Antoine shook his head and grinned. “Well, that Rita! Who would’ve thought. Did she do time?”
“No, the police don’t know. That’s how she got blackmailed.”
Antoine produced an envelope from his back pocket. “I sat on it, so it’s squished.”
Hunny opened the envelope and laid the contents on the kitchen table. We all bent down and studied it. The letter itself was brief. It had been typed on a word processor, and it read: Hello Rita,
Congratulations to your homosexual son for winning the Instant Warren lottery. I suppose he will now be able to indulge in many types of illicit activities that would turn the stomach of the average taxpayer.
However, we must now invoke the clause in your contract with us that triggers a higher compensatory award based on your family’s ability to pay.
We have demanded half a billion dollars from your son Huntington. If this amount is not paid by next Wednesday, we will go to the police. Also we will notify Golden Gardens and the Mount Zion Methodist Church.
Maybe you had better talk Huntington into coming to his senses and pay up. In return for your cooperation in this matter, we will return the original agreement to you and we will consider this unfortunate business, which has been so painful to all of us, closed.
Yours truly,
Your Disappointed Former Employers, A and C B — —.
Along with the letter were three photocopied pages of single-spaced typing in the form of a document. There were numbered items, lettered clauses, and subclauses with Roman numerals.
The gist of it seemed to be, Rita Van Horn admitted stealing $61,000 from Crafts-a-Palooza, and her restitution included interest payments and assorted fees and add-ons. The additional amounts were to be determined by a complex formula that was impossible for any of us to decipher. It looked like a contract for one of the adjustable-rate mortgages cooked up by the type of shyster lenders who had sent millions of people plunging into bankruptcy over the past year.
I said, “So you have never seen this agreement before?”
“No, but Miriam has a copy,” Hunny said. “Lewis said it looked real, but they didn’t want to show it to anybody to have it checked out. Miriam said it would be too embarrassing.”
Antoine said, “To me, it looks like a pile of shit.”
“I think it could be exactly that,” I said. “Or semi-shit at best.
I know a lawyer who can look it over and give us an opinion and keep his mouth shut. May I take this along? I’ll have it copied.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t make any more copies,” Hunny said.
“What if it fell into the hands of FPAAC? Or Bill O’Malley?”
The phone rang again and Hunny sighed. “If this is another reporter, I’m turning them over to Marylou. She is my press representative, and she has been doing an excellent job.”
Hunny picked up the phone and identified himself. And then almost immediately he went white.
“Yes, yes. Oh. Oh no! Yes? Oh. How much? Oh, all right, all right! Six thirty. Yes. I’ll wait for you to call.”
He hung up and said in a quavering voice, “They’ve got Mom.
They want twenty thousand dollars for her. Oh God, oh God!”
Art said, “Twenty thousand dollars? Not twenty million?”
We all looked at Hunny. “That’s what the man said.”
“They’re calling back at six thirty,” Hunny said, his voice thin and wobbly. “When they call, they’ll give us instructions on where to leave the money. The guy said don’t go to the police or they will torture Mom and kill her.” Hunny buried his head in his hands and wept. “My God, my gawwdd!”
I tried to retrieve the caller’s number but it was blocked. I said,
“We don’t know who this person is, so we can’t deal with this on our own. Six thirty is under two hours. That’s enough time to get the police to monitor and trace the next call. I think you should do that, Hunny. The alternative is to make your own arrangements for a swap — the money for your mom — and hope that these people can be trusted to keep their word, and then track them down after your mother’s been returned. But that’s risky, since we have no idea what kind of people the kidnappers are.”
Art muttered, “Those bastards.”
“Your mom is an old lady who had a good life,” Antoine said.
“But her time hasn’t come yet. I just know it. I would just pay the twenty K. Girl, that’s pocket change for you.”
I said, “The caller was a man?”
“Yes. Or a serious dyke-a-rooney. But I think a man, yes.”
“But it was not a voice you recognized?”
“No, I’d have recognized a voice I recognized. Oh, Lord, what am I saying? I think I need a drink. Artie, dear, can you fetch me the Jack Daniels?”
“Of course, luv.”
Art retrieved a bottle from under the sink and said to Hunny,
“Anyway, you don’t have twenty thousand dollars in cash. How much do you think you have on hand?”
“Seventy or eighty dollars.”
“I might have a hundred.”
“I could come up with forty,” Antoine said.
“I have the billion dollars in my checking account,” Hunny said. “But my ATM limit is five hundred a day.”
“Even if you went to forty different AtMs,” Antoine said, “I don’t think it works that way. I’ve tried it.”
The phone rang again and Hunny grabbed the receiver.
“Huntington Van Horn speaking. No, no, I have not. Now, I am quite busy. Please speak to my press representative, Mrs.
Whitney. I’ll send her out in a few minutes, but right now she is helping the boys with their homework.”
Hunny hung up and said, “It’s that obnoxious woman from Focks News. She says Bill O’Malley wants to interview me tonight at the Focks studios in Albany, and do I have a lawyer yet, and when can I do a pre-interview? I told her to talk to Marylou.
In fact, I think Bill O’Malley should interview Marylou instead.
I’ve had my fifteen minutes of fame, and do you know what? I am sick of it. If I hadn’t won the lottery, none of this with the Brienings and the blackmailers and the kidnappers would ever have happened! Oh, God, God, what should I do about Mom?
Oh, poor, poor Mom. Donald, do you really think they would hurt an old lady like that? Oh, she must be so frightened.”
“I don’t know if they would actually harm your mother, Hunny. But because we know nothing really about who we’re dealing with here, it’s probably best to notify the police. The Albany cops have some competent people working for them these days, and they and the state police have the resources to put an operation together fast. They could trace the call when it comes in at six thirty, and they could monitor the cash pickup
— and maybe even arrange for you to borrow the cash — and then track the kidnappers to wherever you mom is being held.
The twenty thousand figure suggests to me that these people are small-bore amateurs who aren’t likely to grasp what they’re really into. This doesn’t sound like the mob or some Mexican drug cartel or a major psychopath. What it sounds like is some opportunistic hapless dorks. These are the kinds of people cops run into all the time, and dealing with them is generally a piece of cake.”
Hunny slugged back some of his whiskey and thought this over. “I guess you’re right, Donald. Let the pros take over. I just have such bad memories of the Albany cops. In the seventies and eighties I had some unfortunate run-ins. For girls like us, they were the Gestapo.”
“I remember. But nearly all of those goons are gone. I know somebody in the department I can call and get the ball rolling if you decide that’s the way you want to go, and it’s what I suggest.
But you really have to decide now.”
