Evan Hunter - Every Little Crook and Nanny

Benny Napkins was about to enter the Alitalia terminal when he suffered the fright of his life. A man, waving his arm at passing cabs, was striding along the sidewalk from the direction of the International Arrivals Building, followed by a big-breasted woman in a smartly tailored suit and a porter wheeling what appeared to be a dozen pieces of luggage.

The man looked exactly like Carmine Ganucci.

“Hey you!” he suddenly yelled at Benny. “Hey, Dummy!”

Benny stopped dead in his tracks. Whereas those had not been the exact words hurled at him in Chicago in the year 1966, when Ganucci had come there to upbraid him about the damage done to the goddamn window, the voice was unmistakable. Images of assorted mayhem, visions of drowning flashed through Benny’s mind. In panic, he thought, Ganooch is home, he knows about the kid, and then prayed hastily and briefly to both St. Joseph and the Virgin Mother, begging that Dominick had been granted safe passage to Larchmont and that fifty thousand dollars’ worth of insurance was already in Nanny’s possession. Smiling numbly, his hand outstretched, he approached Ganucci and said, “Hey, hi! What’re you doing here ? Hello there, Mrs. Ganucci. I thought you were in Italy.”

Without accepting his hand, Ganucci said, “What are you doing here?”

“I’m going to Naples,” Benny said.

“What for?”

Benny lowered his voice. “To make a delivery,” he said.

“To who?”

“To you.”

“I’m here,” Ganucci said. “Make the delivery here.”

Benny reached into his jacket pocket, and handed Ganucci the second of the thick white envelopes, figuring that the fifty thousand dollars inside was being returned to its rightful owner, which was only fair. “Thank you,” Ganucci said, “you done good.” He transferred the envelope to his own pocket, and then turned toward the curb and yelled, “Taxi!” A cruising cab pulled up immediately. Ganucci stuck his head into the open window and asked, “You make out-of-town calls?”

“No, I don’t,” the driver answered.

“Yes, you do,” Ganucci said, and opened the back door. “Come on, Stella.”

In the living room of his West End Avenue apartment, Luther poured himself a drink and sat in the chair behind his desk. There were many things to think about, many things to ponder, least of which was the smashed front door — had he broken it himself in his frenzied haste to get the boy back to Larchmont? Well, no matter; he had already called the superintendent and been advised that the lock would be repaired in the morning. The super had also mentioned that it might be best to wedge a chair under the doorknob tonight because you never knew what kind of crooks were running around the city.

Luther sipped at his drink.

There was something to be gained from this entire experience, something to be savored and...

“Are you coming to bed?” Ida asked from the doorway.

“In a moment,” he said, and then noticed that she was wearing the black nylon nightgown he had bought for her six years ago in Arnold Constable.

“Don’t be long,” she said, and turned and went out of the room.

Luther stared thoughtfully into his glass. There was no doubt in his mind that Ida had already benefited from the experience. Never before had he seen the maternal instinct so clearly revealed in man or beast. Once fermenting, who knew what such potent juices might brew? Would he himself become a father soon, protecting some helpless brood as fiercely as he had protected his kidnap scheme? The notion was not entirely fanciful; there was no question in Luther’s mind that he had behaved admirably and bravely throughout, and that these very same qualities could be brought to bear on matters of less importance or urgency, as for example making Ida pregnant.

Luther walked slowly to the bookcase. His hand reached out for the cherished volume of Martin Levin reviews. He opened the book and scanned the pages leisurely until his eye fell upon a passage of exquisitely written prose, which he also considered germane to events of the recent past and immediate future:

The masculine mystique once again is prevalent here: courage, sacrifice, coolness, grace under pressure, and a hatful of other sidelines that are irrelevant except when they are needed.

He closed the book, replaced it on the shelf, and went back to his desk. Lifting his glass to the ceiling, he said aloud, “There’s something for all of us to learn here. John? Martin? Malefaction does not yield recompense.”

He swallowed the rest of his drink and went into the bedroom where Ida was waiting.

Jeanette Kay was already asleep when Benny got back to the apartment. He peeked in at her, and then went into the kitchen to fix himself a sandwich. Whereas Jeanette Kay did not like notes, she had left one for him on the refrigerator door, held in place there by a tiny daisy-shaped magnet. Benny took the note down and read it:

Well, Benny thought, at least that part is okay. The boy is back, thank God, and Ganooch will have nothing to get excited about. Except maybe the second fifty grand. He would have to try to find The Jackass in the morning. Somewhere out in the city, The Jackass was laying on a mattress wallowing in all that money, six thousand bucks of which was Benny’s own. He would have to talk to The Jackass. He would have to patiently explain to him that even though the boy was returned and everything worked out all right, “Crimes are not to be measured by the issue of events, but from the bad intentions of men.”

He made his sandwich, ate it, and went apprehensively to bed.

“Surprise!” Carmine Ganucci shouted.

“Surprise!” Stella shouted. “We’re home, we’re home! Where’s Lewis?”

“In his bedroom, madam,” Nanny said.

“Oh, I can’t wait to see him!” Stella said, and took off her hat, and tossed it onto the hall table, and then rushed toward Lewis’s bedroom at the back of the house.

“Hello, Nanny,” Ganucci said.

“Hello, Mr. Ganucci,” Nanny said.

“I took some nice pictures in Italy,” he said.

“How nice,” she said.

“Carmine!” Stella called. “Come say hello to your son!”

Ganucci went down the corridor to Lewis’s bedroom. Stella was sitting on the bed, embracing the boy. Ganucci smiled. The kid, though no Cary Grant, looked more and more like him every day.

“How’re you doing there, Lewis?” he said, and tousled the boy’s hair, and then embraced him and kissed him on both cheeks.

“Great, Papa,” Lewis said. “But I lost my watch.”

“I’ll get you a new one,” Ganucci said, “what the hell.”

“Did you miss us?” Stella asked.

“Almost,” Lewis said.

“Huh?” Stella said.

“Well, we’re home now,” Ganucci said, “and it’s great to be here. You know what I feel like doing, Stella?”

“What, Carmine?”

“I feel like developing some of those pictures I took in Italy.”

“Now?”

“Now, Stella.” He kissed his son again, said, “See you in the morning, Lewis,” and walked out of the bedroom. Nanny was waiting for him in the corridor, near the kitchen. “Nanny,” he said, “I want to develop some of those pictures I took in Italy.”

“Now?” she said.

“Now. Do you think you could assist me in the darkroom?”

“Why, yes, Mr. Ganucci,” she said. “Of course.”

She followed him up the carpeted steps, walking behind him as she always did, and thinking of the fifty thousand dollars already tucked away in the bottom drawer of her dresser, not to mention the ticket to Naples via Rome which she could easily exchange for a ticket to London if and when life at Many Maples got too demanding. Madam Hortense, in fact, might be very happy to see her again.