From behind a cloud of cigarette smoke the fat man regarded Miguel warily. “So it’s you again. Your friends didn’t tell me you were coming.”
“No one knew.”
“What do you want?” Whatever Godoy’s motivations in doing business with Miguel in the first place, it was clear he now had reservations.
“I’ve been asked to do a favor for an elderly friend. He’s seen the caskets I bought for my parents, likes the idea, and asked if I would …”
“Aw, cut it out!” An old-fashioned cuspidor was beside Godoy’s desk. Removing his cigarette, he spat into it. “Listen, mister, don’t waste time with what both of us know is a potful of crap. I said what is it you want?”
“One casket. To be paid for as before.”
Godoy peered forward through shifty eyes. “I run a business here. Sure, sometimes I oblige your friends; they do the same for me. But what I want to know from you is: Am I setting myself up to land in some shit?”
“There’ll be no shit. Not if you cooperate.” Miguel let his own voice take on menace and it had an effect.
“All right, you got it,” Godoy said, his tone more moderate. “But since last time the price has gone up. For that same adult model, four thousand.”
Without speaking, Miguel opened the pressboard wallet José Antonio Salaverry had given him and began counting hundred-dollar bills. He handed forty to Godoy who said, “Plus two hundred ’n’ fifty New York tax.”
Re-tying the tape of the the pressboard wallet, Miguel told Godoy, “You and New York go fuck yourselves.” Then: “I have transport outside. Get the casket to your loading dock.”
On the dock, Godoy was mildly surprised to see a hearse appear. The two previous caskets, he remembered, had been taken away in a truck. Still suspicious of his visitor, Godoy memorized the numbers and letters on the hearse’s New York license plate and, when back in his office, wrote them down, though not really knowing why. He pushed the piece of scratch paper into a drawer and promptly forgot it.
Despite a belief that he had been involved in something it would be safer not to know more about, Godoy smiled as he put away the four thousand dollars in an office safe. Some of the previous cash his recent visitor had paid a month ago was also in the safe, and not only did Godoy have no intention of paying New York sales tax on either transaction, he did not intend to declare it on his tax returns either. Juggling his business inventory to make the three caskets disappear from his books would be easy. The thought so cheered him that he decided to do what he often did—go to a nearby bar for a drink.
Several of Godoy’s cronies at the bar welcomed him. A short time later, mellowed by three Jack Daniel’s whiskeys, he related to the group how some punk had bought two caskets and put them—so he said—in his parents’ home, ready for the old folks to croak, and then come back for another casket, all of it like he was buying chairs or saucepans.
As the others roared with laughter, Godoy further confided that he’d outsmarted the dumb punk by charging three times the caskets’ regular price. At that, one of his friends added a cheer to the laughter, prompting Godoy—all his worry now dissipated—to order another round.
Among those at the bar was a former Colombian, now a U.S. resident, who wrote a column for an obscure Spanish-language weekly published in Queens. On the back of an envelope, using a stub of pencil, the man wrote the gist of Godoy’s story, translating it to Spanish as he did. It would make a good little item, he thought, for next week’s column.
7
At CBA News it had been a frantic day, especially for the Sloane kidnap task force.
Producing a comprehensive report on the kidnapping for the National Evening News continued to be the focus of activity, though other events, some major, were happening elsewhere in the world.
The kidnap story had been allotted five and a half minutes—an extraordinary duration in a business where fifteen-second segments were fiercely fought over. As a result, almost the entire effort of the task force was devoted to that day’s production, leaving virtually no time for longer-term planning or reflection.
With Harry Partridge anchoring the opening portion of the news, the evening broadcast began:
“After thirty-six hours of agonized waiting there is no fresh news about the family of CBA anchorman Crawford Sloane, whose wife, young son and father were kidnapped yesterday morning in Larchmont, New York. The whereabouts of Mrs. Jessica Sloane, eleven-year-old Nicholas, and Mr. Angus Sloane remain unknown.”
