Jimmy the Kid

But this. They kidnap the boy at four o'clock in the afternoon, and by nine o'clock the same night they're demanding one hundred fifty thousand dollars for him. In old bills. In an equivalent situation on Wall Street, it would be three or four working days before anybody even admitted the boy had been taken. Then, there'd be a period of weeks or months when the kidnappers would publicly maintain the posture that they meant to keep the boy, had no interest in selling him, and wouldn't even consider any offers that might come their way. This logjam, assisted by continued denials from Herbert Harrington or his spokesmen that (a) he was interested in negotiating a repurchase, (b) that he was in a cash or tax position to make such a repurchase possible, or (c) that in fact he had ever had such a son at all, would eventually be broken by tentative feelers from both sides. Dickering, threats, go-betweens, all the panoply of negotiation would then be mounted and gone through like the ritual of High Mass, and it would be even more weeks before anything like a dollar amount was ever mentioned. And in fact dollars would be the very least of it; there would be stock options, rebates, one-for-one stock transfers, sliding scales, an agreement with some meat on it. Instead of which- "All set," the tape technician said.

"Run it," the head FBI man said. They all talked in clipped little sentences like that; Harrington felt himself getting a headache.

From the machine, a voice said, "Hello?" and another voice said, "Is that Herbert Har-"

Talking over the second voice, Harrington said, "Is that me? It doesn't sound like me."

"Hold it," the head FBI man said, and the technician stopped the tape and ran it backward again. To Harrington the head FBI man said, "Let's just listen."

"Oh, of course," Harrington said. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt, I was merely startled."

"Run it," the head FBI man said, and the tape started forward again.

"Hello?" His own voice sounded lighter to him than he would have guessed; not so manly. He didn't much like it.

"Is that Herbert Harrington?" It was a female voice, middle-aged, New York City accent, rather truculent. An irascible-sounding woman, like one of your lady cabdrivers.

"Yes, it is. Who's calling, please?"

"We have your boy."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said, 'We have your boy.' It means we kidnapped him, we're the kidnappers. I'm one of the kidnappers, this is the phone call."

"Oh, yes! Of course, I'm sorry. Maurice phoned me when he got home."

"What?"

"My chauffeur. He was very upset, he said it was extremely difficult to drive while chained to the steering wheel."

Small pause. Then, the woman's voice again: "Look, let's start all over. We have your boy."

"Yes, you said that. And this is the phone call."

"Right. All right. Your Bobby's fine. And he'll-"

"What say?"

"I said, 'Your Bobby's fine. And he'll stay-"

"Are you sure you have the right number?"

"Jimmy! I didn't mean-I meant Jimmy. Your Jimmy's fine. And he'll stay fine just as long as you cooperate."

Silence. Far in the background one of those telephone company noises took place: boop-boop-boop-boop-boopboop-beep-boop-boop-boop.

The woman's voice: "Did you hear me?"

"Yes, of course."

"Well? You gonna cooperate or aren't you gonna cooperate?"

"Of course I'll cooperate."

"At last. Okay. That's good. And the first thing is, you don't call the police."

"Oh, dear."

"What?"

"I do wish you'd told me before. Or told Maurice, that would have been best."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Well, the fact is, I've already called them. In fact, they're here right now." (That had been the moment when the head FBI man had started waving his arms back and forth in a negative manner; Harrington remembered now his decision at that point not to mention to the woman that the call was being recorded. But weren't there court decisions to the effect that people had to be informed if their calls were being recorded?)

"You already called them."

"Well, it did seem the thing to do. Maurice said you people carried guns and seemed extremely menacing."

"All right, all right. We'll forget that part. The point is, you want your kid back, right?"

Slight hesitation. "Well, of course." (Listening to the tape now, Harrington could see where that hesitation might very easily be misconstrued. But he hadn't been thinking it over, or anything like that, it was merely that the question had been raised so suddenly it had startled him. Naturally he wanted Jimmy back, he was a fine lad, an excellent boy. There were times when Harrington wished he'd named this son Herbert, rather than having thrown the name away on his first son by his first marriage; the actual Herbert, now a twenty-eight-year-old hippie on a commune in Chad, had little to recommend him. In fact, nothing. In fact, it was good sound business sense on the kidnappers' part to steal Jimmy rather than Herbert Jr., since Harrington doubted very much he would pay one hundred fifty thousand dollars for the return of that clod.)