The Old Dick Read online

  Shit. I wasn’t usually so introspective. Sal was going to get his revenge by making me maudlin. What a way to go. “J. Spanner: Finally, after a lingering bout of morbid solemnity.”

  “So you came here to tell me I could stop worrying about you, is that it?” I said.

  “No, Jake, that’s not it” He seemed to grow more serious. He looked around. The dope smokers were still watching us, though without much interest “But this isn’t a very dignified position for two old men to have a conversation in.”

  He held out his hand. I took it and got to my feet, but not before I had almost pulled him down on top of me. The line between dignity and slapstick can be very fine.

  We went over and sat down on opposite sides of a dusty picnic table next to the chain link fence that guarded the river.

  “Every time I see this,” I said, pointing into the concrete gully, “I keep expecting to see giant ants.”

  “What?”

  “You know, from the movie Them. Giant mutant ants that lived in the storm drains.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Sure, you must’ve. About twenty-five years ago. Starred James Whitmore, I think.”

  “I was in the joint then.”

  “That’s right, of course. Well, you didn’t miss much... the movie, I mean.”

  “Hmm,” Sal said, not really paying much attention. He seemed kind of uneasy. He glanced around at the limo, which was gleaming darkly in the sun. The driver was leaning against it smoking a cigarette.

  “Looks like you’re doing okay,” I said.

  “What?” He turned back around. “Oh, yeah. I’m all right. I may have been stupid, but I wasn’t a jerk.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was putting dough away, banking it buying things, investing a little. Not a lot, but some. So when I got out, I had something waiting for me. Not like most of the punks inside, who have to start pulling jobs the moment they’re released. Thirty years’ of compound interest adds up.”

  “I guess it does.”

  “How about yourself?”

  I couldn’t see his eyes behind his dark glasses, but I didn’t need to. I could imagine the expression in them. I was wearing a loose-fitting fifties Hawaiian floral print shirt in some shiny fabric, baggy trousers of the same vintage, and much-repaired sandals, without socks. I would’ve been a hot number on Skid Row, but as it was, I looked like a senile beachcomber who had misplaced the ocean. I had better clothes. I just didn’t bother to wear them very often.

  “Today’s board of directors’ meeting for General Motors was canceled, so I decided to take it easy,” I said.

  “No, really. How are things?”

  I looked at him for a long minute. “I wasn’t stupid, but I was a jerk.”

  Sal nodded. “I see... Rough?”

  I shrugged. “It could be worse. It probably will be.”

  “This’ll sound dumb, but today I’d trade places with you.”

  He was right: it sounded dumb, and I laughed. “Okay I’ll give you this swell shirt, and you give me your limo.”

  He tried a smile, and then looked down at the long line of ants that were traversing the picnic table. I watched him watch the ants for a while. Fascinating.

  “Sal, what’re you doing here?” I finally said.

  He looked to each side, and then over his shoulder, and then at me. He took off his glasses. His eyes were tired and strained. “I need help, Jake.”

  “In what?”

  He paused. “You got a family?”

  “Not really.”

  I had a daughter in Kansas—Kansas!—who wrote me a note every few years, and a couple of grandkids I’d never seen. It was to be expected. After my wife left me to go home to her folks, I didn’t see my daughter for nearly twenty years. Now she didn’t see any reason to see me, and I couldn’t blame her. Besides, she didn’t approve of me, and that was only natural, since she supported Ronald Reagan, Anita Bryant, and any repressive, fascistic causes that came along. Imagine having a child like that! It just shows how little influence heredity has on personality. But maybe these things skip a generation, like diabetes, and her kids’ll get back on track.

  “Too bad,” Sal said. “I’ve got a grandson. Seventeen. He’s a great kid. Going to be a doctor.”

  “That’s really nice, Sal. I’m happy for you.”

  He looked down at the table. He put a bony finger across the line of ants and watched as they panicked, regrouped, and then went around the obstruction. He looked up.

  “He’s been grabbed,” he said.

  “What! Kidnapped?”

  “Yeah. A week ago.”

  “Shit, Sal. You go to the police?”

  He gave me a look that said it was a stupid question.

  “Why not?” I said. “You’re not still connected with anything, are you?”

  “No. I’ve been clean since I got out”

  “Then why not tell the cops? This is their kind of thing.”

  “Hell, Jake, I can’t do that. Habit for one thing. I never went to the cops for a problem. I can’t start now. For another, I’m an old villain. What kind of attention would they give me?”

  “You might be surprised.”

  “I doubt it. Anyway, I couldn’t trust them not to screw up.”

  I thought Sal was wrong, but I wasn’t going to argue with him about it. “So what are you going to do?”

  “Give those bastards exactly what they want.”

  “Which is?”

  “Money.”

  “How much?”

  “Three-quarters of a million.”

  “Jesus Christ! You got that much?”

  “Just. By getting rid of everything I have, I can just make it.”

  “Shit. You won’t have anything left”

  “I’ll have my grandson.”

  “Maybe.”

  Sal’s fist hit the table. “I’ll have my grandson,” he repeated, as though saying it again would make it true.