As each name was mentioned, a still photo appeared over Partridge’s shoulder.
“Also unknown are the identities, objectives, or affiliations of the kidnappers.”
A fast cut to Crawford Sloane’s troubled face filling the screen. Sloane’s distraught voice pleaded, “Whoever you are, wherever you are, for god’s sake make yourself known! Let us hear from you!”
Partridge’s voice returned over an exterior shot of FBI headquarters, the J. Edgar Hoover Building in Washington. “While the FBI, now in charge of the investigation, is withholding comment …”
Briefly the scene changed to the FBI press office and a spokesman saying, “At this moment it would not be helpful to make any statement.”
Partridge again: “… privately, FBI officials admit no progress has been made.
“Since yesterday an outpouring of concern and anger have come from highest levels …”
A dissolve to the White House press room, the President speaking: “Such evil has no place in America. The criminals will be hounded down and punished.”
Partridge: “… and in humbler places …”
From Pittsburgh, a hard-hatted black steelworker, his face shining in the light from a fiery furnace: “I’m ashamed something like this could happen in my country.”
In a bright Topeka kitchen, a white housewife: “I cannot understand why no one foresaw what’s happened and took precautions. My heart goes out to Crawford.” Gesturing to a TV set: “In this house he’s like family.”
Seated at her classroom desk in California, a young, soft-voiced Eurasian girl: “I’m worried about Nicholas Sloane. It isn’t fair they took him.”
During the day, camera crews of CBA and affiliated stations across the country had sought public reactions. The network had viewed fifty and selected those three.
The scene shifted to the Sloane house at Larchmont that morning in the rain—a long shot of the waiting crowd in the street, then, moving in close, a pan across their faces. Over the image, Partridge’s voice: “In part because of intense public interest, today new tragedy intruded.”
The voice-over continued, alternating with natural sound, more pictures: emergence of the two unmarked FBI cars from the driveway … the surge of onlookers into the first car’s path … the first car braking, then out of control and sliding … a shriek of tires followed by screams from the injured … others frantically scrambling clear of the second car, which then continued on … a close-up of Crawford Sloane’s bewildered face … the second car speeding away.
During editing, some objections had been raised about including the shots of Sloane’s face and the disappearing car. Sloane himself claimed, “It gives a wrong impression.”
But Iris Everly, who put most of the spot together, working through the day with one of CBA’s best tape editors, Bob Watson, argued for its inclusion and won. “Whether Crawf likes it or not,” she pointed out, “it’s news and we should stay objective. Also, we’re looking at the only piece of action since yesterday.” Rita and Partridge had supported Iris.
The tempo changed to a skillful recap of the previous day. It began with Priscilla Rhea, the frail and elderly ex-schoolteacher, again describing the brutal seizure of Jessica, Nicky and Angus Sloane outside the Larchmont supermarket.
Minh Van Canh had used his camera creatively, going in for an extreme close-up of Miss Rhea’s face. It showed the deep lines of age with every wrinkle in sharp relief, but also brought out her intelligence and sturdy character. Minh had coaxed her with
gentle questions, an occasionally used procedure. When no correspondent was present, experienced camera people sometimes asked questions of those they were photographing. The questions were erased later from the audio recording, but the answers remained for use as statements.
After describing the struggle on the parking lot and the Nissan van’s departure, Miss Rhea said of the kidnappers, her voice rising, “They were brutal men, beasts, savages!”
Next, the Larchmont police chief confirmed that there had been no breakthrough in the case and the kidnappers had not been heard from.
Following the recap was an interview with the criminologist, Ralph Salerno.
With Salerno in a Miami studio and Harry Partridge in New York, the interview had been recorded via satellite late that afternoon. The recommendation by Karl Owens proved a good one and Salerno, an authoritative figure, was eloquent and well informed. He so impressed Rita Abrams that she arranged for him to be available exclusively to CBA for the duration of the crisis. He would be paid $1,000 for each broadcast appearance, with a minimum guarantee of four.
