King's Ransom

5

If there were two things that gave Steve Carella the willies, those two things were cases involving extreme wealth and cases involving children. He was not a product of the city’s slums and so he couldn’t attribute his money willies to a childhood of deprivation. His baker father, Antonio, had always earned a decent living, and Carella had never known the bite of a cold wind on the seat of a pair of threadbare pants. And yet, in the presence of luxury that screamed of wealth, in the drawing rooms and sitting rooms and studies to which his work sometimes took him, Carella felt uneasy. He felt poor. He was not poor, and he’d never been poor, and even if he’d had no money at all, he still wouldn’t have been poor, but sitting in the Douglas King living room, facing the man who could afford a layout like this one, Steve Carella felt penniless and destitute and somewhat intimidated.

And to top it all off, this looked like a bona fide kidnaping. Even if Carella were not the father of a pair of twins which his wife Teddy had delivered to him this past summer, even if he were not experiencing the first joys of fatherhood, a kidnaping was a damn frightening thing and he wanted no part of it.

Unfortunately, he had no choice.

He sat in the King living room, intimidated, troubled, and he asked his questions while Meyer Meyer looked through the window facing the River Harb, his back to the room.

“Let me get this straight, Mr. King,” he said. “The boy who was kidnapped is not your son, is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“But the ransom demand was made to you, is that also right?”

“Yes.”

“Then, when the demand was made, the kidnaper thought he was in possession of your son.”

“It would seem so, yes.”

“Were there any further calls?”

“No.”

“Then he may still believe he has your son?”

“I don’t know what he believes,” King said angrily. “Is there really any necessity for all these questions? I am not the boy’s father, and I—”

“No, but you’re the one who spoke to the kidnaper.”

“That’s true.”

“And he asked for five hundred thousand dollars, is that right, Mr. King?”

“Yes, yes, yes, Mr. Caretta, that’s right.”

“Carella.”

“I’m sorry. Carella.”

“This was a man? The person who called.”

“It was a man.”

“When he spoke to you, did he say ‘I have your son’ or ‘We have your son’? Would you remember?”

“I don’t remember. And I don’t see why it’s important. Somebody has Reynolds’ boy, and all this damn semantic—”

“That’s exactly it, Mr. King,” Carella said. “Somebody has the boy, and we’d like to find out who that somebody is. You see, we have to find out if we’re to get the boy back safely. Now that’s pretty important to us. Getting the boy back safely, I mean. I’m sure it’s just as important to you.”

“Of course it is,” King snapped. “Why don’t you call in the F.B.I., for God’s sake? You people aren’t equipped to deal with something like this! A boy is kidnaped and…”

“Seven days have to elapse before the F.B.I, can enter the case,” Carella said. “We’ll notify them at once, of course, but they can’t step in before then. In the meantime, we’ll do our best to—”

“Why can’t they come in sooner? I thought kidnaping was a Federal offense. Instead of a bunch of local Keystone cops, we could—”

“It’s a Federal offense because after seven days have elapsed they can automatically assume a state line has been crossed. Up until that time, it remains in the jurisdiction of the state in which the crime was committed. And in this state, in this city, the local precinct handles the crime. That goes for kidnaping, assault, murder, or what have you.”

“Am I to understand then,” King said, that we’re going to treat a kidnaping, where a boy’s life is in danger, the same way we’d treat a… a… a fifty-cent item stolen from Woolworth’s?”

“Not exactly, Mr. King. We’ve already phoned back to the squad. Lieutenant Byrnes himself is on the way over. As soon as we know a little bit more about—”

“Excuse me, Steve,” Meyer said. “If we’re gonna get a teletype out, I’d better get a description from the boy’s father.”

“Yeah,” Carella said. “Where is Mr. Reynolds, Mr. King?”

“In his apartment. Over the garage. He’s taking this pretty badly.”

“Want me to handle it, Meyer?”

“No, no, that’s all right.” Meyer glanced significantly at King. “You seem to have your hands full right here. Where’s the garage, Mr. King?”

“On the side of the house. You can’t miss it.”

