Evan Hunter - Every Little Crook and Nanny

“Who’s Nanny?”

“The Ganucci governess.”

“Oh yeah, the one he brought over from London, England, right?”

“Right.”

“What about her?”

“We’ll tell her you snatched the Ganucci kid...”

“I don’t want...”

“... and that you’ll bring him back as soon as she gives you the ransom money. How does that sound to you?”

“Terrible. I don’t want to be nowhere near nothing that smells of snatching Ganooch’s kid. Snitch, I like you a lot, I really do, but you’re a little crazy, I mean it.”

“You could wear a mask,” Snitch said.

“I don’t have a mask,” Arthur said.

“You could pull a nylon stocking over your head.”

“I don’t have no nylon stockings.”

“I know where we can get one,” Snitch said. “The Jackass has a whole drawer full of nylon stockings.”

“Then get him to help you.”

“He’s too stupid,” Snitch said. “This job requires somebody with brains.”

“Me?” Arthur said.

“Right,” Snitch said.

“How much money is involved here?”

“Fifty thousand.”

“That’s a lot of money.”

“Let’s say we could get ahold of a nylon stocking someplace,” Snitch said. “Then you could sit down and talk to Nanny with the stocking pulled over your head. And tell her to hand over the money. And promise to bring the kid back.”

“How do I do that?” Arthur said.

“Do what?”

“Bring the kid back. Where is the kid?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then how can I bring him back?”

“That’s her problem, ain’t it?”

“It’s also my problem if Ganooch finds out I took fifty G’s from the little lady he’s got living there in his house.”

“How could Ganooch find out? And how could anybody know it’s you if you got a stocking pulled over your head?”

Arthur thought this over for a few moments.

“Why not?” he said at last.

“Why not?” Snitch said.

“Intercourse,” the myna bird said.

It was strange how something could be sitting there right under a person’s nose, and a person could never notice it. Take Marie Pupattola.

“Take a letter, Marie,” Azzecca said.

“Yes, Mr. Azzecca,” she answered.

She was sitting in a chair opposite his desk, her long legs crossed, her red hair burnished by the late afternoon sun that streamed through the windows. She was wearing a very short skirt which she occasionally tugged at but which for the most part she seemed content to leave exactly where it was, allowing Azzecca the opportunity to look clear up to her behind. It was strange how he had never noticed before.

“How long have you been working here?” Azzecca said.

“Is this the letter?” Marie asked.

“No, it’s a question.”

“I’ve been working here for seventeen months, Mr. Azzecca. Didn’t you know that?”

“I knew it was more than a year, but I didn’t know it was seventeen months.”

“Yes,” Marie said, and tugged at her skirt.

“You are a very pretty girl, Marie.”

“Why thank you, Mr. Azzecca,” Marie said.

“Why don’t you come sit on my lap?” Azzecca said.

“Why, Mr. Azzecca!” Marie said in surprise.

“It would be more comfortable than your chair,” Azzecca said, “and also I wouldn’t have to shout while dictating.”

“My chair is very comfortable,” Marie said, “and also I can hear you fine, Mr. Azzecca.”

“Don’t you like me?” Azzecca asked.

“You are a wonderful employer, Mr. Azzecca,” Marie said.

“Then why won’t you come sit on my lap?”

“Oh well,” Marie said, and shrugged.

“You are a very pretty girl, Marie, did I tell you that?”

“Yes, Mr. Azzecca. You told me that a few minutes ago.”

“It’s funny that I never noticed it until yesterday afternoon when you were lying about Snitch having seen that cable.”

“I wasn’t lying, Mr. Azzecca.”

“You were lying, Marie, and lying is a serious thing. I know people who have actually been fired for lying about something that was terribly serious and important to their employers.”

“Oh, but I wasn’t lying. Mr. Delatore was sound asleep when I put the cable on your desk. I swear to God.”

“Don’t take the name of the Lord in vain, Marie,” Azzecca said.

“Well, it’s true,” she said, and shrugged again.

“Come sit on my lap, Marie.”

“Well, why don’t you just give me the letter?” Marie suggested.

“Marie, I am going to tell you something. Do you know, Marie, that I have been married for twenty-seven years to the same woman?”

“I didn’t know that, Mr. Azzecca.”

“It’s the truth. Twenty-seven years. I have been married to an Irish girl for twenty-seven years. Sybil. She’s Irish. Sybil Brogan was her maiden name. Do you know what my father, may he rest in peace, said to me when I told him I was going to marry an Irish girl?”

“What did he say, Mr. Azzecca?”

“He said, ‘You’re going to marry a what ?’”

“What did you say?”

“I said, ‘An Irish girl.’”

“What did he say?”

“He didn’t say anything. He stuck his head in the oven.” Azzecca smiled. “That’s a little joke, Marie. He didn’t really stick his head in the oven. I was making a little joke.”

“Oh,” Marie said.

“What my father really said was, ‘Listen, Mario, it’s your funeral.’”

“What a terrible thing to say!” Marie said.

“Terrible,” Azzecca said. “Do you want to know something?”

“What?”

“He was right.”

“Oh, Mr. Azzecca!” Marie said.

“Marie, he was right. What’s right is right, my father was right. Twenty-seven years to the same woman, and do you know what I’ve got? I’ve got an eight-by-ten study in a twelve-room apartment. Would you believe that, Marie?”

“Oh, that’s terrible, Mr. Azzecca,” Marie said.

“Is it terrible? It is terrible, isn’t it? Do you know what my main pleasure in life is, Marie?”

“What, Mr. Azzecca?”

“Looking at the Delacorte fountain.”

“Oh, please, Mr. Azzecca, you’ll make me cry.”

“I’m just a person, Marie, like anyone else. A human being who craves affection every now and then. Don’t we all, Marie? Tell the truth.”

“Oh yes, Mr. Azzecca.”

“So come here and sit on my lap.”

“I don’t think I could, Mr. Azzecca.”

“You could, you could. Give it a try.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Marie said, and shook her head, and uncrossed her legs, and then crossed them again, and tugged at her skirt. “Why don’t you just give me the letter, Mr. Azzecca? I think that would be best all around.”

“I know what you’re thinking, Marie. You’re thinking it would be wrong, am I right?”

“Right, right.”

“You’re a nice Italian girl, a Catholic, you’re probably still a virgin...”

“Yes, probably.”

“... and you’re thinking why should you start up with a man who’s been married to the same Irish woman for twenty-seven years, that’s what you’re probably thinking. You’re thinking it would be wrong.”

“That’s right, Mr. Azzecca.”

“Why would it be wrong, Marie?”

“It just would,” Marie said, and shrugged.

“Marie, it would be beautiful. Marie, there are arrangements all over this city, all over the world, Marie. Lonely people make arrangements with each other, Marie, because they need each other. Did you ever read a book called The Arrangement, Marie?”

“No, I don’t think so.”