King's Ransom

11

The boy was cold.

She had given him her overcoat, but he still complained of the cold in the drafty farmhouse. He wanted cocoa, he said, something hot to drink, but there was nothing but coffee and evaporated milk in the house, and the boy sat on the edge of the bed as the sun stained the winter sky, and he shivered visibly and contained the sobs he would not release.

The two street maps had been set up alongside the radio equipment, and the men arranged them now so that they were clearly visible and easily read. The first map was a detailed map of Isola with Smoke Rise and the King estate marked with a red circle. A red line was linked onto the streets leading from the estate, following a tortuous route crosstown and over to the Black Rock Span. Once over the bridge, the red line took to the highways that crisscrossed Sands Spit, proceeding past a spot marked with a blue star, and then continuing out to the farthest tip of the peninsula. There did not seem to be much direction to the aimless meanderings of the inked red line. It moved from Smoke Rise erratically and then swooped toward the bridge with the precision of an arrow, only to assume an erratic course again once it hit the Sands Spit highways. The red line continued to reel drunkenly until it had passed the spot marked with the blue star, after which it again straightened, rushing with direct purposefulness toward the ocean. Perhaps significantly, it steered a wide course around a dot on the map which was marked simply “Farm.”

Sitting with her arms around the shivering boy, Kathy tried to make some sense out of the maps, the radio equipment, and the snatches of conversation she overheard between Sy and her husband. The radio equipment was a necessary part of their plan, she knew, but she could not understand how they hoped to utilize it. The maps, too, were important, but again she could forge no connecting link between the radio and the maps set up near the chair in front of the equipment. The radio equipment included the oscillators and the transmitter Sy had mentioned, in addition to a microphone, and a dial which seemed far removed from any radio equipment she had ever seen.

She knew from the conversation that another phone call to King was in order, this one to ascertain that he had the money and to give him instructions about its delivery. After that, she knew, Sy was going to leave the house in the car while Eddie remained behind. More than that she did not know.

The boy trembled in her arms, and she held him close, and she wondered for perhaps the fiftieth time how the man she loved could possibly have become involved in a crime she considered heinous. The word “heinous” did not enter her mind; it wasn’t even a part of her vocabulary. But she considered kidnaping something unspeakably horrible, something almost inhuman, and she wondered what it was in Eddie, what drive, what lust for money, what search for identity, that could have led him into this final shattering act. It was her fault, of course. She knew that instantly. She knew with the intuition of a Cleopatra detaining an Antony, a Helen launching the Trojan war. The affairs of men were governed by women. This she knew, as all women know, with infallible instinct. And if Eddie had taken part in a kidnaping, was now taking part in the final stages of the theft of a child, then she was in part responsible for it.

She recognized in her own attitude about crime a peculiar dichotomy. She had, for example, sanctioned yesterday’s excursion because she presumed Eddie and Sy were going out to rob a bank. The concept was almost amusing. In the hands of skilled players, it could indeed become a hilarious satirical sketch. “Is this what you do to me?” the actress gun moll complains to the returning actor gangster. “After I’ve given you the best years of my life? You go out to rob a bank, and you bring home a kid instead?” Very funny. Ha-ha. It was not humorous to Kathy, because it happened to be true in her case. Believing he was about to rob a bank, she had in effect given him her blessings. Confronted with a kidnaping instead, she heaped upon him her scorn.

Nor could she honestly say that she had exercised a great deal of effort over the years in pulling her husband away from crime. He had been in trouble as a youth, had been sent to reform school, where, under the skilled tutelage of tougher, more experienced youths, he had learned tricks he had never dreamed of. She hadn’t met him until he was twenty-six, and by that time crime was as much a part of Eddie Folsom as his kidney. Was it this about him which had first attracted her? This attitude of non conformity carried to its furthest extreme? This anti-social outlook which made the beatniks seem like members of a British soccer team? Perhaps, but she did not really believe so.

