Evan Hunter - Every Little Crook and Nanny

“Are you sure?” Benny Napkins asked.

“Positive.”

The three men crouched outside the window, peering into the bedroom. The sounds of the building seemed suddenly augmented, television sets blaring to the open-windowed night, toilets flushing, a woman laughing, someone practicing the piano, while far off on the street below, honking horns and grinding buses provided a staccato counterpoint. Nonaka listened nostalgically to the night music of the city and hummed again the song he’d learned at P.S. 80 on 120th Street, back when he’d been the only true American in a class of forty Wops.

They entered the apartment stealthily.

Dominick was the first to go in. He fell over the sill and knocked over a floor lamp.

“Shhh,” Nonaka said behind him.

“Shhh,” Benny said.

They picked Dominick up, righted the floor lamp, and waited silently while their eyes adjusted to the darkness.

“This is the room, all right,” Dominick whispered. “There’s the bed over there, and here’s the dresser where I grabbed the watch.”

“So where’s the kid?” Benny whispered.

“I don’t know,” Dominick whispered.

Listening, they stood in the darkness.

“There’s nobody here,” Dominick said at last.

“How can you tell?”

“I’m an experienced burglar, I can tell. There’s nobody here, the place is empty. Come on,” Dominick said, and flicked on the lights.

Benny and Nonaka followed him into the corridor. The light from the open bedroom door illuminated a row of framed abstract prints, half a dozen in all, each in varying shades of blue and green that seemed to modulate into an oil painting hanging beside and beyond the last print, a huge gilt-framed canvas of an old lady drawing water from a well. Dominick, preceding them, threw another switch. An overhead light, covered with an imitation Tiffany shade, bathed the corridor in emerald-amber, tinting the old lady’s face a deeper green and giving her a somewhat bilious look.

On the wall opposite the painting, there hung four framed photographs of men Benny had never seen or heard of, each gentleman identified by a small brass plaque set into the frame’s molding, their respective and undoubtedly respected names engraved in discreet scroll: Gilbert Millstein, Lester Goran, Richard P. Brickner, and Nat Freedland. Over the entrance door to the next room, there was a pair of crossed Saracen swords that appeared to be razor-sharp. Dominick, like the village lamplighter, kept throwing switches, illuminating the way before them.

The room beyond the Saracen swords was a living room, or a library, it was difficult to tell which. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined one entire wall, running the length of the room to the windows at the far end. A desk stood before the windows, catching only a faint glow of light from West End Avenue, far below. Dominick turned on the desk lamp, throwing into bright illumination a pair of scissors, a paste-pot, a ream of white bond, a typewriter, and countless scraps and snippets of paper.

“This has got to be it,” Benny said, sitting in the wing chair. “He probably made the notes right at that desk there.”

“The scene of the crime,” Dominick said, nodding, and sat in the chair behind the desk.

Nonaka stood by the fireplace, scowling. He was beginning to realize there’d be no damn doors to smash tonight; the knowledge was depressing and irritating.

“This is the first place I ever burglarized where I also sat down,” Dominick said. “Usually, it’s in, out, bingo.”

“Only one thing to do now,” Benny said thoughtfully.

“What’s that?” Dominick asked.

“Go to Naples,” Benny said.

“Right,” Dominick said.

Benny nodded and reached into his jacket pocket. “Dominick,” he said, “I am going to trust you to take this envelope to Ganooch’s house in Larchmont, and give it to Nanny.” He pulled one of the thick white envelopes from his pocket, fully realizing that he was handing fifty thousand dollars to someone who, by his own admission, was an experienced burglar, but figuring what the hell. “Tell Nanny may God help her in getting back that poor little kid from the maniacs that have got him,” Benny said.

“Amen,” Dominick said.

They walked to the front door. Nonaka suddenly crouched, shouted, “Hrrrrraaaaaaaaaaagh!” and gave the door a devastating shot with his right hand, splintering the wood near the lock. In the hallway outside, a woman in curlers opened her own door as they went past.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Vice Squad,” Dominick said.

In the driveway of Many Maples, Luther and the boy paused before one of the rear windows, some three feet above the ground.

“That’s it,” Lewis said. “That’s my bedroom.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” he said.

“All right, I’m going to boost you up there,” Luther said, “but first I wish to reiterate the terms of our agreement. You are not to tell anyone where you’ve been...”

“Okay,” Lewis said.

“And you are not to reveal to anyone the identity of the people with whom you were staying.”

“I wouldn’t do that, anyway,” Lewis said. “Ida’s my friend.”

“What about me ?” Luther asked, offended.

“You?” Lewis said, and stepped into Luther’s hands, and climbed over the sill into his room.

Bozzaris kept saying, “Uh-huh” into the telephone. He had been on the telephone from almost the moment he’d led Snitch into his office. Snitch assumed he was talking to someone at the lab, because whenever Bozzaris did not say “Uh-huh,” he said, “But what about semen stains?” At last, he said, “Well, you work it out, I’ll get back to you in the morning,” and replaced the phone on its cradle. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Snitch,” he said, “but first things first. In this corrupt and rotten city, we must deal with crime as it occurs, without favor or prejudice.” He smiled broadly, put both elbows on the desk, laced his fingers together, and rested his chin on his hands. “Now then,” he said, “what’s this major felony you’ve got?”

“Does the twenty-five-dollar offer still hold?” Snitch asked.

“Of course.”

“The major felony is a kidnaping.”

Bozzaris opened his eyes wide and whistled softly. “Who’s been kidnaped?”

“Carmine Ganucci’s son.”

Bozzaris whistled again. For the second time in as many days, the overpowering stench of money flooded into his nostrils and caught in his throat, almost causing him to gag. In all his years of experience, he had never heard of a kidnaping that did not involve a ransom demand. Nor was the kidnaping of Ganooch’s son any small-time endeavor; the ransom demand here would undoubtedly be astronomical. Be that as it may, he thought, kidnaping and ransom demands alike are evil. It is my job to combat evil in all its slimy forms, and furthermore, to intercept any and all funds gained through evil means, which everyone knows are only earmarked for future evil undertakings. The roots, he thought. Strike at the roots, hack them away, and the mighty tree of corruption will fall, while simultaneously the squad’s healthy and vigorous pension and retirement fund will spread its branches toward the beneficial rains of summer and grow to fruition perhaps sooner than expected.

“The information is worth twenty-five dollars,” Bozzaris said.

“Thank you,” Snitch said.

“You are a good man and a trusted adviser,” Bozzaris said, opening the top drawer of his desk.

“Thank you,” Snitch said.

“I hope you don’t mind being paid in singles.”

“No, that would be fine, thank you,” Snitch said.

“We have been picking these up here and there around town during the past month,” Bozzaris said, and handed a sheaf of bills across the desk.