blood?"
"I can't pay what I don't have."
"You have plenty."
"I don't have a million."
"What do you have?"
He'd had time to think of the answer. "Four hundred."
"Four hundred thousand."
"Yes."
"That's less than half."
"It's four hundred thousand," he said. "It's less than some things and it's more than others. It's what I've got."
"You could get the rest."
"I don't see how. I could probably make some promises and call in some favors and raise a little that way, but not that much. And it would take at least a few days, probably more like a week."
"You assume we're in a hurry?"
"I'm in a hurry," he said. "I want my wife back and I want you out of my life, and I'm in a big hurry as far as those two things are concerned."
"Five hundred thousand."
See? There were elements he could control after all. "No," he said.
"I'm not bargaining, not where my wife's life is concerned. I gave you the top figure right away. Four."
A pause, then a sigh. "Ah, well. Silly of me to think I could get the better of one of your kind in a business deal. You people have been playing this game for years, haven't you? You're as bad as the Jews."
He didn't know how to answer that, so he left it alone.
"Four it is," the man said. "How long will it take you to get it ready?"
Fifteen minutes, he thought. "A couple of hours," he said.
"We can do it tonight."
"All right."
"Get it ready. Don't call anyone."
"Who would I call?"
HALF an hour later he was sitting at the kitchen table looking at four hundred thousand dollars. He had
a safe in the basement, a big old Mosler that weighed over a ton, itself set in the wall and screened by pine paneling and protected by a burglar alarm along with its own lock system. The bills were all hundreds, fifty in each banded stack, eighty stacks each containing five thousand dollars. He'd counted them out and tossed three and four stacks at a time into a woven plastic bushel basket Francine used for laundry.
She didn't have to do the laundry herself, for God's sake. She could hire all the help she needed, he'd told her that often enough. But she liked that, she was old-fashioned, she liked cooking and cleaning and keeping house.
He picked up the phone, held the receiver at arm's length, then dropped it in its cradle. Don't call anyone, the man had said. Who would I call? he'd demanded.
Who had done this to him? Set him up, stolen his wife away from him. Who would do something like that?
Well, maybe a lot of people would. Maybe anybody would, if they thought they could get away with it.
He picked up the phone again. It was clean, untapped. The whole house was free of bugs, as far as that went. He had two devices, both of them supposed to be state of the art, ought to be for what they cost him.
One was a telephone-tap alert, installed in the phone line. Any change in the voltage, resistance, or capacitance anywhere on the line and he'd know it. The other was a TrackLock, automatically scanning the radio spectrum for hidden microphones. Five, six grand he'd paid for the two units, something like that, and it was worth it if it kept his private conversations private.
Almost a shame there hadn't been cops listening the past couple of hours. Cops to trace the caller, come down on the kidnappers, bring Francey back to him--
No, last thing he needed. Cops would just fuck up the whole thing beyond recognition. He had the money. He'd pay it, and he'd either get her back or he wouldn't. Things you can control and things you can't--
he could control paying the money, control how that went to some degree, but he couldn't control what happened afterward.
Don't call anyone.
Who would I call?
He picked up the phone one more time and dialed a number he didn't have to look up. His brother answered on the third ring.
He said, "Petey, I need you out here. Jump in a cab, I'll pay for it, but get out here right away, you hear me?"
A pause. Then, "Babe, I'd do anything for you, you know that--"
"So jump in a cab,
"I can't pay what I don't have."
"You have plenty."
"I don't have a million."
"What do you have?"
He'd had time to think of the answer. "Four hundred."
"Four hundred thousand."
"Yes."
"That's less than half."
"It's four hundred thousand," he said. "It's less than some things and it's more than others. It's what I've got."
"You could get the rest."
"I don't see how. I could probably make some promises and call in some favors and raise a little that way, but not that much. And it would take at least a few days, probably more like a week."
"You assume we're in a hurry?"
"I'm in a hurry," he said. "I want my wife back and I want you out of my life, and I'm in a big hurry as far as those two things are concerned."
"Five hundred thousand."
See? There were elements he could control after all. "No," he said.
"I'm not bargaining, not where my wife's life is concerned. I gave you the top figure right away. Four."
A pause, then a sigh. "Ah, well. Silly of me to think I could get the better of one of your kind in a business deal. You people have been playing this game for years, haven't you? You're as bad as the Jews."
He didn't know how to answer that, so he left it alone.
"Four it is," the man said. "How long will it take you to get it ready?"
Fifteen minutes, he thought. "A couple of hours," he said.
"We can do it tonight."
"All right."
"Get it ready. Don't call anyone."
"Who would I call?"
HALF an hour later he was sitting at the kitchen table looking at four hundred thousand dollars. He had
a safe in the basement, a big old Mosler that weighed over a ton, itself set in the wall and screened by pine paneling and protected by a burglar alarm along with its own lock system. The bills were all hundreds, fifty in each banded stack, eighty stacks each containing five thousand dollars. He'd counted them out and tossed three and four stacks at a time into a woven plastic bushel basket Francine used for laundry.
She didn't have to do the laundry herself, for God's sake. She could hire all the help she needed, he'd told her that often enough. But she liked that, she was old-fashioned, she liked cooking and cleaning and keeping house.
He picked up the phone, held the receiver at arm's length, then dropped it in its cradle. Don't call anyone, the man had said. Who would I call? he'd demanded.
Who had done this to him? Set him up, stolen his wife away from him. Who would do something like that?
Well, maybe a lot of people would. Maybe anybody would, if they thought they could get away with it.
He picked up the phone again. It was clean, untapped. The whole house was free of bugs, as far as that went. He had two devices, both of them supposed to be state of the art, ought to be for what they cost him.
One was a telephone-tap alert, installed in the phone line. Any change in the voltage, resistance, or capacitance anywhere on the line and he'd know it. The other was a TrackLock, automatically scanning the radio spectrum for hidden microphones. Five, six grand he'd paid for the two units, something like that, and it was worth it if it kept his private conversations private.
Almost a shame there hadn't been cops listening the past couple of hours. Cops to trace the caller, come down on the kidnappers, bring Francey back to him--
No, last thing he needed. Cops would just fuck up the whole thing beyond recognition. He had the money. He'd pay it, and he'd either get her back or he wouldn't. Things you can control and things you can't--
he could control paying the money, control how that went to some degree, but he couldn't control what happened afterward.
Don't call anyone.
Who would I call?
He picked up the phone one more time and dialed a number he didn't have to look up. His brother answered on the third ring.
He said, "Petey, I need you out here. Jump in a cab, I'll pay for it, but get out here right away, you hear me?"
A pause. Then, "Babe, I'd do anything for you, you know that--"
"So jump in a cab,
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