Herbert Lieberman - City of the Dead

“I don’t want to hurt Lolly. I’m actually quite fond of her. She’s a lovely girl. Sensitive. Artistic. I’ve enjoyed having her. If this were a different sort of world, if circumstances were different—” Wallace Meacham’s voice trails off into wistfulness, then shifts back into its gentle but insistent tones. “I brought Lolly around tonight so you could see her. See she’s alive and well. I didn’t want you to worry. We’re not barbarians. We’re quite human. I know how a devoted father worries about an only daughter—”

“Bring her back.” Konig struggles to control the emotion in his voice. “I have the money right here. Bring her back now and—”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible, Dr. Konig,” Meacham goes on quietly, persuasively. His voice has an almost hypnotic effect. “You see, I’m a very trusting fellow. Very naive. I like to believe the best about people. If someone strikes a bargain with me, I assume he’s honest. That he’ll play straight.” He chuckles, warmly. “My associates call me a fool. They say, ‘Don’t trust this guy. He tried to screw you once and he’ll try it again.’ I’m afraid that in the light of today’s events, I must now believe them. Wouldn’t it be foolish for me to walk into your house now with Lolly? Very easy, very tempting, but foolish. For all I know you’ve got a half dozen of your stooge cops sitting in there with you.”

“There are no cops here now, I swear to you. Just bring her—”

Suddenly an operator’s voice cuts in asking for an additional twenty-five cents. Beads of sweat glisten on Konig’s forehead while he stands there waiting for the conversation to resume. Shortly he hears a coin drop in a slot on the other side, then a bong.

“Dr. Konig?”

“Yes—I’m here.”

“This is Friday night.”

“Yes.”

“Sunday morning, three a.m., I want you to be at the Brooklyn end of the Brooklyn Bridge.”

“All right.”

“You’ll see a white Chevrolet, ’74 convertible, black top.”

“Yes.”

“You follow it.”

“Yes. I understand.”

“Follow it wherever it goes.”

“Yes. I will.”

“When it stops, you stop. When it goes, you go.”

“I understand.”

“At a certain point the car will signal you to stop and then pull alongside. You do that.”

“Yes.”

“Someone in the car will roll down his window. Don’t attempt to talk with him or communicate with him in any way.”

“Yes. I see.”

“Just hand him the money.”

“I understand.”

“Is that clear?”

“Yes. Yes, it is.”

“I want to warn you—there’s very little traffic on a Sunday morning at three a.m. in Brooklyn. Particularly the areas you’ll be driving in. Consequently, if a number of cars, or even one car, should just happen to be following you and the white Chevrolet, your daughter’s life is over. You understand that, Doctor?”

“Yes. I understand.”

“Very good. Because I must tell you. As a result of today’s treachery, my associates are in an extremely ugly mood. If something untoward were to happen this time, I don’t believe I could restrain them any longer.”

“Nothing will happen,” Konig says a little breathlessly, his heart smashing in his chest. “I understand perfectly. Please don’t hurt her.”

“That all depends upon you now, Doctor. Sunday morning. Three a.m. Brooklyn end of the Brooklyn Bridge.”

“Yes—three a.m.—white ’74 Chevrolet convertible. I’ll be there. After I turn over the money, when do I get her back?”

“If everything goes well on Sunday morning, you can look for her twenty-four hours later.”

“All right,” Konig stammers. “I’ll be there. I’ll be there. Just please don’t hurt her anymore.”

“Don’t worry, Doctor,” Wallace Meacham murmurs soothingly. “Trust in me, so I can trust in you. Oh, and Doctor?”

“Yes?”

“That bugging device I hear on your phone. Awfully noisy. You ought to change it.”

“Personally I don’t believe half of it.”

“Half of it is true.”

“Then it’s the other half that’s important.”

“I’m afraid that half won’t sell newspapers.”

“And the figure of a million dollars a year is greatly exaggerated.” The Mayor strides up and down the length of the study. He is a short, burly man with unremarkable features that nevertheless convey a sense of inner strength. It is Saturday morning, not normally a working day, and so he is not yet dressed, but simply attired in a silk paisley bathrobe. There’s a pot of coffee on his desk. “When the auditors finish going through the books, I think we’re going to find the amount of money paid out to these chiseling morticians considerably less—”

“Nevertheless,” Konig says bitterly, “money was paid out. The situation was there. I was aware of it and I did nothing about it.” From where he sits, stony and resigned, in a capacious leather wing chair beside a large picture window, Konig has an unimpeded view of the East River flowing swiftly past.

“But I’m not worried about that.” The Mayor marches truculently forward, waving a copy of the morning’s Times before him. “We can get past all that. There’s not an agency or department on the City payroll that doesn’t have its share of chiselers and grafters. A certain amount of that is unavoidable. For Chrissake, Paul—you’re not a god. Why should your office be different from any other office? It’s not that I’m worried about.”

“You’re worried about the Robinson business.”

Something apprehensive and troubled clouds the Mayor’s features as he sits down at his desk. “If it were just your office, Paul. But it’s not. It involves several other departments. Even the DA’s office. Binney’s very upset. This other chap—What’s his name?”

“Carslin.”

“Right, Carslin. This bastard had the gall to suggest to me that even the DA’s office is in collusion with innumerable City agencies to cover up this thing. Have you seen the papers yet?”

“I saw the Times this morning. I gather a grand jury is unavoidable.”

“Binney thinks so. And of course you’ve heard about the two congressmen?”

“Yes.” Konig stares resolutely out at the river.

“Both up for re-election this year, and this, of course, is the cheapest form of campaign advertising.”

“I understand,” Konig says, watching a tug beat its way upriver against the current. Looking south he can see the towers of the Queensboro Bridge wavering phantomlike through a yellow morning haze. “What would you like me to do?”

The Mayor folds his hands before him on the desk and stares fixedly at Konig. “I’d like you to think about taking early retirement.”

Konig sits unmoving, his gaze still riveted on the gauzy spires of the distant bridge. “Do you want me to just think about it or do it?”

“Oh, for Chrissake, Paul,” the Mayor fumes. “Don’t make this thing any harder on me than it is now. I don’t want you to do anything for the time being. For the next few weeks the newspapers are going to be beating their chests, clamoring for a public execution. There are men in this Administration I’d gladly consign to the scaffold in a minute. You’re not one of them. You’ve served six Administrations loyally. Your career has been distinguished throughout. You’ve built up one of the finest forensic departments in the world. You’ve run it with integrity and guts. I will not permit these self-righteous media bastards to make hay out of one foolish, ill-considered slip. Why in hell have you been protecting Strang?”