Eddie Folsom, in the eyes of Kathy Folsom, his wife, was not a crook. It is probably difficult to understand that because the good-guy—bad-guy concept is a part of our heredity, drummed into our minds together with the knight-on-a-white-charger ideal, and the only-bad-girls-lay taboo, and the slit-dresses-are-sexy fetish. There are good guys and bad guys, damnit, we all know that. Sure. But does the bad guy ever think of himself as a bad guy? When a gangster watches a gangster movie, does he identify with the police or with Humphrey Bogart?

Eddie Folsom, you see, was a man.

Short and simple, sweet and easily understood. Man. M-a-n. Kathy knew him as a man, and loved him as a man, and thought of him as a man who earned his living through stealing. But this did not make him a crook. True, Kathy knew the difference between right and wrong, between law and anarchy, between good and evil. But this did not make her husband a crook. A crook was the man at the butcher shop who thumbed the scale when weighing out lamb chops. A crook was the cab driver who had shortchanged Kathy in Philadelphia once. Crooks were people in charge of labor unions. Crooks were hired killers. Crooks were men who ran huge corporations.

And, unfortunately, crooks were people who planned and executed kidnapings.

And perhaps this was why the job disturbed her so much. In a single day, in the space of several hours, Eddie Folsom had stopped being a person who earned his living by stealing and had begun being a crook. And if this were the end product, if a person as sweet and as kind and as full of love as Eddie could turn into a crook, was not his wife to blame? And if she was to blame, where along the line had she compromised the ideal, where had the good-guy—bad-guy concept ceased to have any real meaning, when had she decided that stealing was not a crime, it simply wasn’t the kind of life she wanted for her man?

Wasn’t this why she wanted to go to Mexico? So that Eddie could stop stealing, so that he could have his radio and do with it what he wanted, so that the demands of every-day living—simple things like wanting to eat, and wanting to be warm, and wanting a roof over one’s head—could be satisfied with a maximum of security and a minimum of cold hard cash? A bank job, a last-time big splash. No more hiding, no more running. Mexico, and sun-washed streets, and skies as blue as Monday morning. Safety. Wasn’t this all she really wanted for herself and her man?

Now, clutching a shivering eight-year-old boy to her bosom, Kathy Folsom felt something she had never in her life felt before. Holding a boy who was not her own, listening to the whispered plans of the men across the room, she wanted more than safety. She wanted the good to return and the bad to be over with. The trembling of the boy touched something deep inside her, a well-spring as old as Eve. She knew in that instant that the good-guy—bad-guy fiction was a legend designed not to fool but to inspire. And she knew why she was at fault in leading Eddie into his current dilemma. There was good in her man, a great deal of good. She had done a disservice to the good by casually accepting the evil. What she wanted to voice now was something spouted by every thief in every Grade-B melodrama. What she wanted to cry now were the words that poured from the mouth of the gangster as he lay bleeding in the gutter. What she wanted to sob out was the criminal’s straight-man dialogue designed as a setup for Jack Webb’s devastating closing punch line.

“Give me a break, will you?”

In the movies, the thief is instantly manacled and dragged bleeding to jail. On the television screen, the thief’s eyes are wide with pleading. “Give me a break, will you? Please. Give me a break.” And the taciturn spokesman for the Los Angeles Police Department answers, “Did you give him one?”

There are no punch lines in real life.

Kathy Folsom wanted a break, a lousy break, another chance.

And she knew with intuitive female logic that many more lives than Jeff Reynolds’ depended on the outcome of this job.

“Eddie,” she said.

He turned from the transmitter. “What is it, hon?”

“The boy’s still cold.”

“Who cares?” Sy said. “What the hell are we running here? A nursery school?”

“He needs something hot to drink,” Kathy said. “Would you go for something, Eddie?”

“I will never—never in my life—understand dames!” Sy said, an amazed expression on his face. “The nearest store is maybe ten miles from here, and God alone knows how many cops are roaming the highways, and you want to send him out for a hot drink! That takes the prize, Kathy!”

“Will you, Eddie?”

“I don’t know. I mean…”

“One of you has to go out to make the call, anyway,” Kathy said.