“I’ll be there if you need me, Steve.”

“Okay,” Carella answered. He turned his attention back to King as Meyer went out of the house. “Did you notice anything peculiar about this man’s voice, Mr. King? A lisp, a noticeable accent, a dialect, or…”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Caretta,” King said, “but I refuse to play this little game any longer. I honestly don’t see what—”

“It’s Carella, and what little game were you referring to, Mr. King?”

“This cops-and-robbers nonsense. Now what the hell difference could it possibly make whether or not the man lisped or spoke in beautifully cultured English or babbled like a moron? How is that going to get Jeff Reynolds back to his father?”

Carella did not raise his eyes from his notebook. He kept staring at the page upon which he’d been writing, and he kept telling himself it would not seem fitting for a police officer to get up and punch Mr. Douglas King in the mouth. Softly, evenly, he said, “What do you do for a living, Mr. King?”

“I run a shoe factory,” King said. “Is this another one of your very pertinent questions?”

“Yes, Mr. King. It is one of my very pertinent questions. I don’t know a thing about shoes, Mr. King, except I have to wear them so I won’t get tacks in my feet. I wouldn’t dream of going into your factory and telling your employees how to nail a shoe or glue a heel or sew whatever it is they sew.”

“I get your message,” King said dryly.

“You only get part of it, Mr. King. You only get the part that’s warning you…”

“Warning me!”

“… warning you to cut out what might be misinterpreted as resisting an officer or impeding the progress of an investigation. That’s the part you get, and now I’m going to tell you the other part, and I hope both parts penetrate, Mr. King, because I’m here to do a job and intend to do it with or without your help. I’m assuming you know how to run a shoe factory or you wouldn’t be living here in Smoke Rise with a chauffeur whose son can be mistaken for yours in a kidnaping. Okay. You have no reason to assume I’m a good cop or a bad cop or even an indifferent cop. Most of all, you have no reason to assume I’m a silly cop.”

“I never—”

“To clear up any doubts which may be lingering in your mind, Mr. King, I’ll tell you now flatly and immodestly that I am a good cop, I am a damn good cop. I know my job, and I do it well, and any questions I ask you are not asked because I’m auditioning for Dragnet. They’re all asked with a reason and a purpose, and you’ll make things a hell of a lot easier if you answer them without offering any of your opinions on how the investigation should be conducted. Do you think we understand each other, Mr. King?”

“I think we understand each other, Mr. Caretta.”

“My name is Carella,” Carella said flatly. “Did the man who called you have any accent?”

* * * *

Reynolds sat on the edge of the bed, weeping unashamedly, shaking his head over and over again. Meyer watched him, and he bit his lower lip, and he wanted to put his arm around the man’s shoulders, comfort him, tell him that everything would be all right. He could not do this because he knew how unpredictable all kidnapings were, the boy could be killed before the kidnapers had carried him five miles from the house. And this particular kidnaping had the added danger of error attached to it. How would the louses react when they discovered they had the wrong boy? And so he could not reassure Reynolds, he could only ask the questions he knew by rote, and he could only hope they did not sound absurd to the man who was torn by grief.

“What is the boy’s full name, Mr. Reynolds?

“Jeffry. Jeffry.”

“Is that G-e-o-f or J-e-f-f… ?”

“What? Oh. J-e-f-f-r-y. Jeffry.”

“Any middle name?”

“No. None.”

“How old is he, Mr. Reynolds?”

“Eight.”

“Birth date?”

“September ninth.”

“Then he was just eight is that right?”

“Yes. Just eight.”

“How tall is he, Mr. Reynolds?”

“I …” Reynolds paused. “I don’t know. I never… I don’t know. Who ever measures children? Who ever expects something like this to…”

“Well, approximately, Mr. Reynolds? Three feet? Four feet?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“Well, average height for that age is somewhere between four and four and a half feet. He’s about average height, isn’t he, Mr. Reynolds?”

“Yes. Or maybe a little taller. He’s a handsome boy. Tall for his age.”

“How much does he weigh, Mr. Reynolds?”

“I don’t know.”

