King's Ransom

10

Morning.

The city slumbers. The piercing cold is designed for late sleeping. It couples with the blackness outside to make the bed a sanctuary. There are cold floors in this city, and no one is anxious to touch them with bare feet.

The alarm clocks begin to ring when it is still dark. There is no sign of the sun yet. The stars are beginning to flee the vault of the night, but there is no spark of warmth on the horizon to the east. The morning is filled with blackness, and the alarm clocks penetrate the gloom with their staccato rings and persistent hums, their automatically tuned music, Good morning, America, it’s time to rise and shine.

Go to hell, and the hands reach out to silence the never sleeping voices of time, go to hell, and a shoulder is turned into a warm blanket, flesh touches flesh, George, it’s time to get up.

Mrmmbbb.

George, honey, it’s time to get up.

The Georges of the city slip from beneath the blankets, leaving the warm womb of the connubial bed, their toes touching icy floors. The Georges of the city shiver and dress quickly, and the water in the tap (hot or cold, it makes no difference) all feels as if it is rushing from an icy mountain stream. It is a chore to shave. The light in the bathroom casts a cold eerie glow. The wife and kids are still asleep, and there is something unnatural about being the only person awake in the apartment, one of a million Georges who are awake throughout the city, performing their early-morning toilets. It is still cold in the apartment, but the radiators are beginning to bang now, and soon there will be the hiss of heat, the penetrating smell of heat. The coffee pot in the kitchen is beginning to perk, and the rich aroma of the brew will invade the apartment soon. Even the water from the tap feels a little warmer now. But best of all, the sun is coming up.

It rises without a problem. Boldly, it peers over the edge of the night, wearing a halo that turns the bowl of the sky upon itself, sends it rushing away, spikes of yellow intimidating the deep blue, fiery oranges boldly pushing at the night, rising, rising, like a giant suddenly standing, the sun touches the east, lines the edges of the building with sudden yellow, washes the River Harb in gold, covers the streets with warmth, no problems has the sun, no complexities, it is simply a matter of rising, it is simply a matter of shining. Good morning, America, it’s time to rise and shine.

The neon lamps blink in sudden weakness against the overwhelming power of the sun. In the empty canyons of the city, the traffic signals click monotonously. There is no traffic; the reds and greens are meaningless. There are no pedestrians to heed the Walks and Don’t Walks. Reds and greens flash, and the sun’s single hot eye reflects on the countless glass eyes of the traffic signals, lights the windows of the tall buildings so that they gleam eastward with a hundred torrid glares.

A blind man taps his way along the pavement.

On the river, the traffic comes to life. The Georges of the river wake to the smell of brine and the smell of cooking bacon. The whistles begin to hoot up and down the curving waterfront. On a Navy vessel, reveille is piped over the loudspeaker system.

The street lamps go out.

There is only the sun now.

A patrolman makes his silent rounds, trying the knobs of stores, leaning close to the plate-glass doors, peering into shops. He glances at his watch. Five-forty-five. In a few hours he will be relieved on post.

It has been a long, cold night.

But now it is morning.

* * * *

She packed in the silence of the sun-washed bedroom. Dust motes climbed the shaft of sunshine, limning her figure as she methodically filled the bag. Liz Bellew watched her, sipping at a cup of coffee, curled up on the chaise longue alongside the bed.

“I haven’t been up this early since the morning Alpha Beta Tau staged a panty raid,” Liz said.

“I remember,” Diane answered.

“Flaming youth, where have you gone? Alpha Beta Tau raided panties, and all Harold raids is the icebox.”

“We all have to grow up sometime, Liz,” Diane said. She opened one of the dresser drawers, removed a pile of slips from it and brought them to the bed.

“Do we?” Liz asked. “And when do you grow up, honey? This seems like a pretty childish thing to me.”

“Does it?”

