Evan Hunter - Every Little Crook and Nanny

“Yeah, yeah, I know. But it’s hard to tell one window from another window, you know what I mean? I mean, all windows look the same to me. You go in them, you come out of them, they all look the same.”

“ Try to remember,” Benny said. “Somewhere in that goddamn building is Carmine Ganucci’s kid. If we can bust in and get the kid back we’ll all be heroes. If not...”

“Listen, how did I get involved in this?” Dominick asked. “I was minding my own business, trying to engage in a simple act of commerce with The Silver Fox. Now all at once I’m involved in a kidnapping.”

“Me too,” Nonaka said.

“ You are involved because I am involved,” Benny said. “No man is an Iland, intire of itselfe,” he went on. “Every man is a peece of the Continent, a part of the maine; if a Clod bee washed away by the Sea, Europe is the lesse, as well as if a Promontorie were, as well as if a Mannor of thy friends or of thine owne were; any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankinde; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.”

“I never thought of it that way,” Dominick said.

“Me too,” Nonaka said.

“And besides, Ganooch will bust our heads if he ever finds out we knew which building his son was in, and couldn’t remember the apartment.”

“Maybe it was on the eighth floor,” Dominick said, and shrugged.

“Maybe is not good enough,” Benny said. “ Was it the eighth floor, or was it not? I don’t intend to go breaking down a door and suddenly find out there’s a little old lady inside whose husband is a cop.”

“Hey, there was a lady inside,” Dominick said. “In fact, the kid called her by name.”

“What did he call her?”

“Iris? Irene? Something like that. Something beginning with an I.”

“Ina?” Benny asked.

“No.”

“Ilka?” Nonaka asked.

“No.”

“Ingrid?”

“No.”

“Irma?”

“No.”

“Isabel?”

“No, no.”

“Inez.”

“No.”

“Isadora?”

“No.”

“I can’t think of any other names beginning with an I,” Benny said. “Would you recognize the apartment if you saw it again?”

“Maybe.”

“What I’m trying to say is, if you went up the fire escape there and looked in the windows, would one of the rooms seem familiar to you?”

“Maybe. But I’m not about to go up that fire escape in broad daylight.”

“What time is it now?” Benny asked.

“A little after three.”

“It won’t be dark till maybe eight, eight-thirty,” Benny said.

“So what’s the hurry?” Dominick asked.

“What’s the hurry ? Suppose they kill that little kid?”

“Nobody would do a crazy thing like that,” Dominick said.

“ I would,” Nonaka said, making conversation.

He was not, of course, referring to Carmine Ganucci’s son, though if Ganooch asked even that little favor of him, Nonaka might have been willing to comply. The thing that motivated Nonaka was that he had been 4-F during World War II (because of a slight hernia) and had never been drafted to fight. Carmine Ganucci, in Nonaka’s mind, was carrying on the noble tradition of battling the Fascist Pigs. Not that Nonaka liked breaking heads so much. What he liked most was breaking doors with his bare hands. That was what really thrilled him. He liked to bring back his arm, bent at the elbow, and then release it like a piston, the hand held stiff and rigid, and he liked to yell, “Hrrrraaaaagh!” and hit the door with the hard edge of his hand, and watch it splinter. Boy, he really liked to do that. He was disappointed that he would have to wait till it got dark to hit a door. But of course, Benny Napkins was right; you couldn’t go smashing down doors unless you knew what was on the other side of them.

Once, when Nonaka had been a much younger man, he had gone out to Hicksville (Long Island) on a job for Ganucci and had broken an aluminum screen door with one swipe of his hand, and then had given a chop at the inside wooden door, almost shattering the jamb in the bargain, and then had run into the living room, heading for the back bedroom of the small development house, where he hoped to break down yet another door. What he found on the floor of the living room was three people with bullet holes in their heads. That was when he heard a police siren coming from the vicinity of Old Country Road, and decided he had better get out of there fast because somebody had beaten him to the punch.

It was later discovered that Ganucci had got his wires crossed somehow, sending Nonaka to Hicksville instead of to Syosset, and sending the other fellows to do the job Nonaka was supposed to do. As a result, a very fancy deadbeat named Oscar the Pimp got away to Jamaica (Long Island) and had to be sought for thirty days and thirty nights before he was found living off the proceeds with a girl named Alice. It was Nonaka who finally located Oscar in the Jamaica rooming house, and therefore had the opportunity to break down first the door to the room, and then the door to the bathroom, where he found Oscar taking a bath in the same tub with Alice. Oscar later drowned.

“What do you want to do, Benny?” Dominick asked.

“Let’s go get a drink someplace, and wait till it gets dark.”

“I could use a drink,” Dominick said.

“Me too,” Nonaka said.

Carmine Ganucci had boarded a plane from Naples at 2:40 P.M. local time and had arrived at London’s Heathrow Airport at 5:05 P.M. local time, where he had transferred to another plane that left England at 6:15 P.M. local time. Because of the vagaries of date lines and daylight saving time and such, he had already been over the Atlantic Ocean for several hours by the time Snitch got back to the city. In fact, Ganucci’s plane was scheduled to land at Kennedy at 9:05 P.M., exactly six hours from the moment Snitch parked Arthur Doppio’s car in a space on Second Avenue and walked up the street to the tenement where Arthur lived with two cats and a myna bird. The bird had a vast vocabulary, knew far more Italian than Arthur did, and was often heard to shout, “Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch’entrate!” over the roar of the beer drinkers sometimes found in Arthur’s apartment.

Snitch did not know that Carmine Ganucci was airborne, otherwise he might have reconsidered. As it was, he found Arthur teaching the myna bird a new word.

“Why are you teaching him that particular word?” Snitch asked.

“I think it’s a good word for the bird to know,” Arthur said.

“It’s a word I never even heard of.”

“I got it out of the dictionary,” Arthur said.

“I never heard of it.”

“Did you ever hear of vermouth cassis?” Arthur asked.

“Never. Though a lot of information comes my way,” Snitch said.

“It’s a drink. It’s supposed to be delicious. Freddie Corriere was with a young lady last night who drank nothing but vermouth cassis. She said it was delicious. In fact, Freddie told me...”

“I don’t wish to interrupt,” Snitch said, “but how would you like to pick up some change doing nothing at all?”

“What would I have to do?” Arthur asked.

“I just told you. Nothing at all. Does the idea appeal to you?”

“Of course it does.”

“All you have to do is say you kidnaped Carmine Ganucci’s kid,” Snitch said.

“You’re crazy,” Arthur said. “I like you a lot, Snitch, but you’re crazy. Listen, would you like to hear what Freddie and this girl done last night? He met her in this bar, you see...”

“What we’ll do,” Snitch said, “is we’ll tell Nanny you’re the guy who...”