Meyer sighed. “What about his build? Stout? Medium? Slim?”

“Slender. Not too stout, and not too thin. Just… well built for a boy his age.”

‘‘His complexion, Mr. Reynolds? Florid, sallow, pale?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, is he a dark kid?”

“No, no. He has blond hair. Very fair skin. Is that what you mean?”

“Yes, thank you. Fair,” Meyer said, and he made a note. “Hair blond.” He paused. “Color of his eyes, Mr. Reynolds?”

“Will you get him back?” Reynolds asked suddenly.

Meyer stopped writing. “We’re going to try,” he said. “We’re going to try our damnedest, Mr. Reynolds.”

* * * *

The description of the boy was phoned in to the 87th and then transmitted to Headquarters, and the teletype alarm went out to fourteen states. The teletype read:

KIDNAP VICTIM JEFFRY REYNOLDS AGE EIGHT HEIGHT APPROX FIFTY-TWO INCHES WEIGHT APPROX SIXTY POUNDS XXXXXXXX HAIR BLOND EYES BLUE STRAWBERRY BIRTHMARK RIGHT BUTTOCK XXXXXXXX SCAR LEFT ARM CHILDHOOD INJURY FRACTURE XXXXX FATHER’S NAME CHARLES REYNOLDS XXXX MOTHER DECEASED XXXXXX ANSWERS TO NAME JEFF XXXXXX WEARING BRIGHT RED SWEATER BLUE DUNGAREE TROUSERS WHITE SOX SNEAKERS XXXXX NO HAT XXXXX NO GLOVES XXXXX NO JEWELRY XXXXX MAY BE CARRYING TOY RIFLE XXXXX MAY BE IN COMPANY OF MALE XXXXX LAST SEEN VICINITY SMOKE RISE ISOLA SEVENTEEN HUNDRED THIRTY HOURS STD TIME XXXXX STAND BY FOR FURTHER INSTRUCTION ROAD BLOCK COOPERATION XXXXX CONTACT HQ COMMAND ISOLA ALL INFO ETC XXXXXXXXXX

The message rolled out of teletype machines in police precincts, state trooper command posts, dinky shacks housing local one-horse police forces, anywhere in the surrounding fourteen states where the law enforcement agencies owned and used a teletype machine. It rolled out on a long white sheet with all the monotony of a foreign newspaper. The message immediately following it on the tape read:

REPORTED STOLEN XXX 1949 FORD SEDAN XXXXX EIGHT CYLS XXXX GRAY XXXXX ID NUMBER 598L 02303 LICENSE PLATE RN 6120 XXXXXX PARKED SUPERMKT PETER SCHWED DRIVE AND LANSING LANE EIGHT HUNDRED HOURS THIS MORNING XXXX CONTACT ONE-OH-TWO PCT RIVERHEAD XXXXX

* * * *

The gray Ford pulled into the rutted driveway and bounced along the road which had once belonged to a Sands Spit potato farmer. The road, the land, the farmhouse itself had been sold a long time ago to a man who had purchased the property in the hope that the development boom would reach this isolated neck of the city’s suburb. The development boom had come nowhere near reaching the erstwhile potato farm. The speculator, in fact, dropped dead before his dream was realized, and the farm and its adjacent lands, cropless now, run-down, slowly succumbing to the overwhelming encroachment of nature, were handled by a real-estate agent who managed the property for the speculator’s daughter, a drunken hag of forty-seven who lived in the city and slept with sailors of all ages. The agent considered it quite a coup when he managed to rent the old farmhouse for a month in the middle of October. Suckers weren’t that plentiful in the fall of the year. In the summertime, he could tell prospective tenants that the farm was near the beaches—which it wasn’t, being in the center of Sands Spit and nowhere near either of the peninsula’s two shores—and possibly inveigle a city dweller or two into occupying the decrepit wreck for a while. But as soon as Labor Day rolled around, the agent’s hopes vanished. The drunken daughter of the speculator would have to find other means of buying her whisky and her sailors. There would be no income from the sagging farmhouse until summer once more returned to Sands Spit. His delight at renting the hulk in the middle of October knew no bounds. Nor did he ever once realize the careful planning that had preceded the rental. He was not a man to look a gift horse in the mouth. Cash was paid on the line. He asked no questions, and expected no answers. Besides, the tenants seemed like a nice young couple. If they wanted to freeze their behinds off in the middle of nowhere, that was their business. His business, like that of the landholders of old, was simply to collect the tithes, man, simply to collect the tithes.

