Luther said, and began dialing.

“Even the policemen were a little scared,” Lewis said.

“Mm-huh,” Luther said, and waited while the phone began ringing in Larchmont.

“When they came to the house,” Lewis said. “The policemen. Last year.”

“Yes, yes,” Luther said, and tapped his fingers impatiently on the desk.

“All my father’s friends were there,” Lewis said,

“With their guns, no doubt,” Luther said.

“Yes, with their guns. And if you don’t believe me, it was in the Daily News.”

“Many Maples,” Nanny’s voice said on the other end of the line.

Luther’s mouth fell open. His eyes wide behind his glasses, he stared speechlessly at the boy across the room, whose last words — coupled with what his governess had just said into the telephone — now triggered belated recognition. Oh my God, Luther thought, oh my God.

“Many Maples,” Nanny said again, as though diabolically reiterating the name, and forcing Luther to recall in startlingly vivid black-and-white the two headlines that had paraded across the top of two separate stories in two separate newspapers not eleven months ago. The first headline was printed in the bold type favored by the city’s morning tabloid, and it read:

The second headline was printed in the more restrained type preferred by the city’s other morning paper, and it read:

The headlines blinked alternately onto the screen of Luther’s memory, burning themselves out at once, melting into molten type, then sinking to his heart, lodging there like a steaming cannon ball. Many Maples, he thought, oh my God. Carmine Ganucci, he thought, oh my God.

“Oh my God!” he moaned aloud, and instantly hung up. He bounded from his chair, clasped both hands to his head, looked at the ceiling, and shouted, “Don’t either of you ever read the newspapers!”

“What is it?” Ida asked. “What’s the matter?”

“We’ve got to take him home at once,” Luther said. “My God, do you know whose son we’ve kidnaped?”

“Carmine Ganucci’s,” Lewis said.