The Frumious Bandersnatch (25 page)

“Well, I can't help you accomplish that, Mr. Loomis. They won't even give me a shot at that. Look, you're in good hands here. I wouldn't worry too much if I were you.”

“What is this, some sort of club here? They kick you in the teeth, and you're still defending them?”

“They know what they're doing.”

“So do you.”

“I told you. The last kidnapping case I investigated…”

“Did you get the victim back?”

“Yes, but…”

“That's all I want here.” He put his hand on Carella's shoulder. “Stay,” he said. “Please stay, Steve.”

“No, I can't do that. Too many other crimes out there screaming for my specific talents.”

“Sarcasm doesn't become you.”

“Neither does humiliation,” Carella said. “Good luck, Mr. Loomis. I hope this works out for you.”

“Thank you.”

There was nothing left to say. Loomis extended his hand. Carella shook it briefly, and then walked toward the elevators.

He felt oddly elated.

 

THIS TIME
he came into the room alone.

He was wearing the Arafat mask again.

He said, “There's been a slight hitch.”

She looked at him.

“The count was short.”

She kept looking at him.

She hoped he realized she didn't believe him.

“We've asked Mr. Loomis to get the rest of the money by tomorrow morning.”

“Short by how much?” she asked.

“A lot.”

“Well, how much?” she insisted.

She was already thinking she had to escape somehow. She was already thinking these dudes were full of shit. They would take the money, however much money they were now expecting, and then they would kill her. It was as simple as that. She would have to get out of here somehow.

“I'm telling you all this…” he said.

“Yeah, yeah,” she said.

“…so you'll know it's not our fault.”

“Then whose fault is it?” she asked. “Who was it came onto that launch…”

“This is nothing personal,” Avery said.

“Oh, fuck you,” she said. “Of
course
it's personal.
I'm
a person,
you're
a person, this is
very
personal!”

“I can assure you…”

“What'd you do?” she asked. “Tell Barney one thing, and then change your mind when you saw all the attention I was getting?”

She could see only the brown eyes behind the Arafat mask, but she knew she was right on target.

“Isn't that right?” she said. “I'm all over television, isn't that it? I'm hotter than that fucking D.C. sniper was!”

He said nothing. The brown eyes were saying it all. The brown eyes were clicking like windows on a Vegas slot machine. Maybe she'd gone too far. But she knew they were going to kill her, anyway, so fuck it. Go all the way, she thought.

“That's it, isn't it?” she said. “You saw what was happening, so you raised the ante?”

“The ransom was always the same,” he said. “Your boss gave us a short count.”

“He's not my boss,” she said. “In fact,
he
works for
me.
”

She didn't mention that whatever the ransom was now, it had been two-fifty a couple of hours ago. President Bush with the big tits and the red hair and the green eyes and the freckles had told her so, and if you couldn't take President Bush's word, who
could
you trust in this rotten world? She didn't mention this because she didn't want the girl to get in any trouble. She had the feeling that the girl…

“I'll keep you informed,” Arafat said, and went to the door. Before he went out, he said, for the umpteenth time, “Don't do anything stupid.”

And was gone.

She listened for the click of the lock again.

Waited…

Waited.

There.

A heavy dull click.

She guessed that doing something stupid would be trying to open the handcuff with a bobby pin she didn't happen to possess. Or doing something stupid would be trying to cut a deal with Ol' Brown Eyes Arafat, who was obviously the mastermind here, the arch criminal, the genius behind this hare-brained little kidnap scheme. But he had already double-crossed Barney, so what chance would
she
have with him? Besides, suppose he had a partner higher up someplace who was calling all the shots, which was a distinct possibility, and something she didn't even want to
think
about.

She knew she could not deal with Saddam Hussein. She remembered him hitting poor Jonah with the rifle stock and then slapping her so hard she'd almost lost consciousness. No, Hussein was not the one to approach here.

The girl, in fact, was the only one with whom she felt she might stand the slightest chance.

The girl wasn't stupid, but she was vulnerable.

Yes, she would have to work on the girl.

 

HAWES KNEW
that Honey Blair reported to work at six each evening, and didn't leave the studio till sometimes two or three in the morning, which was even worse than working the Graveyard Shift. He called her office at a quarter to seven, hoping she wasn't already out roaming the city on assignment.

She picked up on the third ring.

“Honey Blair,” she said.

“Hi,” he said. “This is Cotton Hawes.”

There was that telltale moment of silence that told him she didn't know who the hell on earth Cotton Hawes was.

“The detective,” he said.

Another silence.

“The Valparaiso case. We watched the video…”

“Oh yes.”

“…together.”

“Yes, I remember now,” she said. “How are you?”

“Fine, thanks. And you?”

“Busy,” she said.

There was a silence on the line.

“Did you catch them yet?” she asked.

“Well, no. Not yet.”

“I thought that's why you might be calling.”

“Well, no,” he said.

“Ah,” she said, and fell silent again.