The Ford’s headlights probed the blackness of the road, swept the gray farmhouse, the beam swinging around as the car took the curve and then came to a full-braked halt. The engine died. The lights went out. The door on the driver’s side opened and a young man in his late twenties stepped into the darkness and ran toward the front door. He knocked gently, three times, and then waited.

“Eddie?” a woman’s voice asked.

“It’s me, Kathy. Open up.”

The door opened wide. Light splashed onto the frozen earth. The girl looked out into the yard.

“Sy?” she said.

“In the car. He’ll be here. Ain’t you gonna kiss me?”

“Oh, Eddie, Eddie,” she said, and she threw herself into his arms. She was a woman no older than twenty-four, nor was she a woman who could conceivably be called a “girl” of twenty-four. For whereas there was a delicate loveliness to her face, the beauty had been overlaid with a veneer of hardness, the look of shellac worn thin, marred by years of use and misuse. Kathy Folsom was a woman of twenty-four and perhaps, perhaps she had even been a woman of twelve at one time. She wore a straight black skirt and a blue sweater, the sleeves shoved up to her elbows. Her hair was obviously bleached, showing dark at the roots and at the part, but on Kathy it somehow did not appear cheap, it only seemed untended, uncared for. She held her husband to her with a desperation that had been mounting ever since he had left the farmhouse that afternoon. She kissed him longingly, her arms wrapped around his waist, and then she drew away from him and stared up into his face, and she smiled with a tenderness that was embarrassing even to herself, and then, to cover her embarrassment, she touched his cheek quickly and said, “Eddie, Eddie,” and then, sharply, “Are you all right? Did everything go all right?”

Everything went fine,” Eddie said. How about here? Any trouble?”

“No, none. I was sitting on pins and needles. I kept thinking, This is the last one; please, God, don’t let anything go wrong.”

“Well, everything went just the way we figured it.” He paused. “You got a cigarette, honey?”

“In my bag. On the chair there.” He crossed to the chair quickly and rummaged in her purse. She watched him as he lighted the cigarette, a tall good-looking man wearing dark slacks and sports jacket, a white shirt open at the throat, a maroon sweater over the shirt.

“I was listening to the radio,” Kathy said. “I thought they might mention something. I mean, after all, a bank and all.” She paused. “It went all right, didn’t it? There was no trouble?”

“No trouble.” He blew out a stream of smoke. “Only, Kathy, you see… well… we didn’t exactly…”

She kissed him again, swiftly, as if unable to keep her lips from his a moment longer. “You’re back,” she whispered. “That’s all that matters.”

“In here, kid,” the voice said, and there was a push in the voice and a physical push in the hands of the man owning the voice. Jeff Reynolds stumbled into the room, and the man behind him chuckled and then slammed the door behind him, and then said, “Ah, home again! How do you like it, kid? It ain’t much, but it reeks, don’t it?” He chuckled again. His laugh seemed to match his appearance. He was forty-two years old, nattily dressed in a dark suit, though badly in need of a shave. There was a curious air about him, the air of a man who is enjoying himself at the firm’s annual picnic.

“Where’s my gun?” Jeff said, and Kathy turned at the sound of his voice and then looked at him in bewilderment. He did not seem at all frightened, a little wide-eyed perhaps, slightly upset by the strange surroundings, but otherwise content.

“The boy wants his gun,” Sy said, smiling. “Where’s the gun we promised him?”

Kathy kept staring at Jeff. “Who… who the hell… ?” she started, and Sy’s grin expanded into a chuckle and then a gust of exuberant laughter.

“Ahhhh, look, Eddie, look at that beautiful piece of surprise on her face. Oh, man, this tickles me!”