“Yes, it does. Unless you happen to have a suicidal urge.” Liz pulled a face and sipped at her coffee. “But I always had you pegged as a pretty levelheaded girl. So now you’re asking Doug to ruin himself and you besides. That doesn’t make sense.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“No.” Liz frowned. “I wish you’d stop picking up the tail ends of my sentences and turning them into questions. It sounds a bit like imitation Hemingway.”

“I’m sorry.” Diane smoothed out a slip, folded it and put it into the bag. “Suppose it were one of your children out there, Liz?”

“I’d cut off my arm to save him,” Liz answered unhesitatingly.

“And suppose it were my boy—Bobby—and they asked you for the money?”

Liz took a long pull at the coffee. It was still early morning, and she wore no make-up, but she was beautiful even without it, and her eyes were clear. “Darling,” she said, “I love you like a sister. Always have, and this isn’t just a college-days-remembrance bit. But I’m not sure I’d part with five hundred thousand bucks to save your son. I’m just not sure, Diane. And if that makes me a bitch, so be it.”

“I’m surprised,” Diane said.

“Why? Because I’m a mother? I’m only a mother to the three little monsters who cavort through the house on the hill. I’m not a mother to all humanity, thank God.” Liz paused. “Three pregnancies were enough.”

They were silent for a while. Liz finished her coffee and put down the empty cup. Diane continued packing.

“It was good of you to offer me a place, Liz,” she said.

“The least,” Liz said breezily. “But if Doug asks me what I think about all this, I’ll tell him quite frankly that you are nuts.”

“You needn’t bother. He thinks so already.”

“Are you sure this kidnaping business is behind your leave-taking?” Liz asked. “There’s not something else? This is Aunt Lizzie, darling, so don’t be afraid to—” She stopped suddenly. “He’s still good in bed, isn’t he?”

“Yes, he’s fine.”

“Then what the hell’s wrong with you? Unpack that bag and go down and kiss him, for God’s sake.”

“Liz,” Diane said calmly, “he’s out of bed sixteen hours a day.”

“Darling, we mustn’t be greedy,” Liz said, lifting one eyebrow.

“Don’t joke, Liz, please. This isn’t fun for me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“He knocked on the door three times during the night,” Diane said. “The last time, he sounded as if he was crying. Can you imagine Doug crying?” She paused. “I wouldn’t open the door for him. He’s got to know I’m serious. He’s got to know I’m leaving unless he pays that ransom.”

“Why don’t you simply ask him to shoot himself in the head?” Liz said.

“I’m only asking him to do what any other human being would do.”

“Don’t talk about human beings when you talk about tycoons,” Liz answered. “They’re a breed apart.”

“Then I want no part of the tycoon. If money and power are all that matter in life…”

“That’s only a small part of it,” Liz said. “Tycoonery is a disease. We laymen call it ants in the pants. Men like Doug and Harold couldn’t sit still if you nailed them to the chair. They’ve got to be moving, they’ve got to be doing something. Render them inactive, and you’re draining their life’s blood.”

“And does ‘tycoonery’ include the loss of all pity and compassion for your fellow man?” Diane asked. “Does it include all that, Liz?”

A knock sounded on the bedroom door.

“Who is it?” Diane asked.

“Me. Pete.”

“Would you get that, Liz?”

Liz Bellew uncurled herself from the lounge and went to the door. Opening it, she said, “Good morning,” and Cameron looked at her in surprise.

“Liz,” he said. “Didn’t expect you here. Didn’t even know you got up so early in the morning.”

“I always wake up early,” Liz answered. “And always refreshed. How’d you sleep, Mr. Cameron?”

“Fine, Mrs. Bellew. Considering.”

“Then you haven’t reached tycoon status yet. When you do, you’ll begin scheming at night, too.”

Cameron smiled. “I do all my scheming during the day, Liz.”

“Mmm, I’ll bet you do,” she answered. “And all your best work at night.” Their eyes locked. Diane, packing the bag, did not seem to notice. “What brings you to the lady’s boudoir?” Liz asked.