“Ahh, she’s been listening. That’s right, one of us does have to go out. But if it’s me, I ain’t running into any grocery store to buy something we can heat up.” He paused. “And you’re not either, Eddie. There’s too much risk involved.”

“There’s more risk involved if the boy gets sick,” Kathy said.

“Once we get the dough, we’re never going to see this kid again, anyway,” Sy said.

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t get excited! I meant we’re leaving him here. You’re going to Mexico, I don’t know where the hell I’m going. So who cares if he gets sick?”

“It may be a while before they get to him,” Kathy said. “If he got sick… if something happened to him…”

“She has a point, Sy,” Eddie said. “Why make things tougher for ourselves? Look at the kid. He’s shaking.”

“ ‘Cause he’s scared.”

“I’m not scared,” Jeff said in a small voice.

“Won’t you have to go to that store to make the call, anyway?” Kathy said.

“Yeah, but…”

“Won’t it seem less conspicuous if you went in to buy something, and then just happened to make the call?”

Sy studied her with disgruntled admiration. “That’s not a bad idea,” he said. “What do you think, Eddie?”

“I think so.”

“Okay. When you make the call, get the kid what he needs.”

“I’m going?” Eddie asked.

“Why not?”

“No, no reason. I’ll go.”

“You know what to do? Find out if he’s got the loot first. Then tell him to leave the house at”—Sy studied his watch—“ten o’clock on the button. Tell him to go straight to his car, the Caddy with the DK-74 license plate—make sure you specify, Eddie. We don’t want him using the wrong car. He’s just liable to use his wife’s Thunderbird.”

“All right,” Eddie said.

“So specify the Caddy. Tell him to go straight to the car and begin driving away from Smoke Rise. Tell him he’ll be met by someone with further instructions. Make sure you say he’ll be met.”

“Who’s going to do the meeting?” Kathy asked. “You?”

“Nobody,” Sy said, and he grinned. “Tell him he’ll be watched every step of the way and if he’s followed by the police, we’ll kill the boy. That’s it. Then hurry back here. It’s only eight now, and it shouldn’t take you more than forty minutes or so to get to the store, make the call and come back. That gives us plenty of time.”

“Okay,” Eddie said. “What do you want me to get, Kathy?” He went to the closet and put on his coat.

“A package of hot chocolate and some milk. Get some cookies, too, or some cupcakes. Whatever they have.”

He went to her and kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Be careful.”

“Good luck, kid,” Sy said.

Eddie started for the door and then stopped. “King’s number.”

“Oh, yeah.” Sy opened his wallet and handed Eddie a scrap of paper. “That the right one?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Eddie said.

“Can you read my Chinky handwriting?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, take off.”

Eddie went to Kathy again, and again he kissed her on the cheek, and again she said, “Be careful.”

Sy unlocked the door for him, and he went out of the house. They heard his footsteps on the gravel in the front yard, and then the sound of a car door slamming, and then the car starting. Sy waited until the car pulled out of the yard, waited until he could no longer hear the engine.

Then, locking the door again, he grinned and said, “Well, well, alone at last.”

* * * *

There were memories Steve Carella carried like heavy stones in his mind. There were things connected with police work which he would never forget, which would lurk always at the back of his skull, waiting to be called up fresh and painfully clear. He knew that the image of Charles Reynolds talking with Douglas King would become one of those memories, and even as he watched the man he wanted to leave the room, wanted to get away from the scene before it registered on his unconscious, before it joined the other lurking shapes.

He would never forget the smell of whisky in the liquor shop on the night he investigated the murder of Annie Boone, the broken trail of bottles, the girl’s body pressed lifelessly to the wooden floor, her red hair afloat in alcohol.

He would never forget the moment of shocked surprise when he faced a boy with a gun, a boy he was certain would not shoot, and suddenly realized there’d been a lance of fire and an explosion, suddenly realized there was pain engulfing his chest, suddenly realized the boy had indeed pulled the trigger, the ground going out of focus, falling, falling, he would never forget that cold day in the park although he had already forgotten the name of the boy who had shot him.

