Jimmy the Kid (17 page)

“Absolutely,” Murch's Mom said. “So that's why you had all them potheads, them beatniks, driving around, playing cabdriver.”

“I did have one last summer,” Harrington said, “who didn't know his left from his right. At first I thought it was only because he didn't speak English, but in fact he didn't know left from right in
any
language. It's very hard to give travel directions to someone who doesn't know his left from his right.”

Northward, a block from the Harrington estate, Dortmunder and Murch sat in a freshly stolen Mustang and waited. And waited. Murch said, “Shouldn't he come out pretty soon?”

“Yeah, he should,” Dortmunder said.

“I wonder what he's doing,” Murch said.

He was talking taxis with Murch's Mom. They were trading horror stories—the hippie driver fresh from Boston who didn't know there was a section of the city called Queens, the Oriental who didn't speak English and who drove at twelve miles an hour to the wrong airport—until finally it was Harrington who said, “But I'm sorry, I've changed the subject. I do apologize. We were talking about the ransom.”

“Oh, yeah,” Murch's Mom said. She looked at her watch, and it was almost quarter after four. “Right. Okay, let me start again. You'll get in the Cadillac with your chauffeur, but no other passengers.”

“Yes.”

“You'll drive to Interstate 80, and get up on it west-bound. Drive at a steady fifty. We'll meet you along the way.”

“Where?”

Murch's Mom frowned again. “What?”

“You'll meet me where along the way?”

“I don't tell you that now. You just get up there, and we'll contact you.”

“But I don't understand. Where is it I'm going? What's my destination?”

“You just get on 80,” Murch's Mom told him, “and travel west at fifty miles an hour. That's all you do, and we'll take over from there.” The sense of camaraderie she'd felt with him over the issue of New York taxicabs had vanished; once again, what she really wanted to do was wring his neck.

“I've never heard of such a thing,” Harrington said. “No destination. I don't know
anyone
who travels that way.”

“Just do it,” Murch's Mom said, and hung up in exasperation. Going outside, she got into the Roadrunner her son had stolen for her this morning, and headed for the other phone booth. She had originally objected to this move, saying she didn't see why she couldn't make both calls from the same booth, but Kelp had showed her where in
Child Heist
it was explained the cops might be tracing the first call, and might show up pretty soon at the phone both where the call was made. So okay, she'd go to the other phone booth.

Northward, Dortmunder and Murch continued to sit in the Mustang and wait. Murch said, “Do we have the number of the phone booth where Mom makes her first call?”

“No. Why should we?”

“I thought we could call her, see if anything went wrong.”

“The smart guy that wrote the book,” Dortmunder said, “didn't say anything about that.”

On the Harrington estate, Herbert Harrington stood beside his Cadillac and argued with the head FBI man. “I don't see,” he said, “why I can't have my own chauffeur. I
like
the way he drives.”

“Kirby's a good driver,” the head FBI man said. He was being patient in a way to show how impatient he really was. “And he's along just in case anything happens. Like they decide to kidnap you, too.”

“Now, why on earth would they kidnap
me
? Who'd pay the ransom?”

“Your wife,” the head FBI man said.

“My what? Oh, Claire! Hah, what a thought!
She
doesn't even know Jimmy's been stolen. She won't answer my calls.”

“For your own protection,” the head FBI man said, “we're going to insist that Kirby drive you. Believe me, he's a competent driver, he'll bring you back safe and sound.”

Harrington frowned at the man in the front seat of the Cadillac, sitting there with Maurice's hat on his head. The hat was too large. “His hat is too large,” Harrington said.

“It doesn't matter.” The head FBI man held the door open. “You ought to get moving now, Mr. Harrington.”

“I just don't like anything about this,” Harrington said, and reluctantly slid into the back of the car. The suitcase full of money and his attaché case with some business papers were already in there, on the floor.

The head FBI man shut the door, perhaps a trifle more emphatically than necessary. “Okay, Kirby,” he said, and the Cadillac slid forward over the white gravel of the driveway.

