Ross Thomas: No Questions Asked

“Uh-huh. The guy who started us doing it about twenty-five years ago used to be a talent agent, one of the top agents in L.A. And he kept on being an agent until somebody took the trouble to explain to him one day just how a life insurance company works — I mean really works. Well, as you probably know, a life company’s a license to steal, and I’m not giving away any trade secrets.”

“No,” I said, “you’re not.”

“Well, this guy who used to be an agent — his name’s Ronnie Saperstein and now he’s chairman of the board — well, the first thing he did was to go looking for a small life company, and he ran across Pacifica Life and Casualty up in Santa Barbara, which was just sort of noodling along and dozing in the sunshine up there. Well, he worked a deal with them and the first thing he did was to insure each of his clients — he had about thirty of them then — for one million dollars each on a special group rate. Now that was one hell of a chunk of business for a little company like Pacifica was then, and the next thing you know Ronnie’s a vice-president. Well, he used to have this one female client who was still a pretty fair actress but whose career had sort of hit the skids. But she still had this terrific set of jugs. So Ronnie insures them for five million bucks — each. Well, she made the wire services on that and the next thing you know every flack in town is wanting to insure everything from their clients’ crossed eyes to their barks. And that’s how the tits and ass business got started.”

“But you’re primarily a life company?”

“Primarily. The casualty’s sort of a sideline, but it makes us a lot of money because over the years the tits and ass publicity, believe it or not, has drawn us just one hell of a lot of good conservative business — museums, storage companies, people like that.”

“What have you used Jack Marsh on, casualty or life?”

“Both,” Spivey said. “But mostly life. Whenever some guy gets the notion to insure his wife for a couple of hundred thousand and the wife gets killed in a car wreck the next week, well, we sort of like Jack to go talk to the guy. He’s pretty good at it.”

“I understand he’s a good friend of the Goodwater woman who owns the Pliny book.”

“I guess Maude Goodwater and he are a little more than just good friends,” Spivey said. “They’re living together.”

“I also understand that it was okay with you that she sent Marsh to pick up the book.”

“If we could’ve chosen between him and a company of marines, I think we probably would’ve still taken him. He’s that good. Or at least I think so.”

“He picked up the book yesterday,” I said.

“Yesterday morning.”

“And the next thing you know, somebody with a high voice and a mouthful of marbles is on the phone to your company claiming that they’ve got the book and that they’ll sell it back to you for a quarter of a million. What’d they say about our Jack Marsh?”

“Who do you figure it is?” he said. “A woman or a guy trying to sound like a woman?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Well, whoever it was said that Jack was safe.”

“Is that all?”

“And that they’d let him go when they got the money.”

“Did you believe her?”

“Her?”

“That’s what I call the voice,” I said. “Her.”

Spivey looked down at his glass. It was empty. I took the bottle and poured him some more whiskey. He tasted it and this time he rolled it around in his mouth before swallowing it. “It’s a kidnapping, too, isn’t it?”

“Uh-huh. It looks that way.”

“I’ve never dealt with kidnappers before,” he said. “I’ve had some dealings with the common garden variety of hardcases, but no kidnappers. You’ve done business with them before, I guess.”

“A few times.”

“How was it?”

“Nasty.” I imagine.

“They kill them about half the time,” I said. “Maybe a little more than half.”

“You figure that’s what Marsh’s chances are, fifty-fifty?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “They’re not ransoming him. They’re asking a quarter of a million for the book, not for him.”

“That’s a lot of money,” Spivey said.

“It’s even more when you add on my twenty-five thousand.”

“I’m not forgetting that.”

“My lawyer gets ten percent of it.”

“Is that how you work it?” Spivey said. He seemed interested.

I nodded. “I was just wondering. You know him. Would a quarter of a million dollars be a whole lot of money to Jack Marsh?”

Spivey stared at me. “That’s crossed my mind,” he said.

“Well?”

“I’m not sure. People do funny things for that much money. Jack’s people. Maybe he decided to do something funny.”

“It’s a possibility, huh?”

“Yeah,” Spivey said. “That’s just what it is. A possibility.”

“What about the money?”

“We made arrangements with the Riggs bank here,” he said. “I can get it anytime tomorrow any way the thieves want it. They didn’t say how or when that would be, did they?”

“No.”

“What about the cops?”

“They’re trying to keep a lid on it,” I said. “The guy who’s in charge of the lid is a Lieutenant Fastnaught.”

“You know him?”

“I worked with him one time before.”

“How is he?”

“He’s all right.”

“That’s not exactly the warmest recommendation I ever heard.”

“Well, let’s put it this way,” I said. “He’s better than some and worse than others.”

“One of those, huh?”

I nodded. “One of those.”

“That leaves one other thing,” he said.

“What?”

“The FBI. If it’s a kidnapping, it’s in their ball park, isn’t it?”

“That’s how I understand it.”

“Has this Washington cop, what’s his name—”

“Fastnaught.”

“Yeah, Fastnaught. Has he filled them in?”

“I didn’t ask,” I said. “I didn’t ask because I didn’t want to remind him if he hadn’t.”

“Sounds as though you don’t much care for the FBI.”

I shrugged. “They sometimes come on pretty strong.”

“So you wouldn’t care if they weren’t brought in?”

“No, I wouldn’t care.”

“Well, if you don’t care, then I don’t care, and I don’t suppose whoever stole it would care either.”

“No,” I said. “They wouldn’t care at all.”

“That leaves Jack Marsh. What do you think?”

“Maybe he’s already past caring.”

Spivey stood up. “Yeah,” he said, “maybe he is.”

I was up and about the Lord’s business the next morning by 7:30 and so was the thief, who called at 7:35.

“You awake?” the high voice said.

“I’m awake.”

“You talk to Spivey?”

“Yes. Last night.”

“What about the money?”

“He can get it when the bank opens. They open here at nine. How do you want it?”

The voice didn’t have to think about that. “Old hundreds and twenties. Make sure they’re old.”

“No fifties?”

“All right, some fifties. But not too many.”

“How about a hundred thousand in twenties, another hundred thousand in one-hundreds, and the rest in fifties. That’ll make a neat little package.”

“How neat?”

“It’ll fit into either a large attaché case or a small suitcase. I’ll throw in whichever one you want as part of the service.”

“Make it a small suitcase.”

“All right. What next?”

“Next after you get the money is that you be back in your hotel room by ten. If we don’t call then, we’ll call you at eleven.”

“What about Jack Marsh?” I said.