“Let me handle this, Sy,” Eddie said.

“Where’s the gun?” Jeff said. “Come on, I have to be getting back.” He turned to Kathy. “Have you got the gun?”

“Wh-what gun?” she answered automatically, and then she shouted, “Who is this kid? Where… ?”

“Who is he?” Sy said, grinning. “What a question to ask. Where’s your manners, doll? We bring a guest home, and right away you get personal.”

She whirled on her husband instantly. “Eddie, who… ?”

“Permit me, please,” Sy said, bowing from the waist. “Son, this is Kathy Folsom, nee Kathy Neal, pride of the South Side. Beautiful, ain’t she? Feast your eyes. Kathy, this is King—” he paused, reaching, and then said—“of the wild frontier!” exploding into a fresh gale of laughter, convulsed by his own humor.

“What’s he talking about, Eddie? Where’d you get this boy? What’s he doing here? Why… ?”

“I’ll bet you haven’t got a gun at all,” Jeff said.

“We ain’t, huh?” Sy answered, “Kid, we got enough artillery here to start a second Civil War. If General Lee had himself so many guns, we’d be asking your old man for Confederate bills right now.” He laughed again, a laugh of defiance which he tossed at Kathy as if challenging her intelligence. The challenge was unnecessary. The reference to bills had not escaped her. The meaning was instantly and shockingly clear. She turned to her husband and said, “Eddie, you haven’t…”

“Come on, kid,” Sy said. “Let’s get that gun.” He showed Jeff to the door leading from the large parlor-kitchen of the farmhouse to one of the bedrooms. “The gun and trophy room is right this way,” he said. “All the comforts of home, huh?”

She waited until the door closed behind them. Then she said to Eddie, “All right, tell me about it.”

“It’s what it looks like,” Eddie said. His voice was low. He would not raise his eyes to meet hers.

“Have you lost your mind?” she asked. “Have you gone completely out of your mind?”

“Relax now, will you? Just try to relax a little.”

Trembling to maintain control, Kathy walked stiffly to her purse, opened it, shook free a cigarette, which fell instantly from her fingers, managed to keep one in her hand while she lighted it, and then said, “All right. I’m listening.”

“It’s a snatch,” Eddie said simply.

“Why?”

“Whatya mean, why? There’s five hundred grand involved here.”

“You said…”

“Do you need more reason than that? For Christ’s sake, this is—”

“You said a bank. That was bad enough, but at least…”

“I was lying. It never was a bank. I only said that. We didn’t go anywhere near a bank.”

“No, I see you didn’t. Don’t you know how serious this is, Eddie? Kidnaping is a Federal offense! You can get the electric chair for this!”

“Only if the kid ain’t returned before the case goes to trial.”

“You’re already in the courtroom and this is the first I’m even hearing of it! How long have you been planning this thing?”

“About…about six months now.”

“Whaaat?”

“Now look, calm down. There’s no sense getting excited.”

“Who is he?”

“Bobby King.”

“And who’s Bobby King?”

“His old man is a big wheel in Granger Shoe. You know the company, hon. They put out these expensive shoes for dames.”

“Yes, I know the company.” She was silent for a moment. Then, very softly, she said, “Why didn’t you tell me what you were planning?”

“Well, I didn’t think you’d go along with it. I figured…”

“Damn right I won’t go along with it!” Kathy shouted. “Get that boy out of here this minute! Take him back where you got him!”

“How can we do that?” Eddie said. “Come on, be sensible, will you?”

“If you don’t take him back, I will.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“His parents must be going crazy by now. How could you do a thing—”

“Now shut up a minute, will you?” Eddie said harshly. “He’s staying right here until we get the loot, so that’s that, so just shut up.”

Kathy walked to an ash tray and stubbed out her cigarette. She went to the window then and stared out at the front yard.

Eddie watched her. Gently, he said, “Kathy?”

“You told me to shut up, didn’t you?”

“Honey, there’s five hundred grand in this,” he said plaintively. “Can’t you…”

“I don’t want it.”

“Half for us, half for Sy.”