He would never forget bursting into Teddy’s apartment before she became his wife, confronting a killer who had literally been sent there by a reporter named Cliff Savage, firing low and firing fast before the man with the .45 could take a careful bead. He would never forget the scent, the feel of Teddy in his arms when it was all over. He would never forget these things.

And now, listening to Charles Reynolds, he wanted to plug up his ears, close his eyes, blot out what was happening, because he knew with certainty that the scene would haunt him for the rest of his life.

The man had come into the living room through the dining-room arch, standing hesitantly in the archway, waiting for Douglas King to notice him. King had been busy lighting a cigarette, his hands trembling slightly, and Carella had been sitting at the wiretap, watching King, and then suddenly aware that Reynolds was standing on the threshold to the room. There was on Reynolds’ face a look of utter despair which, through contamination, infected his entire body. His shoulders were slumped, and his hands hung limply at his sides. Patiently, lifelessly, he stood in the doorway, waiting for King to turn, waiting for the owner of the house, his employer, to notice him.

King walked away from the coffee table, blew out an impatient stream of smoke, said, “They probably won’t even call—” and noticed Reynolds. He pulled up short, sucked in on the cigarette again, and said, “You startled me, Reynolds.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Reynolds paused. “Sir, I… I would like to talk to you.” He paused again. “Mr. King, I would like to talk to you,” and Carella knew from those first words that this was going to be painful, and he wanted to get out of the room.

“Reynolds, couldn’t…” King started, and then hesitated. “All right, what is it? What do you want, Reynolds?”

Reynolds took a single step into the room, as if that was as far as he was prepared to go, as if even that single step was a break of the rules he had formulated for himself before making his entrance. His shoulders slumped, his hands hanging awkwardly, he said, “I want to ask you to pay the ransom for my son, Mr. King.”

“Don’t ask me,” King said, and he turned away.

“I’m asking you, Mr. King,” Reynolds said, and he extended his hand as if to pull the retreating King closer to him. But he did not budge from his spot just inside the entrance archway. He stood with his hand extended and pleading, until King turned to face him again from the other end of the room. And then, separated by forty feet of livingroom area, separated by God alone knew how many miles, the two men faced each other like knights about to charge with lances, and Carella felt like a spectator who had no favorite.

“I have to ask you, Mr. King,” Reynolds said. “You see that, don’t you?”

“No. No, I don’t. Please, Reynolds, I really feel…”

“I have never begged in my life,” Reynolds said awkwardly, “but I’m begging you now. Please, Mr. King. Please get my son back.”

“I don’t want to listen,” King said.

“You have to listen, Mr. King. I’m talking to you like a man now. A father to a father. I’m pleading with you to save my son. God, God, please save my son!”

“You’re coming to the wrong person, Reynolds! I can’t help you. I can’t help Jeff.”

“I don’t believe that, Mr. King.”

“It’s true.”

“I…I have no right. I know I have no right. But where else can I go? Who else can I turn to?”

“Do you know what you’re asking me to do?” King said. “You’re asking me to ruin myself. Am I supposed to do that? Goddamnit, Reynolds, I wouldn’t ask that of you!”

“I have to ask!” Reynolds said. “Is there a choice for me, Mr. King? Is there someplace I can go, someplace to get five hundred thousand dollars? Where? Tell me. I’ll go. I’ll go. But where? No place.” He shook his head. “I’m coming to you. I’m asking you. Please, please…”

“No!”

“What do you want me to do, Mr. King? Name it. I’ll do it. Anything you say. I’ll work for the rest of my life, I’ll…”

“Don’t talk nonsense. What can you possibly… ?”

“Do you want me to get down on my knees, Mr. King? Shall I get on my knees and beg you?”

He dropped to his knees, and Carella winced and turned away. Separated by forty feet of broadloom, the men stared at each other, Reynolds on his knees, his hands clasped, King standing with one hand in the pocket of his robe, the other hand holding a trembling cigarette.

“Get up, for God’s sake,” King said.

“I’m on my hands and knees, Mr. King,” Reynolds said. “I’m begging you. Begging you. Please, please, please…”

“Get up, get up!” King said, and his voice was close to breaking. “Good God, man, can’t you—”

“…save my son.”

