Richard Stevenson - Cockeyed

The phone rang several more times over the next half hour, and at one point Hunny had a Cnn producer on call-waiting while he talked to a reporter from Albany’s Channel Ten. He told all news people the same thing: Mrs. Van Horn was still missing and he begged anyone who knew of her whereabouts to contact the East Greenbush sheriff ’s office. He described his mother as “the sweetest old gal you’d ever want to run across” and a “real live wire” who everybody thought the world of.

Just after four-thirty, Antoine arrived and Hunny and Art both leaped up to hug him.

Hunny began to weep, and said, “Oh Antoine, girl, I am trying to hold out hope, but I’m afraid I might be losing it. I don’t know how much more of this suspense I can take. I feel like Doris Day in The Man Who Knew Too Much. I keep wanting to sing ‘Que Sera, Sera’ and then wait for Mom to join in from upstairs somewhere, CoCkeyed 75 where she’s being held captive. But we already looked in all the rooms on the second floor and up in the attic, and we’re certain that Mom isn’t here in the house.”

“Oh, Hunny, honey, you can’t lose it, girl! You have to be a tower of strength. Now, not to worry. The fire department, they’ve got about thirty folks out combing the woods and fields, and they have two church groups coming over in a little bit, Baptists and your sister Miriam’s Methodist ladies. The Presbyterians all went home to start supper, but some of them who got word will be praying for your mom. I am sure that dear lady is going to turn up any minute now, and we’re all going to just howl at the stories she has to tell.”

“I want to believe that. I want so badly to believe that.”

Art said, “Did you bring the letter?”

“I hope this is the right one. Hunny, you said it was from Cobleskill, and the one I brought is the only one with a Cobleskill return address. I didn’t look inside, as you said you preferred that I don’t. Anyway, how come? Is it blackmail or something?”

“Why would you ask that?” Hunny said.

“I don’t know. You’ve got all sorts of shady stuff in your past.

Maybe your mom does, too. Like mother, like son.”

“Where would you get that idea?”

“Hunny, honey, I’m not saying it’s the same thing. That your mom has sucked half the dicks in Albany County, plus Schenectady and Rensselaer, too, or like that. It could be something else.”

Hunny looked stunned, and Art said, “Antoine, the way you talk!”

Then suddenly they all burst out laughing, and this led to another group hug and some more cackling.

“Girl, just hand me that letter. As a matter of fact, it is blackmail. Mom embezzled some money many years ago. She paid it back, but these puke-heads from Cobleskill, this skanky bitch and her annoying husband, they’re trying to get more money out of her since I got rich, and this letter has something 76 Richard Stevenson to do with all that long-ago crapola. But don’t tell anybody at Golden Gardens. Mom is over being a criminal — it was after Dad died and she was distraught — and nobody at the home has to worry about her filching anything.”

Antoine shook his head and grinned. “Well, that Rita! Who would’ve thought. Did she do time?”

“No, the police don’t know. That’s how she got blackmailed.”

Antoine produced an envelope from his back pocket. “I sat on it, so it’s squished.”

Hunny opened the envelope and laid the contents on the kitchen table. We all bent down and studied it. The letter itself was brief. It had been typed on a word processor, and it read: Hello Rita,

Congratulations to your homosexual son for winning the Instant Warren lottery. I suppose he will now be able to indulge in many types of illicit activities that would turn the stomach of the average taxpayer.

However, we must now invoke the clause in your contract with us that triggers a higher compensatory award based on your family’s ability to pay.

We have demanded half a billion dollars from your son Huntington. If this amount is not paid by next Wednesday, we will go to the police. Also we will notify Golden Gardens and the Mount Zion Methodist Church.

Maybe you had better talk Huntington into coming to his senses and pay up. In return for your cooperation in this matter, we will return the original agreement to you and we will consider this unfortunate business, which has been so painful to all of us, closed.

Yours truly,

Your Disappointed Former Employers, A and C B — —.

Along with the letter were three photocopied pages of single-spaced typing in the form of a document. There were numbered items, lettered clauses, and subclauses with Roman numerals.

The gist of it seemed to be, Rita Van Horn admitted stealing $61,000 from Crafts-a-Palooza, and her restitution included interest payments and assorted fees and add-ons. The additional amounts were to be determined by a complex formula that was impossible for any of us to decipher. It looked like a contract for one of the adjustable-rate mortgages cooked up by the type of shyster lenders who had sent millions of people plunging into bankruptcy over the past year.

I said, “So you have never seen this agreement before?”

“No, but Miriam has a copy,” Hunny said. “Lewis said it looked real, but they didn’t want to show it to anybody to have it checked out. Miriam said it would be too embarrassing.”

Antoine said, “To me, it looks like a pile of shit.”

“I think it could be exactly that,” I said. “Or semi-shit at best.

I know a lawyer who can look it over and give us an opinion and keep his mouth shut. May I take this along? I’ll have it copied.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t make any more copies,” Hunny said.

“What if it fell into the hands of FPAAC? Or Bill O’Malley?”

The phone rang again and Hunny sighed. “If this is another reporter, I’m turning them over to Marylou. She is my press representative, and she has been doing an excellent job.”

Hunny picked up the phone and identified himself. And then almost immediately he went white.

“Yes, yes. Oh. Oh no! Yes? Oh. How much? Oh, all right, all right! Six thirty. Yes. I’ll wait for you to call.”

He hung up and said in a quavering voice, “They’ve got Mom.

They want twenty thousand dollars for her. Oh God, oh God!”

Art said, “Twenty thousand dollars? Not twenty million?”

We all looked at Hunny. “That’s what the man said.”

“They’re calling back at six thirty,” Hunny said, his voice thin and wobbly. “When they call, they’ll give us instructions on where to leave the money. The guy said don’t go to the police or they will torture Mom and kill her.” Hunny buried his head in his hands and wept. “My God, my gawwdd!”

I tried to retrieve the caller’s number but it was blocked. I said,

“We don’t know who this person is, so we can’t deal with this on our own. Six thirty is under two hours. That’s enough time to get the police to monitor and trace the next call. I think you should do that, Hunny. The alternative is to make your own arrangements for a swap — the money for your mom — and hope that these people can be trusted to keep their word, and then track them down after your mother’s been returned. But that’s risky, since we have no idea what kind of people the kidnappers are.”

Art muttered, “Those bastards.”

“Your mom is an old lady who had a good life,” Antoine said.

“But her time hasn’t come yet. I just know it. I would just pay the twenty K. Girl, that’s pocket change for you.”

I said, “The caller was a man?”

“Yes. Or a serious dyke-a-rooney. But I think a man, yes.”

“But it was not a voice you recognized?”