“A problem. I’ve got Doug’s check in my pocket, Diane. What do I do? Go up to Boston with it? Or tear it up?”

“You’ll have to ask him.”

“I ought to tear it up,” Cameron said. “He’s going to pay that ransom. I’m sure of it.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“He has to, don’t you see?”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Well, look, let’s say I go to Boston to close this deal, right? Douglas King then gets control of Granger Shoe. But the newspapers’ll smear him from here to China and back. Douglas King, they’ll say, the man who now controls Granger Shoe, the man who refused to save a little boy’s life. Hell, the publicity will ruin him. Do you think anybody would buy a pair of Granger shoes after that?”

“No, I don’t suppose so. I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“Sure,” Cameron said. “And you can bet Doug is considering that angle of it right now. That’s why I’m certain he’ll pay.”

“If that were his only reason for paying—” Diane started.

“What time did they say they’d call?” Liz interrupted.

“The kidnapers? They didn’t say.”

Liz shook her head. “And when they call, they ask the big question. I think the television quiz shows are more humane, don’t you? At least they give you a week to decide.”

There was a cough at the door to the bedroom. They all turned. Douglas King stood there in robe and pajamas. He was unshaven and his eyes were rimmed with red, but there was a cold deadly purposefulness to his stance. He stood in the doorframe like a specter suddenly materialized. He issued his single cough and then said nothing, simply standing there and staring into the room.

“Good morning, Doug,” Cameron said. “Sleep well?”

“No, I didn’t sleep well.”

“God, you look awful, Doug,” Liz said.

“I’m supposed to look awful, didn’t you know? My sins are all catching up with me. I’m a cruel, heartless bastard, that’s me,” King paused. “What are you doing here so early?”

“I called her last night, Doug,” Diane said. “I’m taking Bobby there.”

“All ready for the big Sinking Ship scene, huh? Women and children first.” He turned to Cameron. “When are you leaving, Pete?”

“What?”

“I said when are you leaving?”

“Well, I… I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know? What plane are you on?”

“I didn’t make a reservation,” Cameron said.

“Why not?”

“I thought…”

“It’s not your job to think. I told you to get a reservation, didn’t I? I gave you a check to deliver, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but… I didn’t know whether you still wanted me to.”

“Nothing’s changed. Get downstairs and call the airport.” Cameron nodded and left the room.

Resignedly, Diane said, “I guess I’d better finish packing, Liz.”

King stared at her for a moment and then went out of the room and downstairs. Cameron was already on the telephone.

“Eastern Airlines, please,” he said. “Hello? I’d like to make a reservation for your first available flight to Boston. This morning.” He paused. “Yes. This morning. Yes, I’ll wait.” He cupped the mouthpiece and turned to King. “They’re checking it, Doug.”

“You should have taken care of this last night.”

“You going to let them kill that boy, Doug?” King opened his mouth, ready to answer, and Cameron turned back to the phone. “Hello? Yes, Twelve noon? Hold on a minute, will you?” He cupped the mouthpiece again. “Earliest flight is twelve noon. The others are filled.”

“Book it,” King said.

“All right, would you list me, please?” Cameron said into the phone. “Mr. Peter Cameron. That’s C as in Charlie, a-m-e-r-o-n. Cameron. I’ve got a U-card, would you please—Yes, it’s listed for Granger Shoe Company… That’s right, Granger with a G… Check-in time is what?… All right, thank you.” He hung up and then turned to face King. “Okay,” he said, “we just chopped off Jeffry Reynolds’ head.”

“Cut it out.”

“It’s true, isn’t it?”

“I said cut it out!”

“You are killing an eight-year-old boy, aren’t you?”

“Yes, yes. I’m killing an eight-year-old boy—all right? I drink the blood of infants—all right? Don’t you like what I’m doing? If you don’t, pack your bag with the rest and get the hell out!”

“Now hold it a minute, Doug. There’s no reason to—”

“I don’t need any reason for anything! I’m just a ruthless, filth-clogged machine, and if you don’t like my smell, you can leave with the rest of them!”