“Reynolds, please.” King turned away, but not before Carella saw him squeeze his eyes shut tightly. “Please, get up. Please, man. Please. Could you… could you leave me alone? Could you? Could you please do that? Please?”

Reynolds got to his feet. With great dignity, he dusted off the knees of his trousers. He did not say another word. He turned and walked stiffly out of the room.

Humiliated, Douglas King stared at the door.

“Does it make you feel like a big turd, Mr. King?” Carella asked.

“Shut up!”

“It should. Because that’s what you are.”

“Goddamnit, Carella, I don’t have to listen to—”

“Oh, go to hell, Mr. King,” Carella said angrily. “Just go to hell!”

“What’s the matter with you, Steve?” Byrnes asked, coming down the steps. “Let’s cut that out.”

“I’m sorry,” Carella said.

“I was just on the phone upstairs,” Byrnes said. “I checked our list of stolen cars and, sure enough, there she was. A gray 1949 Ford. Teletype’s going out on it now. I don’t suppose the license plate’ll still be the same as on that list, do you?”

“No, sir.”

“Now just cut it out, Steve,” Byrnes said.

“Cut what out, sir?”

“The slow burn.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were, and don’t lie to me, remember that we’ve got a job to do here, and we’re not going to get it done if everybody goes around with his ass being—” He cut himself short. Liz Bellew was coming down the steps, one hand clutching a valise, the other holding Bobby King’s hand.

“Good morning,” she said. “Any word yet?”

“No, ma’am,” Byrnes said.

“Daddy?” Bobby said.

“What is it, son?

“Is Jeff back yet?”

“No, son. He isn’t.”

“I thought you were getting him back.”

There was a long uncomfortable silence. Carella watched them and devoutly hoped he would never see the look that was on Bobby King’s face at this moment on the face of his son, Mark, in years to come.

“Bobby, you should never throw questions at a tycoon so early in the morning.” Liz said breezily. “He’s coming over to my house for now, Doug.” She winked. “It’ll work out.”

“Where’s Diane?”

“Upstairs putting on the finishing touches.”

“Did you… ?”

“I talked to her.” Liz shook her head. “It’s no go. But give her time.” She turned to Byrnes. “Do I get a police escort, Lieutenant?”

“Darn right you do.”

“Make it the tall redheaded cop,” Liz said. “The one with the white streak in his hair.”

“Detective Hawes?”

“Is that his name? Yes, him.”

“I’ll see if I can.”

“He’s just outside the door, Lieutenant, getting some air. I saw him from the upstairs window. Shall I tell him his services are required?”

“Yes, yes,” Byrnes said, a look of puzzlement on his face. “Yes, please tell him.”

“I shall tell him. Come along, Bobby, we’re going to meet a handsome policeman.” She walked him toward the front door. At the door, Bobby turned.

“Aren’t you getting him back, Dad?” he asked, and Liz pulled him through the open doorway and shouted, “Yoo-hoo! Detective Hawes! Yoo-hoo!”

The door closed behind them.

“I feel I should make my position clear to you gentlemen,” King said clearing his throat. “I know that on the surface my refusal…”

The telephone rang.

King stopped speaking. Byrnes looked at Carella, and Carella rushed to the wiretap equipment.

“You’d better get on the trunk line, Pete!” he said, and Byrnes ran to the other phone and picked up the receiver, ready to speak.

“Go ahead, Mr. King,” Carella said, “answer it. If it’s our man, keep him on the line.”

Over the ringing of the telephone, King said, “What…what shall I tell him?”

“Just keep him talking. About anything. Keep him on the line.”

“And… the money?”

“Tell him you’ve got it,” Byrnes said.

“Pete…”

“It’s our only chance, Steve. They’ve got to think we’re playing ball with them.”

“Answer it, answer it!”

King hesitated a moment and then lifted the receiver. “Hello?”

“Mr. King?”

The voice was not the one King had heard before. A frown crossed his forehead. “Yes, this is Mr. King,” he said, “Who’s calling, please?”

