Stolen Away

He snorted again, skeptically. “What kind did you mean?”

“The Chicago kind.”

“And what, pray tell, is the Chi-”

He didn’t finish the question, because I’d stuck the barrel of the nine millimeter in his mouth.

“We use this kind of lie detector in Chicago,” I explained.

His eyes were as wide as Mickey Mouse’s, and just as animated. His dimples had returned but, with his mouth full like that, he wasn’t smiling.

I was. “Get down on your knees, Means, and do it smooth. This has a hair trigger, and so do I.”

Carefully, he got down on his knees, a kneeling Buddha on an Oriental carpet, unwillingly suckling the Browning all the way.

Once he was settled in his prayerlike posture, he made some sounds; he seemed to want to know what I wanted.

“Names, Means. I want the names of the people that did the job.”

He made more sounds around the gun, apparent protestations of innocence, of ignorance. I pushed upward, so the gun-sight would cut the roof of his mouth. He began to cough, which was dangerous. His spittle turned reddish. He began to cry. I had never seen a man that big cry, before. I would have felt sorry for him if he weren’t the scum of creation.

“Nod,” I said, “if you’re ready to tell the truth.”

Choking a little, he nodded.

“Okay,” I said, and slid the gun out of his mouth. It dripped with his reddish saliva, and I wiped it off on his suitcoat, disgustedly.

“Max Hassel,” he said, breathing hard. “And Max Greenberg.”

“Are you making that up?”

“No! No.”

“They’re both named Max?”

“Yes! Yes.”

“Who are they?”

“Bootleggers.”

They would be.

“Where can I find them?”

“Elizabeth.”

“New Jersey?”

“New Jersey,” he nodded.

“Where in Elizabeth?”

“Carteret Hotel.”

“Be specific.”

“Eighth floor.”

“Good. More names.”

“That’s all I know. I swear to God, that’s all.”

“Hassel and Greenberg are the kidnappers?”

“They engineered it. They didn’t do it themselves. They used their people. People who were selling beer to Colonel Lindbergh’s servants, and the Morrow house servants.”

“Was one of the servants in on it?”

He nodded. “Violet Sharpe-but they just used her. The little bitch didn’t know what she was doing.”

I slapped him. Hard. I slapped him again. Harder.

“What…what else do you want to know?” he asked, desperately.

“Nothing,” I said. “I just want to slap you around some, you fat fuck.”

His cheeks were red and burning and tear-streaked; he looked pitiful, on his knees, the world’s biggest altar boy, caught with his hand in the collection plate.

“If Hassel and Greenberg aren’t for real,” I said, “you’re going to take the lie-detector test again, Means-and you’re going to flunk.”

“They’re…they’re for real,” he said, thickly.

“If you say a word to them, or anyone, about our conversation, I’ll kill you. Understood?”

He nodded.

“Say it,” I said.

“If I say a word to anybody, you’ll kill me.”

“Do you believe me?”

He nodded; there was still red spittle on his face.

“Good. Are you really in contact with the kidnap gang?”

Without hesitation, he nodded.

“Is the boy alive?”

Without hesitation, he nodded.

“Do you know where he is?”

Now he hesitated, but he shook his head, no.

“Who is the fellow ‘the Fox’?”

He swallowed. “Norman Whitaker. A friend of mine. Old cellmate.”

“He’s not in on the kidnapping?”

“No. He’s with me.”

“What’s his function?”

Means shrugged. “Color.”

“Color. What about Evalyn’s dough?”

“I still have it.”

“You still have it.”

“I swear. I really have been trying to negotiate the return of that dear child.”

“Stop it or you’re going to get slapped some more. What’s the extra thirty-five grand for?”

He pressed his hands over his heart. “That was true, all of it…I did go to Chicago, the gang can’t move that marked cabbage…I swear to God.”

I smacked him along the side of the head with the nine millimeter; he tumbled over, heavily, like something inanimate, and the furniture around him jumped.

But he wasn’t out, and it hadn’t cut him; he’d be bruised, that was all.

“All right,” I said, kicking him in the ass. He was on his side. He looked up at me with round hollow eyes. There was something childlike in his expression. I gestured impatiently with the gun.

“Get up,” I said. “Go home. Talk to fucking no one. Wait for Evalyn to call.”

He got up, slowly. His face was soft, weak, but the eyes had turned hard and mean. If he was like a child, in his endless self-serving fabrications spun from fact and fancy, it was an evil, acquisitive child, the kind that steals another kid’s marbles, the kind that steps on anthills.

I’d gone to great lengths to prove to him I was dangerous; but despite his tears and cowardice, Means remained goddamn dangerous himself.

I gave him his hat and, sans slugs, his gun.

“Who are you?” Means said, thickly.

“Somebody you never expected to meet.”

“Oh, really?” he said, archly, summoning some dignity. “And who would that be?”

“Your conscience,” I said.

He snorted, coughed, and lumbered out.

I sat on the couch, waiting for Evalyn. I didn’t have long to wait; she came down the stairs as if making a grand entrance at a ball, despite her dowdy bathrobe. She’d gone around somewhere and come out on that balcony and eavesdropped the whole encounter.

She moved slowly toward me; the shadows of the fire danced on her. Her face was solemn, her eyes glittering.