“Well, I guess that’s putting it pretty plainly.”

“That’s putting it pretty goddamn plainly, if you ask me. Make up your mind.”

“I still say it’s murder,” Cameron said.

“Okay. If you think so, fine. I don’t need men around me who—”

“Doug, listen to me. If our relationship has ever meant anything to you, for God’s sake listen to me! Let the deal go! Save that kid! He’s a young, defenseless child! You can’t just…”

“When did you start loving young, defenseless children?”

“Aw, Doug, everybody loves kids! God, you can’t be that—”

“And especially Pete Cameron, huh? The big child-lover. Don’t you know this Boston deal will help you, too? Surely you know that, Pete. Hasn’t any of my cold-hearted business acumen rubbed off on you after all these years?”

“Sure, I know it. But…”

“But it doesn’t matter, huh? You love kids that much, do you? You love little runny-nosed Jeff Reynolds so much that Pete Cameron’s career doesn’t matter. Well, that’s interesting. That’s pretty damn interesting.”

“I’m not saying he matters more than my career, Doug. I’m saying…”

“Just what the hell are you saying?” Doug shouted, and the room went silent.

“Well…”

“Well?”

“I’m saying a boy’s life is important.”

“But more important than this deal, right?”

“No, not more important, but…”

“More important or less important? Which?”

“Well, when you put it that way, I suppose…”

“If I pay the ransom, the deal falls flat on its face. Now do you want the deal to collapse, or don’t you? What’s the matter, Pete? I’ve never seen you tongue-tied before. Does murder startle you?”

“No, no, it’s just that…”

“Do you want this deal to fold, or don’t you? Answer me.”

“No, I don’t,” Cameron said.

“Then why are you so interested in the welfare of Jeffry Reynolds? When did you get so fatherly, Pete? I’m wondering when you got so ninety-nine per cent paternal?”

“It’s for the boy,” Cameron said. “How can we stand by and let a young, defenseless—”

“If you give me that young, defenseless child crap again, I’ll puke! What is it, Pete? What’s the real reason?” King paused. A crafty glint touched his eyes. “You got something of your own cooking? Is that it?”

“What? Me? Someth—Me?”

“Well, now,” King said. He moved a little closer to Cameron, a cold smile twisting his mouth. “Well, now. Now we’re getting close, huh? Now we’re…”

“Doug, don’t be silly.”

“Why’d you call Benjamin yesterday? And never mind the Far Eastern Brocade baloney! What are you planning with him?”

“Me? Nothing. Doug, don’t be ridiculous. I wouldn’t plan anything with Benjamin.”

“Who would you plan something with?”

“Nobody.” Cameron laughed feebly. “Nobody, Doug.”

“Did you tell Benjamin about this Boston deal?”

“Boston? Why, no. No.”

“Then why’d you call him?”

“About the Far Eastern Brocade line. I told you, Doug. The sales meeting…”

“Your secretary could have handled that! Why’d you make a personal call to Benjamin’s house?”

“I…I wanted to tell him personally. I thought he’d be offended if I…”

“Yeah? Go ahead.”

“I…I just thought he’d be offended, that’s all.”

King stared at Cameron silently for several moments. Then he went directly to the telephone and began dialing.

“What are you doing?” Cameron asked.

King did not answer. He stood with the phone to his ear, facing Cameron, waiting.

“The Benjamin residence,” a voice said.

“Get me Mr. Benjamin,” King said.

“Who’s calling, please?”

“Douglas King.”

“One moment, Mr. King.”

“Why are you calling him?” Cameron asked. “I told you…”

“Hello?” a voice on the other end asked.

“George?” King said sweetly. “This is Doug.”

“What is it, Doug?” Benjamin answered.

“How are you, George?”

“I’m fine. It’s a little early in the morning, isn’t it, to be exchanging—”

“George, I’ve been giving your proposition a lot of thought.” King continued staring at Cameron, who sat poised on the edge of his chair.