“Not any part of it! I wouldn’t touch it!”

“It’ll take us to Mexico.”

“The hell with you and Mexico!”

“I don’t understand you,” Eddie said, shaking his head. “You said you wanted to go to Mexico.”

“And you said this was the last time,” she shouted, whirling from the window. “The last one, you said, that’s what you said. A bank. A simple bank. Just to set us up in—”

“All right!” Eddie said triumphantly. All right, it is the last one. Now how about that? Five hundred thousand dollars! An express train right to Acapulco!”

“On a kidnaping! Couldn’t you think of a filthier, more rotten…”

“A kidnaping, so what? Did we hurt the kid? Did we touch him? He’s fine, ain’t he?”

Remembering the boy, Kathy turned toward the bedroom door. “What’s Sy doing to him in there?” she said, and she began walking toward the door instantly.

Eddie caught her arm. “He’s all right. Sy promised him a real gun. That’s how we got him here. Look, honey, try to understand this, will you?”

“I don’t want to understand anything about it. Damnit, don’t you draw the line anyplace? What gave you this crazy idea to begin with? What the hell possibly gave you… ?”

“I just got it, that’s all. We worked it out.”

“Who worked it out? You?” She paused. “Or Sy?”

“We worked it out together.” He studied her face for a moment and then said, “Well, look, what’s the sense risking our necks on a stickup, huh? This is safer, ain’t it? We borrow a kid, and when we return him we get five hundred grand. Now ain’t that safer?”

“Borrow? Who said that? Sy?”

“No, no, for Pete’s sake, I told you we worked this out together.”

“Did you, Eddie?”

“Yes. Yes.”

“You’re lying, Eddie. It was Sy’s idea, wasn’t it?”

“Well…”

“Wasn’t it?”

“Well, it was.” Then hastily, he said, “But it’s a good idea, Kathy, can’t you see that? We can really quit after this one, I mean it, honey. Now look, honey, I mean it—this is the last one. Look, I can… I can maybe really get to be something in Mexico. Hey now, wouldn’t that be great, huh? Eddie Folsom, huh? Me. Something, you know?”

“Eddie, Eddie,” she said, “don’t you even realize what you’ve done?”

“Honey, look, believe me, this is gonna be all right. I promise you, Kathy. Now, have I ever let you down, huh? Just stick with me, honey, willya? Please?”

She did not answer.

“Honey?”

She still did not answer.

“Aw, honey, please try to…”

“Bang!” Jeff shouted, and he ran into the room carrying a shotgun, Sy grinning behind him. “Wow, what a gun!”

“The kid likes guns,” Sy said, laughing. “Play with the gun, kid. Get to know it.”

“Sy, is that loaded?” Kathy said, alarmed.

“Now would I give a loaded gun to a mere child?” Sy asked. He clucked his tongue in imitation of an old lady.

“It sure is loaded, lady,” Jeff said. He aimed the gun and yelled, “Bang! Right between the eyes!”

“Okay, kid, knock it off,” Sy said. “Slow down a little.” He frowned momentarily and then said, “How about tuning in the monster, Eddie?”

Eddie looked at Kathy helplessly, as if begging her with his eyes to understand. But she would not understand, and he read that on her face, and despondently he said, “Sure, Sy,” and walked to the far wall of the parlor and immediately pulled a tarpaulin covering from a mass of radio equipment which was stacked against the wall.

“Kid,” Sy said to Jeff, “this is Dr. Frankenstein. Watch him bring that monster to life.”

The equipment did not, in truth, resemble a monster. There was, however, some validity to Sy’s illusion, in that the dials and switches, the needles and knobs would not have seemed inappropriate in a scientist’s laboratory. Eddie walked to the setup and threw a switch.

“Go ahead, show off for the kid,” Sy said. “Tell him what frequency the police calls are on.”

Absorbed with tuning the receiver, Eddie replied, “Thirty-seven point fourteen megacycles.”

“Oh, the brain on that doctor,” Sy said. “Kathy, you hooked yourself a prize, a real prize.”

“Why’d you drag my husband into this?” Kathy said tightly. “Why didn’t you leave him alone?”