“Son of a gun,” Murch said. “Here it comes.”

“Damned if it doesn't,” Dortmunder said.

The silver-grey Cadillac came purring around the curving blacktop road, scattering dead leaves in its wake. The right car; WAX 361, whip antenna. The chauffeur was at the wheel, and the father was in the back seat. As it was disappearing around the far curve—there were no straight streets in this wealthy section of New Jersey—Murch started the Mustang, and they moved off in its wake.

It was two miles to Interstate 80. While Murch and Dortmunder hung well back, Kirby steered the big car around the bends and through the dales. It was fun driving a Caddy; maybe on the way back he could really open it up.

In the back seat, Harrington picked up his attaché case, opened it on the seat beside him, and riffled through the sheaves of documents. He hadn't been able to get to the office at all today, naturally, with all this mess going on, and the work was piling up. He picked up the phone and called his office in the city; his secretary had already been alerted to expect a late-afternoon call. At least he'd be able to get some of this accumulation cleared away during the drive.

Murch's Mom reached the other phone booth. It was next to a Burger King on route 46. She parked the Road-runner and went over to stand in the booth and wait. Outside, a group of juvenile delinquents showed up on motorcycles.

The Cadillac reached Interstate 80. Murch stopped at a Chevron station by the on ramp and Dortmunder phoned Murch's Mom at the other phone booth. When she answered, there was such a loud buzzing noise, hoarse and raspy, that he could barely hear her. “You got trouble on your line,” he said.

She said, “What?”

“You got trouble on your line!”

“I can't hear you with all these stinking motorcycles!”

“Oh.
He's up on 80!
”

“
Right!
”

Dortmunder got back into the Mustang, and Murch took off again in the wake of the Cadillac. They went up on the Interstate, Murch put the Mustang up to sixty-eight, and soon they passed the Caddy, moving obediently at fifty in the right lane. “Mom's already talking to him,” Murch said.

They could see the father on the phone in back. The chauffeur glanced at them out of his reflecting sunglasses as they went by.
Look at that Mustang
, Kirby thought, and hated the frustration that he couldn't lean into this Caddy and run a couple rings about that little beast. Later; on the way back.

At the Burger King, Murch's Mom dialled the operator, and yelled, “
I want to call a mobile unit in a private car!
”

“Well, you don't have to yell about it,” the operator said.

“
What?
”

“You have trouble on your line,” the operator said. “Hang up and dial again.”

“
What? I can't hear you with all these motorcycles!
”

“Oh,” said the operator. “You want to call a mobile unit?”

“
What?
”

“
Do you want to call a mobile unit?
”

“
Why do you think I'm putting up with all this?
”

“
Do you have the number?”

“
Yes!
”

Harrington was saying. “Now in the matter of that prospectus. I think our posture before the SEC is that while the prospectus did speak of
home
sites, it does not at any point say anything about a
community.
A community would necessarily imply the existence of available water. A home site would not. Country retreat, weekend cottage, that sort of thing. Have Bill Timmins see what he can root up by way of precedents.”

“Yes, sir,” said the secretary.

“Then call Danforth in Oklahoma and tell him that Marseilles crowd just will not budge on the three-for-two stock swap. Tell him my suggestion is that we threaten to simply bow out on the railroad end. of it and carry our venture capital elsewhere. If he approves, try and arrange a phone conference with Grandin for nine-thirty tomorrow morning, New York time. If Danforth has a problem, give him my home number, and tell him I should be there in, oh, two hours at the very most.”

“Yes, sir,” said the secretary.

“
But the line's busy!
” the operator said.

“
Well, try again!
” Murch's Mom said.

Murch reached the off ramp for the Hope exit, and slowed for the curve. In all of New Jersey, this was the closest Interstate 80 exit to the one described in the book. There was one small commercial building down on the county road, just north of the off ramp, but that was all. As for a main highway exit with
no
buildings or population around it, there was no such thing on Interstate 80 in New Jersey, and Dortmunder doubted there was any such thing along Northern State Parkway on Long Island, the site of
Child Heist.
The writer had just been making things easy for himself, that's all.

