Jimmy the Kid

"They changed the formula," Murch's Mom said. "They fixed it so the owner has to give a bigger percent to a driver with more seniority."

"But surely that's only right. After all, if a man drives a cab for years and years, he-"

"But that's not what happens," Murch's Mom said. "What happens is, if the owner pulls in some bum off the Street, can't find his way to the Empire State Building, gives him a job, puts him in a cab, the owner gets to keep a higher percentage of the meter!"

"Oh!" Harrington said. "I see what you mean; the contract makes it more advantageous to the owner to hire inexperienced drivers."

"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 westbound. 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 booth where the call was made. So okay, she'd go to the other phone booth.

Northward, Dortmunder and March continued to sit in the Mustang and wait. March 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 attachй 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," March said. "Here it comes."