Jimmy the Kid

But all he had now was hope: the hope that he could trust the kidnappers, the hope that he could trust the police. Turning, he walked to the concrete railing of the overpass, looked over, and saw no one down below. The far verge was to his left. He walked that way, hoisted the suitcase onto the railing, and let it drop. He saw it hit the ground down there, amid the weeds, and then he turned and walked heavily back to the Lincoln.

Down below, Parker got out of the Dodge. A little dust settled where the suitcase had landed. No traffic came down the ramp, nothing moved anywhere. Parker walked swiftly back, picked up the suitcase, carried it to the car. Krauss was shifting into drive as Parker got into the seat beside him.

22

At exactly five minutes after four Murch's Mom, in a pay phone at a Mobil station in Netcong, New Jersey, made the second call.

"Hello?"

"Let me talk to Herbert Harrington."

"Speaking."

"What?"

"This is Herbert Harrington speaking," the voice said in her ear. "Aren't you the kidnapper?"

"Wait a second," Murch's Mom said. She was trying to turn the page of a paperback book one-handed.

"Oh, dear," the voice said. "Have I made a mistake? I'm expecting a call from a kidnapper, and-"

"Yeah yeah," Murch's Mom said, "that's me, it's me, only hold on a second. There!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Do you have the money?"

"Yes," Harrington said. "Yes, I do. I want you to know it wasn't easy to assemble that much cash in so short a period of time. If I didn't have some some personal friends at Chase Manhattan, in fact, I don't believe it could have been done."

"But you've got it," Murch's Mom said.

"Yes, I do. In a small suitcase. I do have a question on that."

Murch's Mom frowned, scrinching her face up. Why couldn't it ever go smooth and simple, like in the book. "What kind of question?"

"This suitcase," Harrington said. "It cost forty two eighty-four, with the tax. Now, should that come out of the hundred fifty thousand, or is that to be considered my expense?"

"What?"

"Please don't think I'm being difficult," Harrington said. "I've never handled a negotiation like this before, and I simply don't know what's considered normal practice."

Shaking her head, Murch's Mom said, "You pay for the suitcase. We don't pay for it, you pay for it." She was thinking, There's nothing cheaper than a rich person.

"Fine, fine," Harrington said. "I merely wanted to know."

"Okay," Murch's Mom said. "Can we get on with it?"

"Certainly."

"I want you to get into your car with the money," Murch's Mom read. "Use the Lincoln. You can-"

"What was that?"

Murch's Mom gave an exasperated sigh. "Now what?"

"Did you say a Lincoln? I don't have a-"

"The Cadillac!" She'd meant to make a pencil change to that effect, and she'd forgot. "I meant the Cadillac."

"Yes. Well, that's the only automobile I have."

Murch's Mom gritted her teeth. "So that's the one you'll use," she said, and this time she was thinking, If I could get my hands on him, I'd strangle him.

"Very well," Harrington said. "Am I to meet you somewhere?"

"Let's not rush me," Murch's Mom said. "So you'll use the Cadillac. You can bring your chauffeur along, but-"

"Well, I should think so," Harrington said. "I don't drive."

Murch's Mom was completely speechless. She had never in her life met anybody who didn't drive. She had been a cabdriver herself for a hundred years. Her boy Stan was always either in a car, driving it, or under a car, fixing it. Not drive? It was like not walking.

Harrington said, "Hello? Are you there?"

"I'm here. Why don't you drive? Is it some religious thing or something?"

"Why, no. I've simply never felt the need. I've always had a chauffeur. And in the city, of course, one takes cabs."

"Cabs," Murch's Mom said.

"They're perfectly satisfactory," Harrington said. "Except that recently, to tell the truth, I think the quality of the drivers has gone down."

"You're absolutely right!" Murch's Mom stood up straighter in the phone booth, and even jabbed the air with her finger two or three times, to emphasize a point. "It was the Seventy-one contract," she said. "It was a sellout to the owners, it screwed the cabby and the riding public both."

"Oh, is that the time the fare went up so drastically?"

"That's right," Murch's Mom said. "But I'm not talking about the fare, that was realistic, your New York City cabdriver had not been keeping up with inflation. It was a big jump, but it was just to get the cabby up where he used to be."

"It seemed a large leap somehow, almost double or something. I did notice it at the time."

"But where the cabby was screwed," March's Mom said, "and where the riding public was screwed, was in the split. They changed the formula on the split."

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

Murch's Mom was only too happy to explain; this whole union problem was a big hobbyhorse with her. "You work for a fleet owner," she said, "you split the meter take with him. You get maybe fifty-two percent, fifty-five, whatever."

"Yes, I see. And they changed the split?"