  I didn’t share his confidence; but then, it wasn’t my grandson’s neck on the line. Sal had no choice but to believe it would work.

  “What about the boy’s parents?” I said.

  “His father’s dead. His mother—my daughter—is a cheap tramp screwing her way around Europe, trying to pretend she’s not pushing fifty.”

  “At least she’s not a neo-fascist.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Go on.”

  “Even if I knew where to reach her—which I don’t—she wouldn’t be any help. Tommy’s been my responsibility since his father died. I’ve looked after him, sent him to the best schools. He’s going to go to Harvard. Think about that. A grandson of mine at Harvard. And now...”

  He turned his head away. This was all very strange. A guy I had sent to prison forty years before was sitting across from me, spilling his guts out. Sal Piccolo was nothing to me, one way or the other, just another ghost. But I felt sorry for him, or at least for his predicament. There aren’t many things that are uglier than kidnapping, and I understood why Sal had said he’d trade places with me today. Under the circumstances, I wouldn’t have accepted. The way it looked, Sal would probably lose his money and the kid. Fucking ugly. But why come to me?

  That’s what I asked him.

  “I’ve got the money,” Sal said, “and I’m going to make the drop tonight. I want you to come along.”

  What! The man was clearly unraveled. “You’re crazy,” I said.

  “No, I mean it.”

  “Why?”

  “The usual reasons. Backup. Moral support. Whatever.”

  “No—I meant, why me?”

  “Why not you?”

  “Sal, you’re not only crazy, you’re blind. Maybe you haven’t noticed, but I’m about a million years old. I just ran fifty yards in around two minutes, and nearly killed myself in the process. What the hell good would I be if there was any trouble? Come on, Sal, don’t play this thing any dumber than necessary.”
<
br />   “I don’t think I’m being dumb. What do you think I should do?”

  “I think you should go to the cops. But since you won’t do that, get somebody young, somebody strong, somebody whose body still works, for Christ sake. It shouldn’t be that hard. If you don’t know anyone—hell—the phone book is full of P.I.s and security agencies who are professionals at being bodyguards.”

  Sal shook his head. “No good.”

  “Why not?”

  “You know as well as I do, Jake. You must run into it all the time. We’re old men, and nobody takes old men very seriously. We’re just easy marks—to be played with or ripped off or fucked around... Look. A while back I hired an investigator for something. He was young and strong and tough, just like you said. He was highly recommended. Well, when the dust cleared, he had taken me for about ten grand. When I called him on it, he laughed. It was a joke. As far as he was concerned, I was old, and therefore I didn’t count. I wasn’t there, I wasn’t a man, I could be fucked around with.”

  “So you were unlucky. Not everyone’s like that.”

  “Oh?” he said, his thin lips curling in disgust.

  I knew what he meant. Every day, I was treated to the feeling that I was invisible, or useless, or taking up space—that I was senile, or feeble, or incompetent, or stupid. It wasn’t necessarily in big things, it was just a general attitude, and it took a lot of effort to overcome it. Mostly, it was too much trouble to try, so you lived up to people’s preconceptions and eventually their preconceptions became valid. You became feeble and stupid; you took up space. People have always divided the world into “us” and “them,” but when you’re old, you never fit in, so you’re always “them.” You can never be sure about, never really trust anyone a lot younger; the gulf in attitude is too great.

  I looked at Sal and shook my head. I was being maneuvered into some place I didn’t want to be, and I didn’t like it.

  “Jake,” he said, “there’s nothing between us. No love, no friendship, nothing except maybe some understanding. You’re the guy that sent me up. Okay, so what? Maybe that’s why I can come to you. You were a son of a bitch, but you were a straight son of a bitch. I need someone who I know won’t fuck me.”

  “Sal, I—”

  “Jake, I’m scared. This is my grandson, my life. Put yourself in my place.”

  Shit. He had touched all the bases, pulled all the strings. The old times, fraternity, pride, guilt, and now straight-out sentiment. He was still pretty good. What the hell could I say?

  “All right, Sal. I think you’re making a real big mistake, but if you want me to go along, I will. I don’t see how I can be any help, but if you want company, you’ve got it.”

  Sal looked at me and nodded. “Thanks, Jake.” He reached in his jacket and took out a slender wallet. Alligator, I thought.

  “What are you doing?” I said.

  “I’m going to pay you.”

  “I don’t want your money.”

  “I’m not some asshole who asks for favors and doesn’t give anything in return. I never worked like that. I pay my way.”

  “Look, I—”

  “Don’t be a schmuck, Jake. You told me to hire someone. That’s what I’m doing. Does five hundred dollars seem fair for the evening?”

  “I’m not doing this for money.”

  Why the hell was I doing it? Certainly not out of friendship. Maybe I felt sorry for him? Maybe it sounded like fun, a last bit of action? Shit, I didn’t know. But I did realize that Sal was the kind of person who had to pay. If he hadn’t bought you, he didn’t feel right about it, in control. There are a lot of people like that, who don’t trust relationships unless they can be clarified by cash.

  “Five hundred okay?” he asked, pushing five crisp bills across to me.