“You know who’s calling,” the voice said. “Don’t play dumb.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize your voice,” King said, and he nodded to Byrnes, who instantly said into the trunk line phone. “He’s on the other wire now. Get moving.”

Sitting at the wiretap equipment with the headphones over his ears, Carella watched the spools of tape revolving as they recorded the conversation. Scarcely daring to breathe, he listened to the voice on the other end.

“Have you got the money, Mr. King?”

“Well…”

“Yes or no? Have you got it?”

“Keep him talking,” Byrnes whispered.

“Yes, I have it. That is, I have most of it.”

“What do you mean, most of it? We told you…”

“Well, the rest should be here momentarily. You specified small bills, didn’t you?”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“And no consecutive serial numbers. Five hundred thousand dollars is a lot of money, you know. And there wasn’t much time. The remainder is being counted out at the bank now. It should be here within the half hour.”

“All right, fine. Now here’s what you’re to do. Do you have a wrist watch, Mr. King?”

“Yes. Yes, I have one.”

“I want you to set it so that it’s synchronized with mine. Take it off your wrist now.”

“All right. Just a moment.”

“Keep him talking,” Carella said. “Keep him talking.”

“You got it, King?”

“Yes, I’m getting it.”

Into the trunk line phone, Byrnes said, “What’s happening there? For God’s sake, I told you he was on the line!”

“How about it, King?” the voice asked impatiently.

“All right.”

“My watch says exactly eight-thirty-one. Set yours for the same time.

“All right.”

“Did you set it?”

“Yes. I set it.”

“Fine. Now the rest I’m going to say fast and only once, so get it all the first time. You are to leave the house at ten o’clock sharp, and you are to be carrying the money in a plain carton. You will go straight to the garage, and you will get into the black Cadillac with the license tag DK-74. That is the car you will use, Mr. King. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand,” King said.

“Hurry, hurry!” Byrnes whispered into his receiver.

“You will drive away from the house and away from Smoke Rise. You will be watched, Mr. King, so don’t attempt to take anyone in the car with you, and don’t allow the police to follow you. If you are followed, we will kill the boy right away. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, I do. I have it.”

“Have they got it yet?” Carella whispered to Byrnes.

“The damn fools are…”

“You will continue driving, Mr. King, until someone meets you with instructions. That’s all you have to know for now. Leave the house at ten sharp, alone, with the money. Goodbye, Mr.—”

“Wait!”

“Keep him talking,” Byrnes said. “They’ve got it traced to Central on Sands Spit!”

“What is it, Mr. King?”

“When do we get the boy back?”

“When we get the money, we’ll call again.”

“How… how do we know he’s still alive?”

“He’s still alive.”

“Can I talk to him?”

“No. Goodbye, Mr. King.”

“Wait! You…”

“He’s gone!” Carella said, ripping off the headset.

“Son of a bitch!” Byrnes said. Into the phone, he shouted, “He just hung up. How far have you… What? Oh. Oh, I see. Okay. Okay, thanks.” He hung up. “Didn’t matter a damn. He was using a dial phone. As soon as they traced it to Central, it got lost in the automatic equipment.” He turned to Carella. “What’d he say, Steve?”

“A lot. Want me to play it back?”

“Yes, go ahead. Nice work, Mr. King.”

“Thank you,” King said dully.

“His voice sounded different,” Carella said. “Didn’t you think so?”

“Yes,” King answered.

“I think we got a different customer this time,” Carella said. “Mind if I start the playback with the previous call, Pete? Just to check the voices?”

“No, go right ahead.”

Carella looked at his watch. “Eight-thirty-five. We’ve still got time,” he said, and he flipped the switch that reversed the tape.

* * * *

It was eight-thirty-three when Eddie Folsom came out of the telephone booth. The ride to the grocery store had taken longer than Sy had estimated, but there was still nothing to worry about. It would be a long, long time before ten o’clock rolled around.

Casually, he walked to the counter.

“Let me have a package of hot chocolate,” he said, “and a bottle of milk, and a box of those cookies there.”

* * * *