Lawrence Sanders - Timothy's game

“I must blindfold you now,” the leader says. “So sorry.”

The blindfold is white, padded, and is put on so slickly that Cone figures it’s got to be fastened with Velcro. The car starts up.

“Nice night for a drive,” he offers, but no one answers, and after that he doesn’t try any chitchat.

He lets his body go slack, feeling gravity and momentum, swaying slightly when the car takes a corner. He tries to imagine the route. A right-hand turn, a straightaway with the Buick accelerating, then slowing to make another right. Now we’re around the block and heading uptown, he guesses.

He can’t get a glimmer through that thick bandage over his eyes, but he can hear traffic noises change as they pass cross-streets. He counts the number of blocks, and when the Buick veers slightly to the left, he estimates they’re about at 14th Street. They pause awhile, probably for a traffic light, then make a left turn. Heavier traffic noise now, and Cone thinks it’s got to be a wide east-west street, either 14th or 23rd.

The car slows after traveling for about four minutes, and Cone sways as it turns to the right. They go down an incline, and the Buick’s engine takes on a reverberant sound, almost like an echo. An underground garage, Cone decides. The car comes to a stop, a back door is opened. He’s helped out, gently, no rough stuff, and still carrying his lamb stew, is led about twenty feet, hands gripping both his arms. He scuffs his work shoes on concrete and smells gas and oil fumes. Now he’s convinced it’s an underground parking garage.

The men holding him press closer, and the three of them slow, stop, wait a minute. Sound of elevator door opening. Forward, with a smoother floor under his feet: tile or linoleum. Metallic sound of elevator door closing. Then they go up, and Cone silently counts off seconds: A hundred and one, a hundred and two, a hundred and three … He’s figuring two seconds per floor; the elevator stops at 118. The doors swish open, he’s ushered out.

Now he’s walking on a rug, springy beneath his feet. A long walk and Cone, counting his paces, estimates forty feet at least. His captors are no longer pressing him, so it’s got to be a wide corridor. A hotel maybe? No, they wouldn’t run the risk of bumping into guests while hustling a blindfolded man.

They halt. Three sharp raps on wood. Small squeak of a door opening. Cone’s pulled forward, stumbling a bit on thicker pile carpeting, maybe a deep shag. Around a corner. He’s thrust forward, hands on his back. Stop. A fast spatter of Chinese. Then …

A precise voice: “Mr. Cone, what is that you are carrying?”

“Lamb stew,” he says. “You can have some if you like.”

There’s a snap of fingers. The brown paper bag is taken, and Cone hears the crinkle of paper, the pop of the lid coming off the Styrofoam container.

“You are right,” the voice says, “it is lamb stew. It looks and smells dreadful.”

“It’s not so bad,” Cone protests. “It’s filling.”

“Mr. Cone, I must apologize for this unconventional method of making your acquaintance. I trust you were not physically harmed.”

“Nah,” Cone says, “your guys did a nice job. Can you take the blindfold off now?”

“I fear that would be most unwise. And please do not try to remove it yourself. There are two very quick men standing behind you, both of them armed.”

“Okay,” Cone says, “I’ll be good.”

“Excellent. This will only take a few moments, and then you will be returned to your home. Mr. Cone, I understand you are investigating the increase in the price of White Lotus stock.”

“Where did you hear that?” Cone says. Then: “Listen, if we’re going to have a confab, could I sit down?”

“I prefer you remain standing,” the voice says sharply. “I am not going to ask you to terminate your investigation, Mr. Cone. I know you are an employee of Haldering and Company, and have been assigned to the case. All I am asking is that you delay your inquiries for perhaps another week. Two weeks at the most. Surely you could do that without insurmountable objections from your employer.”

“Maybe I could,” Cone says. “But why should I?”

“Because I request it,” the voice says with a silky undertone. “In return, naturally, you may expect to profit.”

“Yeah?” Cone says. “How much?”

“Five thousand dollars. In small, unmarked bills.”

“Forget it. I work for a salary. It’s not king-sized, but it’s enough.”

“Come, Mr. Cone,” the voice says softly, “it is never enough. We all want more, do we not?”

“I got enough,” Cone insists stubbornly.

“And there is nothing in this world you want?”

“Yeah, I’ve always wanted to screw a contortionist. It’s something I’ve dreamed about for a long time.”

The voice gives a chuff of laughter, then rips off some Chinese, and the two men standing behind Cone also laugh.

“That could be arranged, Mr. Cone,” the voice says dryly.

“Just kidding,” Cone says. “Listen, I don’t like standing here with this shmatteh over my eyes, so let’s get down to the nitty-gritty. If I refuse to stall on this White Lotus thing, what happens then?”

“Please do not ask me to say it.”

“Go ahead; say it.”

“Then I am afraid we shall have to kill you, Mr. Cone.”

“Okay,” the Wall Street dick says cheerfully. “As long as I know where I stand. Give me a chance to think about your cash offer-all right?”

“How long?”

“A week.”

“Three days,” the voice says sternly. “Then we must come looking for you. You can run, but you cannot hide.”

“Good line,” Cone says, “but it’s not yours. Joe Louis. Can I go home now?”

“We shall contact you on Monday, and expect your answer at that time. Yes, you may go now.”

“Can I take my stew?”

“Please do.”

“And how about my piece?”

“Your piece?”

“My gun. Revolver. Your guys lifted it.”

“Your weapon will be returned to you, Mr. Cone. Thank you for your kind cooperation.”

There’s a long chatter of Chinese. The brown paper bag is thrust into his hands, he is gripped, and the film starts running in reverse: Around the corner, across the shag rug, through the door, along the corridor, down in the elevator to the garage, into the car, and then the drive back. Cone, counting to himself, figures it takes about fifteen minutes.

The car stops, he’s helped out, still carrying his lamb stew. The blindfold is whisked away. He stands there, blinking.

There’s another rat-a-tat of Chinese between the two alpaca jackets. One turns and starts walking south on Broadway toward the corner. The speaker is now armed with a sleek 9mm Luger which he waves at Cone.

“Your revolver will be left on the sidewalk,” he explains. “Please do not attempt to reclaim it until we have left, or we will be forced to return.”

Through bleary eyes Cone watches the other guy place his magnum on the pavement near a fire alarm box. Then he returns, and the two young Chinese climb into the car.

“Good night, Mr. Cone,” the leader calls, and the Buick accelerates, turns the corner with a chirp of tires, and is gone.

Cone goes down to the corner and reclaims his iron. He inspects it quickly under a streetlight. It looks okay. Still loaded. He slips it into his jacket pocket. Then he walks slowly back to his building. But before going upstairs, he stands a moment on the deserted street.

It has been a scarifying experience, being blind. He doesn’t want to go through that again. Now he can see the haloed glimmer of the streetlight, see the gleaming gutters of his city and, looking upward, see the glittering stars whirling their ascending courses. A blessing. More than that: a physical delight. Almost a thrill.