“Drag? Who, me? He come in willingly, sweetheart.” A high piercing shriek erupted from the receiver. “There she goes, kid,” Sy said. “The monster’s beginnin’ to speak.”

“Hey, that’s really something,” Jeff said. “Where’d you get it?”

“I built it,” Eddie answered.

“No kidding? Boy, that musta been hard.”

“Well, it…” Struggling with his pleasure, reluctant to sound too proud, Eddie said, “It wasn’t too hard.”

“Nothing’s hard for a mastermind, huh, Kathy?” Sy said. “You’re a real electronic wizard, ain’t you, Eddie? That’s why the little woman loves you. Learned it all in reform school, too, didn’t you?”

“Cut it out,” Kathy said.

“What’s the matter? I’m complimenting your husband. Someday, kid, Eddie’s gonna go to a real school, be a regular schoolboy and learn radio inside out and backwards. Ain’t that right, Eddie. Tell the kid here.”

Embarrassed, Eddie said, “Yeah, that’s right.”

“Thomas Alva Frankenstein, that’s who he is, sonny. You want to learn how to build a set like that and have all the dames fall for you, kid?”

“I’ll say I do!” Jeff said.

“Okay, then here’s how. When you’re fifteen years old, hold up a grocery store.”

“Sy, what are you telling him?” Kathy snapped.

“What’s the matter?” Sy asked innocently. “You don’t even need a gun, kid. Just stick your hand in your pocket like Eddie did. When they catch you, they’ll send you over to Youth House, and then to Children’s Court, and then to reform school. Am I right, Eddie?”

More embarrassed now, twisting the radio dial intently, Eddie said, “Yeah, that’s right. Sure.”

“In reform school,” Sy concluded, “they’ll teach you how to make radios. Am I right, Eddie?”

“Only how to fix them.”

“I don’t see anything funny about this, Sy,” Kathy said.

“Who’s being funny? I’m teaching the kid a trade. Shall I tell him all the other things you learned in reform school, Eddie? The other trades?”

“Aw, tell him whatever the hell you want to.”

“Now, now, watch your language in front of the boy,” Sy said. He grinned and tousled Jeffs hair. “Me, kid, all I ever learned was how to work in the jute mill. You ever work with jute? Don’t. It makes you sneeze. It crawls into your lungs. It even crawls up your asshole.” Sy began laughing. “How’s it coming, Doctor?”

“I’m getting it,” Eddie said, and the radio suddenly erupted into intelligible sound.

“… thirteen. Accident at Morrison and North Ninety-eighth. Car 303, signal thirteen. Accident at Morrison and North Ninety-eighth.”

“This is 303. Okay.”

“A snatch right under their noses,” Sy said, “and they’re worried about a traffic jam.”

“Hey, you going to take me back now?” Jeff asked.

“I’m busy, kid.”

Jeff turned to Kathy. “How about you?” He studied her for a moment, frankly, candidly. Then having formed his opinion, he said, “Aw, you’re a girl. What can girls do?”

Sy burst out laughing. “Kid,” he said, “you’d be surprised.”

“Car 207, Car 207,” the police dispatcher said. “Signal thirteen, join and assist Car 204 at Douglas King estate, Smoke Rise, adjacent River Highway on Smoke Rise Road. Signal thirteen, join and assist…”

“Hey, did you hear that?” Jeff said, excited by his discovery. “He said Douglas King!”

“… Smoke Rise, adjacent River Highway on Smoke Rise Road.”

“This is 207. Right.”

“The long arm of the law is beginning to reach,” Sy said. “What’d I tell you? Ask those crumbs not to call the cops, and it’s the first thing they do.” He shook his head sadly. “You can’t trust nobody nowadays.”

“Do you really expect to get away with this, Sy?” Kathy asked.

“Why, certainly. And all because Dr. Frankenstein has ideas. Me, I got a worthless hobby. Swing music. Can swing music help us on a thing like this? Can Harry James blow his way out of this one? Ahhh, but Eddie’s hobby, a dream, a dream. Radios.” He closed his thumb against his fingers and then kissed the collective bunch. “I love them. I love radios. I love Eddie.” He paused. “I even love you, Kathy. Outline it for her, Doctor.”