He hesitated. Hang up, he thought. She hasn't the faintest idea why you're on the phone. She's not expecting…

“Uh, Honey,” he said, “I was wondering…”

Silence.

“I don't know what time you might be free tonight…”

The silence persisted.

“But I just got sprung here myself, and I don't have to be back till tomorrow morning, so I was wondering…”

“I've got to talk to a Russian dancer in Calm's Point,” she said.

“Oh,” he said.

“At the Academy of Music,” she said. “I should be through before eight.”

He waited.

“I can meet you after that,” she said.

“Well, good,” he said. And then, not to sound too eager, he immediately asked, “Where?”

 

SHE WAS STILL
wearing the on-camera outfit she'd worn while interviewing the dancer at the Calm's Point Academy of Music. An olive green woolen skirt, the same boots she'd worn on the night of the kidnapping, and a brown turtleneck with a collar as thick as chain mail. Tonight was the opening of the Kirov Ballet, she explained. Her interview with the prima ballerina would be shown on tonight's Eleven O'Clock News.

“So,” she said, “do you get over to Calm's Point often?”

“Every now and then,” he said.

They had walked over to a very good steak joint she knew near the Academy. Neither of them had had dinner yet, and it was now only eight-fifteen on a slow Monday, so they had the place almost all to themselves. The maître d' recognized Honey when she came in, and led them to a choice table near a stained glass window artificially lighted from behind. Hawes was thinking if he'd been here on his own, they'd have seated him either near the men's room or the telephone booths. He was wondering how much a steak would cost in this place. White linen tablecloths and all.

Honey ordered a Beefeater martini, straight up and very dry, with a couple of olives. Hawes ordered a Johnny Black on the rocks. She made the toast.

“To your case,” she said.

“To your interview,” he said, and they clinked glasses and drank.

“Mmm,” she said.

“Indeed,” he said.

“I'm famished,” she said. “Do you think we could see menus right away?”

Hawes signaled to the waiter.

Honey ordered the filet mignon with a salad and a baked potato. Hawes ordered a sirloin with fries and a side of steamed spinach.

“So where'd you get the white streak?” she asked.

He reached up to touch his temple. They always asked about the white streak. They always told him the white streak was attractive.

“I was investigating a burglary,” he said. “The vic was telling me what happened when all of a sudden she got hysterical and began screaming. The super ran upstairs with a knife in his hand…”

“Uh-oh,” Honey said.

“Yeah,” Hawes said, “and mistook
me
for a burglar or something.” He took another sip of his scotch. “Bottom line, he came at me with the knife and put a gash in my left temple.”

“Ouch,” Honey said, and plucked an olive from her martini and popped it into her mouth.

“Yeah. The doctors shaved the hair off so they could stitch the cut. The hair grew back white.”

“It's attractive,” she said, studying it.

He was beginning to believe it.

“You think so?” he said.

“Yes,” she said, “I actually do,” and sipped again at her martini.

“So what'd you learn tonight?” he asked.

“From the dancer?”

“Prima ballerina, my my.”

“Who couldn't speak a word of English,” Honey said, and pulled a face. “One of my crew finally translated. His mother was Russian. Stood off camera while I fumbled my way through. Great interview, right?”

“His
mother
stood off camera?”

“Sure, his mother,” Honey said, grinning.

“But you know,” Hawes said, returning the grin, “that might come off kind of cute.”

“You think so?” she said.

“Yes,” he said, “I actually do,” and sipped again at his scotch.

“Come to think of it,” she said, “
Tamar's
mother is Russian, isn't she?”

“Russian mother, Mexican father,” Hawes said, nodding.

“They did an interview together on ABC last night. Split screen, him in Mexico, her in Paris. Their five minutes of fame. Did you see them?”

“No.”

“They both speak perfect English. All they did was bitch about how everyone was paying so much attention to everything but the fact that their daughter was still missing.”

“Well, there may be some truth to that,” Hawes said. “All this stuff about racism, and homosexuality…”

“Hasn't hurt the album any. It's already number one on all the charts.”

“That's just the point. With all the hype, people tend to forget there's a
victim
out there.”

“I'll bet you haven't forgotten, though, have you?”

“Ahh, here're the steaks,” Hawes said. “Would you like a beer?”

“I'd love a beer.”

“Heineken okay?”

“Heineken's good,” Honey said.

She ate like a truck driver.

It must've been at least five full minutes before she uttered another word.

“Where'd you learn to eat that way?” he asked.

“With a knife and fork you mean?”

“That, too. But I meant so heartily.”

“In Iowa, when we're hungry, we go out back and kill a cow.”

“Is that where you're from?”

“Sioux City, Iowa, yep.”

“There's no such place.”

“Wanna bet?”

“How'd you end up here?”

“I was a roving reporter for KTIV, the local television channel. Ran around covering murders hither and yon. Believe it or not, we've got murders in Sioux City, too. Bottom line, I got spotted by Channel Four here, and they invited me east. Better pay, big bad city, how could a girl refuse?”