Although TV networks claimed not to pay for news interviews—a statement not always true—a consultant fee was different and acceptable.
“The progress of investigation after any efficiently executed kidnap,” Ralph Salerno declared, “depends on hearing from the kidnappers. Unless and until that happens, there is usually a stalemate.”
Answering a question by Partridge, he continued: “The FBI has a high success ratio in kidnappings; they solve ninety-two percent of cases. But if you look carefully at who was caught and how, you’ll find most solutions depended on first hearing from the kidnappers, then trapping them during negotiations or payment of a ransom.”
Partridge prompted, “So the likelihood is that not much will happen until these kidnappers are heard from.”
“Exactly.”
A final statement in the special news segment was made by CBA’s corporate president, Margot Lloyd-Mason.
It had been Leslie Chippingham’s idea to include Margot. Soon after breaking into the network with the kidnap bulletin yesterday, he reported to her by telephone and did so again this morning. Her reaction had, on the whole, been sympathetic and after their first conversation she telephoned Crawford Sloane, expressing hope that his family would be recovered quickly. While speaking with the news president, though, she added two caveats.
“Part of the reason something like this happens is that networks have misguidedly let anchor people become larger than life, so the public thinks of them as something extra-special, almost gods.” She did not elaborate on how a network could control public concepts, even if it wished, and for his part, Chippingham saw no point in arguing the obvious.
The other proviso concerned the kidnap task force.
“I don’t want anyone—and that principally means you,” Margot Lloyd-Mason asserted, “going wild about spending money. You should be able to do whatever is necessary within the existing news budget.”
Chippingham said doubtfully, “I’m not so sure of that.”
“Then I’ll give you a firm ruling. No activity exceeding budget is to be embarked on without my advance approval. Is that clear?”
Chippingham wondered whether the woman had blood in her veins or ice?
Aloud, he answered, “Yes, Margot, it’s clear, though I’ll remind you that our ratings for the National Evening News shot up last night and I expect that to continue while this crisis lasts.”
“Which merely goes to show,” she answered coolly, “that unfortunate events can be turned to profit.”
While involving the corporate president in this evening’s broadcast seemed appropriate, Chippingham also hoped it might soften her attitude toward some special expenditures which, in his view, would be needed.
On air, Margot spoke with authority, using words scripted for her but with revisions of her own.
“I am speaking for all the people of this network and our parent company, Globanic Industries,” Margot said, “when I declare that our total resources are available in the search for the missing members of the Sloane family. For all of us, in fact, it is a family affair.
“We deplore what has happened. We urge law enforcement agencies to continue their strongest efforts to bring the criminals to justice. We hope to see our friend and colleague, Crawford Sloane, united with his wife, son and father in the shortest possible time.”
In the original draft there had been no reference to Globanic Industries. When Margot proposed it while reviewing her script in the privacy of Chippingham’s office, he advised, “I wouldn’t do that. The public has an image of CBA as an entity, a piece of Americana. Bringing in Globanic’s name makes that image cloudy, to no one’s advantage.”
“What you’d like to pretend,” Margot retorted, “is that CBA is some kind of crown jewel, and independent. Well, it’s neither. Over at Globanic they’re more apt to think of CBA as a pimple on their ass. The reference stays in. What you can take out, à propos Sloane, are those words, ‘our friend and colleague.’ Kidnap or not, I might choke on them.”
Chippingham suggested dryly, “How about a trade-off? I’ll promise to love Globanic if, for one broadcast, you’ll be Crawford’s friend.”
For once, Margot laughed aloud. “Shit, yes.”
The lack of progress after a frantic first day for the task force did not surprise Harry Partridge. He had been involved in similar projects in the past and knew it took members of any new team at least a day to orient themselves. Just the same, it was imperative there be no more delay in formulating plans.
“Let’s have a working dinner,” he told Rita during the afternoon.