“She doesn’t want to hear it,” Eddie said.

She don’t?” Sy said, surprised. What’s the matter, baby, you cold-hearted or something? This gig’s gonna go down in history, believe me. And all because Eddie knows radio. Right now, we’re listening to the bulls on his monster there. But later… Man, when I think of this scheme, it gives me goose bumps.”

“Sy, she’s not interested,” Eddie said.

“I’m interested in anything you do,” Kathy said softly.

“Why, sure, she is. The little woman. Okay,” Sy said, “we called King on the way here. Told him we wanted five hundred grand, told him to get it ready by—”

Jeff blinked. “Did you say you called… ?”

“Shut up, kid. Told him to get it ready by tomorrow morning, and we’d call him then to let him know where and when the drop’s gonna be. Now here’s the beauty part, honey. You listening?”

“I’m listening.”

“Okay. Tomorrow morning, we buzz King again. We tell him—”

“Are you talking about—” Jeff started, and Sy shouted, “I said shut up, kid, now take a goddamn hint!” He glared at Jeff heatedly.

Jeff put his hands on his hips, swaggered over to Sy and, entering into the game, using his best tough-guy voice, said, “Who do you think you are, Mac?”

“Blow, kid, before you get hurt.”

Still playing, Jeff said, “You want to get tough with me, mister?”

“I said blow!” Sy shoved the boy aside angrily. Jeff, startled, stared at him and then frowned. The room was silent. And then, piercing the silence, the radio came to life again.

“Attention all cars, attention all cars. Here’s the story on that Smoke Rise kidnaping.”

“Hey, listen,” Eddie said.

“Be on the lookout for a blond, eight-year-old boy wearing bright-red sweater, blue dungaree trousers, white socks and sneakers, no hat, no gloves, may be carrying a toy rifle.”

“You’re famous, kid,” Sy said, grinning.

“The boy’s name is Jeffry Reynolds, answers to the name Jeff …”

“What?” Eddie said.

“That man said my name,” Jeff said, startled.

“Shut up!” Sy snapped.

“… is the son of Charles Reynolds, chauffeur on the King estate. There’s been some kind of a foul-up here, boys, and your guess is as good as mine. There’s been a five-hundred-thousand-dollar ransom demand, so chances are the kidnapers don’t know who they’ve got yet. Beats me. Anyway, that’s the story, and that’s all.”

“What’s he talking about, Sy?” Eddie said. Panic had covered his face like a coat of white paint. He stared at Sy, his eyes demanding an answer, his entire body demanding an answer.

“That man said my name,” Jeff said, astonished.

“They’re lying,” Sy said quickly. “They’re trying to put one over on us.”

“On police radio, Sy? They don’t even know we’re listening!”

“No, all they know is they want to get us, so they’re pulling a cheap trick. And don’t think King ain’t in on this. That crooked bastard!”

“How could we have grabbed the wrong kid?” Eddie wailed.

“He ain’t the wrong kid!”

“But suppose he is?” Kathy said calmly. “It means you’ve done all this for nothing. We’re in trouble for nothing.”

Eddie looked at his wife, and then at Sy. “You… you gonna believe what the cops tell you?” he said. “Kathy, you can’t believe them!”

“Who can you believe? Sy?”

“Why not?” Sy said. “I say this kid is Bobby King. Now how about that?”

“Me?” Jeff said, puzzled. “I’m not Bobby.”

“One more peep out of you—”

“Let him talk,” Kathy said. “What’s your name, sonny?”

“Jeff.”

“He’s lying!” Sy shouted.

“I am not!” Jeff shouted back. He glared at Sy and then said, “I don’t like you, you know that? I’m going home.”

He started for the door. Sy caught his arm and yanked him back, almost pulling him off his feet. He stood very close to the boy, and there was no humor on his face now, no laughter in his eyes. In a flat, emotionless voice he said, “What’s your name? Your real name.”

* * * *