Murch pulled to a stop next to the wall of the overpass. Interstate 80 made a humming roof over their heads. “It won't be long now,” Murch said.

Dortmunder didn't say anything.

“
The line's still busy!
” the operator said.

“
Hold on a minute!
”

“
What?
”

“
I said hold on! Wait! Don't go away!
”

“
Oh!
”

Murch's Mom, leaving the phone off the hook, stepped out of the booth and went over to the Roadrunner. She had seen tools on the back seat; yes, there was a nice big monkey wrench. She picked it up, hefted it, and went over to stand in front of the motorcyclists, who were sitting on their throbbing machines, filling their faces with whoppers. She didn't say anything; not that it would have been possible in any event. She stood looking at them. She thumped the monkey wrench gently into the palm of her left hand. She lifted it, thumped it gently again, lifted it, thumped it, lifted it, thumped it.

They became aware of her. Their eyes followed the small movements of the monkey wrench. They looked at one another, and they looked at Murch's Mom's face. Methodically, without any appearance of undue haste but nevertheless efficiently, they stuffed their mouths with the rest of their whoppers, packed their pockets with french fries, tied their Cokes to their gas tanks with little leather straps and drove away.

Murch's Mom went back to the phone booth. She put down the monkey wrench and picked up the phone. “Hello,” she said. “You still there?”

“
I'm still here!
”

“You don't have to yell,” Murch's Mom said. She was being very calm.

“I don't.”

“No. But you
have to call that goddam car!
”

The Cadillac breezed past the tomato juice bottle with the instructions in it; milk doesn't come in bottles any more, it comes in plastic cartons. Harrington, on the phone, said to his secretary, “Tell him our client's feeling is he can loan him the seventeen, but he'll need some form of security other than the department store. Tell him, off the record, our client is quite frankly worried about that marital situation of his.”

“Yes, sir,” said the secretary.

“Should be any second now,” Murch said.

Dortmunder twisted around and looked back. No suitcase came falling through the air.

The Cadillac sailed past the Hope exit, over the overpass and on, toward the Delaware Water Gap.

Back at the deserted farmhouse, May and Kelp and Jimmy sat at the card table. “Knock with two,” Jimmy said, and spread out his rummy hand.

“Ouch,” said Kelp.

“
I have to get through to that car!
”

“When I'm in Washington, we can arrange the meeting with Congressman Henley and then perhaps get a little action.”

Murch said, “I think maybe something went wrong.”

Dortmunder didn't say anything.

“And if anything else comes up,” Harrington said, “you should be able to reach me at home certainly by six o'clock.”

“Yes, sir,” said the secretary.

Harrington hung up. He said to Maurice, “Nothing's happened yet, eh?”

“No, sir,” said the man, who wasn't Maurice at all. That's right; it was the FBI man, Kirby.

“What's that up ahead?” Harrington asked.

“The Delaware Water Gap.”

“Oh, really?” Harrington said, and the phone rang. Expecting his secretary to be calling back, he picked it up and said, “Hello?”

Some woman screamed gibberish at him.

“I beg your pardon?”

“
What the hell are you doing on the goddam phone!
”

“What? Oh, for heaven's sake, it's the kidnapper!”

Kirby slammed on the brakes, and the Caddy slued all over the road. Kirby shouted, “Where? Where?”

“Don't drive like that!” Harrington cried. “Maurice never drives like that!”

“Where's the kidnapper?” Kirby had become calmer again, was driving forward, was looking all around without quite acknowledging the glares of the other drivers passing him, the ones he'd just barely missed when he'd braked so abruptly.

“On the phone,” Harrington said. The woman was babbling away on the phone, rancorous and belligerent, and Harrington said, “I
am
sorry. I had no idea. If you'd told me, of course, I would have—”