She then arranged for the six principals in the task force—Partridge, Rita, Jaeger, Iris, Owens, Cooper—to meet for Chinese food immediately after the National Evening News. Rita chose Shun Lee West on West Sixty-fifth, near Lincoln Center, a favorite with TV news folk. In making the reservation she told the maître d’, Andy Yeung, “Don’t bother us with menus. You order a good meal and give us a table out of the mainstream, where we can talk.”
During a commercial that followed the five-minute kidnap report at the top of the National Evening News, Partridge eased out of the anchor desk chair and Crawford Sloane moved in. As he did, Sloane gripped Partridge’s arm and murmured, “Thank you, Harry—for everything.”
“Some of us will be working tonight,” Partridge assured him, “trying to come up with ideas.”
“I know. I’m grateful.” Routinely, Sloane skimmed through the scripts an assistant placed in front of him and, watching, Partridge was shocked by the other man’s appearance. Not even makeup could conceal ravages the past day and a half had wrought. Sloane’s cheeks appeared hollow, there were bags beneath his eyes, which were red-rimmed; perhaps, Partridge thought, he had been crying in private.
“Are you okay?” he whispered. “Sure you want to do this?”
Sloane nodded. “Those bastards won’t put me out of action.”
The studio floor manager called out, “Fifteen seconds.”
Partridge moved from camera range, then quietly left the news studio. Outside he watched a monitor until satisfied that Sloane would make it through to the end of the news. Then he left by taxi for Shun Lee West.
Their table was at the rear of the restaurant in a relatively quiet corner.
Near the end of the first course—a steaming, delicately flavored winter melon soup—Partridge addressed Cooper. The young Englishman had spent most of the day in Larchmont, talking with everyone who had knowledge of the kidnapping, including the local police. He had returned to task force headquarters in the late afternoon.
“Teddy, let’s hear your impressions so far, and any ideas on where we go from here?”
Cooper pushed his empty soup dish away and wiped his lips. He opened a well-worn exercise book and answered, “Okay, impressions first.”
The pages in front of him were crowded with scribbled notes.
??
?First off, it was a pro job all the way. The blokes who put this together didn’t muck about. They planned it like a railway timetable and made sure they left no evidence behind. Secondly, these were pros who had lotsa money.”
Norman Jaeger asked, “How do you know?”
“Hopin’ you’d ask.” Cooper grinned as he looked around the table. “For one thing, everything suggests that whoever did the snatch kept a close eye on the house for a long time before they made their move. You’ve heard about the neighbors who now say they saw the motors outside the Sloane house, and once or twice vans, and thought the people in ’em were protecting Mr. S, not spying on him? Well, five people’ve reported that since yesterday; today I talked to four. They all said they saw those motors on and off for three weeks, maybe a month. Then we’ve got to consider Mr. S, who now believes he was followed.”
Cooper glanced at Partridge. “Harry, I read your notes on the info board and I believe Mr. S was right; he was trailed. I’ve a theory about that.”
While they were talking, fresh dishes had appeared—sautéed shrimp with peppers, fried prawns, snow peas, fried rice. There was a pause to enjoy the hot food, then Rita urged, “How about that theory, Teddy?”
“Okay. Mr. S is a big TV star; he’s used to being a public figure, watched wherever he goes, and that becomes a way of life. So as a sort of counterbalance he builds up a subconscious feeling of invisibility. He’s not going to let stares from strangers, the turning heads or pointing fingers bother him. That’s why he may have screened out the notion of being followed—which I reckon he was, because it fits in with full-blown reconnaissance of the whole Sloane family.”
“Even if that’s true,” Karl Owens asked, “where does it get us?”
Partridge said, “It helps us build a picture of the kidnappers. Keep going, Teddy.”
“Okay, so it cost the snatchers to take all that time and do all that spying. The same thing goes for all those motors they used; also a van, maybe two, and the Nissan van yesterday—a regular fleet. And there’s something special about those motors.”