  I looked down at the money. If that was the way he wanted it, why not? It would put off cat food for a little while longer.

  “Yeah, five hundred’s fine.”

  I shook my head and laughed. It was actually kind of funny. After fifteen years, I was working again. For one night, I would be the world’s oldest private eye.

  Take that, Duke Pachinko.

  Shit.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Yoo-hoo, Mr. Spanner!”

  Damn.

  I had been thinking about my meeting with Sal, not paying attention to what I was doing, and I had automatically taken the most direct route from the park back to my house. Usually, I walked the long way around and approached my house from the other direction, so as to avoid just this occurrence.

  Mrs. Bernstein was a sweet lady, getting on a bit, in her late sixties, who lived a couple of doors up from me. Her husband had died about five years before, and for four years she’d been making a play for me. She always seemed to be on her small front porch, washing the window or repotting begonias or something, and she always called out to me with some sort of invitation, usually to eat. I didn’t like constantly refusing, and since there was no sneaking by, I mostly played the coward and went around the block.

  There wasn’t anything wrong with Mrs. Bernstein. Quite the contrary. She was a genuinely friendly, considerate, sympathetic, concerned, unselfish woman—who could reduce me to snarling, loutish nastiness inside of five minutes. The problem was, she was too nice, the image of Everybody’s Grandmother. She was one of those women who had a compulsion to mother you, who wasn’t happy unless she could wear herself to a frazzle, caring for you. There were lots of men who liked that, even needed it. If she could find one of those, everything would be great, because their personality kinks would complement one another. But I haven’t wanted mothering since I was eight, so Mrs. Bernstein tended to drive me crazy.

  She was also the worst cook I’ve ever known.

  Still, you could turn down somebody for only so long, before you became a complete schmuck, and two years ago I finally accepted one of Mrs. Bernstein’s invitations. To mark the occasion, she pulled out all the stops and made me what she called her “world-famous” cabbage rolls.

  Wonderful. I’ve hated cabbage rolls for probably my entire life. In fact, one of my very earliest memories was hating my own grandmother’s “world-famous” cabbage rolls. For seventy-five years I’d never been able to figure if people were sincere in their enthusiasm for them, or if that was the first example of gross hypocrisy that the young Jacob Spanovic was exposed to.

  The evening, in fact, turned out to be a lot worse than I thought it would be. Mrs. Bernstein’s cooking made my grandmother’s seem three-star. Two years later, and the recollection of that meal still made me queasy. I had been polite, though, and dutifully gave the cabbage rolls the praise that had been expected. That was my big mistake, because now, every time Mrs. Bernstein spotted me, I got invited for my “favorite dish.”

  I should have known better. The late Mr. Bernstein (when he was still early) used to come over to my place for a drink every once in a while. No matter what we started talking about—the weather, the Dodgers, or that asshole Richard Nixon—the subject always became his wife’s cooking.

  It seemed that, when they were married, the first meal the new Mrs. Bernstein fixed was cabbage rolls, the recipe for which had been passed from mother to daughter for generations. Not wanting to upset his young bride, Bernstein said the cabbage rolls were wonderful. He repeated that judgment the next three or four times they were served, and by then it was too late. After lying, out of love and kindness, there was no way he could suddenly start to tell the truth, and for the next forty years, he was given cabbage rolls twice a week. Naturally, they acquired a significance far out of proportion to their reality, and came to symbolize everything that had gone wrong with his life.

  “I figure I’ve eaten fifteen thousand cabbage rolls,” he used to say after he’d had a couple of shots of whisky, “and I’ve hated every fucking one of them.”

  “Well, why don’t you say so?”

  He’d look wistful for a minute, and then shake his head. “Too late. It’d kil
l her.” He’d knock back another shot. “But you know, Jake, there are times when I think I’d rather die than eat another fucking cabbage roll.”

  I thought about that when Bernstein was run over by a cement truck, on his way home to dinner, and I wondered what was going to be on the table that night.

  Shit.

  Everybody tries to be nice and decent and polite. No one wants to be unnecessarily nasty or to cause anyone else needless pain. So we keep our real feelings to ourselves, and little annoyances grow into great festering wounds. Hell, for all Bernstein knew, his wife hated making the damn things as much as he hated eating them, but neither of them could say anything.

  Well, Jake Spanner was on record: cabbage rolls stunk. Too bad the record wasn’t public.

  “Yoo-hoo, Mr. Spanner!” Mrs. Bernstein called again, waving a plastic spray bottle of Windex. Outside of the television screen, Mrs. Bernstein was the only person I’d ever known who said “yoo-hoo,” but the expression seemed to fit her, just like the faded print dresses she always wore.

  It didn’t look like I’d be able to fake a sudden onset of deafness or senility.

  “Oh!” I said, trying to look surprised. “Hello, Mrs. Bernstein. I didn’t notice you there.”

  “I haven’t seen you for a while, Mr. Spanner.”

  For a long time I tried to get her to call me Jake, then gave up on it.

  “I’ve been busy, Mrs. Bernstein.”

  Yeah, I had to get over to the park every day to sit in the sun and read sleazy detective stories. The fate of the Republic depended on it.