Evan Hunter - Every Little Crook and Nanny

“‘Essential and urgent raise fifty delivery Saturday,’” Snitch said, narrowing his eyes as he quoted exactly from the cable now, figuring what the hell.

“Is that what the last note meant?” Nanny asked.

“Precisely,” Snitch said. He recognized that he had seen only one note (which, in fact, had been a cable rather than a note), and that he hadn’t the faintest notion whether it had been the first note, the last note, or the one in between. But he felt he had gained Nanny’s confidence, and if he could continue to sustain her belief in knowledge he did not truly possess, he might eventually get the information Bozzaris wanted. Besides, intrigue was the most exciting profession in the world.

“Saturday when?” Nanny asked.

“Don’t you know?”

“No,” she said. “I couldn’t make heads nor tails of the last note. Benny couldn’t either. I read it to him on the phone.”

“Benny?”

“Napkins.”

“Oh yes. He knows about this, huh?”

“Yes. I rang him up the moment I knew he was gone.”

“I see,” Snitch said, not knowing what she was talking about.

“Where did you see the note?” Nanny asked.

“On Mario Azzecca’s desk.”

“Mario... oh my!” she said, and put her hand to her throat again. “Does he know about it too?”

“Sure he does. It was addressed to him,” Snitch said.

“Addressed to Mario Azzecca? But why?”

“I guess because when Ganooch wants fifty thousand dollars, he drops a little note to his lawyer and tells him to get it for him. That’s why.”

“Ganooch?”

“Sure.”

“Mr. Ganucci asked Mario Azzecca for fifty thousand dollars?”

“Sure,” Snitch said, and shrugged.

Nanny looked as if she were about to faint. She leaned back against the bookcases and almost dislodged The Rubáiyát from its shelf. When she spoke again, her voice was a whisper. “He knows,” she said, her eyes wide.

“Knows what?” Snitch said.

“All about it,” Nanny said. “Oh my God, he knows all about it.” She put her hand on Snitch’s arm. “He’ll kill us. Both of us. Me, and Benny as well.” Her hand tightened. “Do you know who has him?” she asked.

“Benny? Jeanette Kay, ain’t it? He’s got an arrangement with Jeanette Kay, ain’t he?”

“No, the boy.”

“Benny’s living with a boy ?”

“I mean, do you know who the kidnapers are?” she said impatiently.

“What?” Snitch said.

“The kidnapers.”

“What?” he said again.

She was standing directly in front of him now, peering up into his eyes. “Snitch, do you know who kidnaped Mr. Ganucci’s son?” she asked, and Snitch thought, So that’s it, huh? That’s some felony, all right, that’s as big as they come. He needed time to think. There was money to be made out of this situation, if only he could figure out how. A little time was all he needed, but a little time was the one thing Nanny seemed unwilling to grant. Her hand clutched tightly onto his arm, her eyes blazing up into his, she insistently demanded once again, “Do-you-know-who-kidnaped-Lewis-Ganucci?”

“Yes,” Snitch said, figuring what the hell.

“Seven words,” Garbugli said. “A goddamn masterpiece.”

“Yes, but what do we do now?” Azzecca wanted to know.

“We call Benny Napkins and get the money back.”

“Right,” Azzecca said, and went immediately to the telephone. He dialed Benny’s number, waited, and then heard a sleepy voice say, “Hello?”

“Hello, who’s this?” Azzecca asked.

“Jeanette Kay. Who’s this?”

“Mario Azzecca.”

“Hello, Mr. Azzecca, how are you?” Jeanette Kay said.

“Fine. Is Benny there?”

“No, he’s not.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know. I was sleeping when he left.”

“He didn’t go to the airport, did he?”

“I don’t think so. Why would he go to the airport?”

“Tell him to call me the minute he gets in. And tell him not to go to Naples.”

“Why would he go to Naples?” Jeanette Kay asked.

“Just tell him,” Azzecca said, and hung up. “He’s not home,” he said to Garbugli. “You don’t think he left for the airport already, do you?”

“At three o’clock?” Garbugli said. “His plane doesn’t leave till ten tonight.”

“Lots of people like to get to the airport early,” Azzecca said. “It relieves anxiety symptoms.”

“Let’s call Nonaka and put him on the prowl.”

“Nonaka? Why him?”

“In case Benny has any thoughts about maybe not returning that money.”

“Even so. Nonaka.”

“Best man for the job, Counselor.”

“Nonaka gives me the shivers,” Azzecca said.

“Call him,” Garbugli said.

Azzecca shrugged and went to the telephone. He opened the address pad on his desk, searched through the Ns, and dialed Nonaka’s number.

“Hello?” a voice on the other end whispered.

“Let me speak to Nonaka,” Azzecca said.

“He’s not here,” the voice whispered.

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can’t you talk a little louder?” Azzecca said, annoyed.

“Yes, but thank God, I don’t have to,” the voice whispered, and hung up.

“He’s not home,” Azzecca said.

“Who’s that?” Luther Patterson asked his wife. He was standing at the window in the master bedroom, staring down at the backyard ten stories below. Ida came up beside him and looked.

“Where?” she said.

“There,” he said. “Those three men. Who are those three men?”

“I don’t see anybody,” she said.

“Near the telephone pole there. Those three men. The seedy-looking one, and the one with the beard, and the Chinaman.”

“Maybe they’re telephone repairmen,” Ida said.

“Have you ever seen a Chinese telephone repairman?” Luther asked.

“How can you tell he’s Chinese?”

“I can see him, can’t I?”

“From way up here?”

“My eyes are very good when I have my glasses on,” Luther said. “He’s Chinese.” A sudden thought occurred to him. “What did Simon say?” he asked. “Something. Something about the Chinese, or China. Something.” He rushed into the living room and pulled the Collected Works from his bookshelf. Rapidly turning pages, he came upon the review he’d been searching for. Aloud, he read:

His style is sheer chinoiserie, piling lacquered screens of paradox upon pagodas of hyperbole — sometimes a trifle schematically, but with unquenchable verve, bravado, and iconoclastic bravura.

Luther bowed his head in admiration.

“Stunning,” he whispered in awe. “Positively stunning. Look to your laurels, Mr. Updike, there’s another formidable John upon the scene.”

Ida came into the room. Hands on hips, she said, “What does Simon say? Is he Chinese?”

“He doesn’t comment,” Luther answered. “But I know a Chinaman when I see one.”

Tamaichi Nonaka Japanese.

He stood in the backyard with Benny Napkins on his left and Dominick the Guru on his right, and together they stared up at the sun-blinded windows on the rear of the building.

“It’s hard to say,” Dominick said. “I was in a lot of apartments last night.”

“The only one we’re concerned with is the one where you picked up that watch,” Benny said.