“Have you?” Benjamin said.

“Yes. It doesn’t sound half bad to me.”

“Oh, doesn’t it?” Benjamin said smugly. “Well, well.”

“I’m thinking I may throw in with you, George.”

“Oh, you may, hey?”

“Yes. After all, there’s more than myself to think about. There’re a lot of other people who’ve served me loyally over the years. This would mean a lot to them, too.”

“You’re such a Good Samaritan, Doug.”

“Well, I know I behaved badly yesterday, but, as I say, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. Refusing your offer would simply be unfair to the people around me.”

“You should have done your thinking a little earlier, Doug,” Benjamin said triumphantly. “You should have done your thinking before this kidnaping fouled up your deal in Boston!”

King’s face changed. Studying Cameron, his mouth lengthened into a tight hard line and his eyes turned suddenly cold. “My deal in Boston?” he repeated, and Cameron stiffened.

“Yes, yes, I know all about it, so don’t get innocent with me,” Benjamin said.

“Well, that was just…”

“That was just something that happened to fall through! Well, it’s too damn bad, Mr. King, but you played your cards and you played them wrong. My offer has been withdrawn. In fact, you might start looking for another job. You’re going to need one as soon as we can call a meeting.”

“I see,” King said softly.

“I hope you do.”

“I guess I know when I’m over a barrel, George. But I hope this won’t affect your attitude toward any of the people who’ve worked closely with me. Believe me, Pete knew nothing about what I was planning. I’d hate to see him pay for my errors. He’s a good worker, George, and a bright—”

“Don’t you worry about Pete!” Benjamin said, laughing. “We’ll take care of him.”

“You’re not going to fire him, are you?”

“Fire him?” Benjamin’s laughter grew louder. “Fire him? Fire your trusted, loyal assistant? Don’t be ridiculous, Doug.” The laughter trailed off. “If you don’t mind, I’m late for the links now. Goodbye, Doug.” There was a click on the line. Slowly, King put down the phone.

“You son of a bitch,” he said to Cameron.

“Yes.”

“You told him about Boston.”

“Yes.”

“You gave him everything.”

“Yes.”

“Everything, you son of a bitch!”

“Yes, yes!” Cameron said, rising from his chair with nothing to lose now, exploding with a vengeance. “Yes, I told him everything! And now you’re going out! Out!”

“Oh, that’s what you think, sweetheart!”

“That’s what I know, sweetheart. Benjamin’s got the Old Man on his team now. You’re going out, Mr. King, and I’m going in. Me! Take a good look. Me!”

“I’m looking, you son of a bitch!”

“Look long and look hard! The next look you get is from the bottom of the heap!”

“I’m looking! I’m looking, you miserable…”

“No more miserable than you, pal. I learned in your school. Did you expect me to bow and scrape forever? Did you expect Pete Cameron to be an assistant bottle washer for the rest of his life? Not me, pal. I learned. I learned fast!”

“Oh, you learned! I ought to strangle you, you bastard!”

“Why? What do you see, Doug? Yourself? Yourself ten years ago?”

“Myself ten—”

“Take another look. I’m not you ten years ago. I’m you tomorrow! Tomorrow you’re in the gutter. You’re out, and I’m in. Tomorrow!”

“Not if this Boston thing goes through!’’

“You haven’t got the guts to kill that kid!”

“Haven’t I? But you have, huh, Pete? Then why not me? We’re alike, aren’t we? The same school, no? Blood brothers, no? Both sons of bitches, no?”

He suddenly seized Cameron by the lapels of his suit and flung him across the room.

“Get out of my house!” he yelled.

“With pleasure, Mr.—”

“Get out! Get out!”

Cameron went to the closet and quickly pulled his coat from a hanger. He reached into his trousers pocket, took out King’s check, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it across the room.

“Get out!” King screamed. “Get out, get out, get out!” The door slammed on his words, and still he shouted, “Get out, get out, get out!”

* * * *