“Follow me, but not too close.”
Dondero followed along. He stumbled over something, realized at the last moment that it was a railroad rail, and was more careful in crossing its companion. They were in a weed-filled area, with the grit of cinders beneath their feet, walking past empty boxcars; what little could be discerned of them in the darkness indicated they had been abandoned years before. Dondero suddenly realized it was a spur of the S.P.R.R. he had thought torn out years before; he was going to have to keep up on his geography of the city if he was going to know where he was being kidnapped in the future, because he would have sworn that there was nothing but empty fields between Third and the bay in this area.
He slogged on, the cinders underfoot giving way to mud, the wet weeds slapping at his thighs, soaking him to the skin. Ahead of him the little man moved steadily, the gun held in readiness. A fourth shadowed boxcar was passed when he noticed the little man had stopped and was motioning him forward with the gun.
“Over here.”
There was a car parked there, almost invisible, paralleling a boxcar and almost touching it. In that darkness and fog it would be well out of sight of anyone on Third Street, Dondero realized, and then thought it would probably be equally invisible from Third Street on a bright, sunny, day. He approached the car, his main consideration being that it represented shelter from the weather, but when he reached for the door handle, he felt the gun jabbed into his ribs. He winced.
“Hey! What that for?”
“Lean against the car.”
“All you got to do is ask.” Dondero hoped his harsh gutteral was an approximation of Patrone’s voice; he also hoped his captor was as unfamiliar as he was with the extent of English possessed by street guides in Rome. Still, being searched was only to be expected, although what they thought the police allowed prisoners to carry with them when being traded would make interesting conjecture. Well, he had on him what Lazaretti had on him when he had dropped the other man off at the bridge the night before, and that was nothing. He leaned against the car, feet apart, as if he were quite accustomed to both the position and to being searched. A small hand fanned him expertly; then the small man stepped back.
“Okay. Inside.”
Dondero climbed in, pleased finally to be out of the terrible weather. The door across from him opened and the small man got in, preceded by the raised gun. He held the gun on Dondero steadily while he closed the door and fumbled in one pocket of the raincoat, producing a pair of handcuffs.
“Slip these through the armrest and cuff yourself.”
“I don’ unnerstand.” Dondero prayed to his ancestors for forgiveness for his stage-Italian accent. He glowered at the little man. “Who you? Why dose cops, dey take me out of jail and put me down out dere in all dat rain, huh? What goes on, huh? What you want from me? Who are you?” Listening to himself, Dondero thought he sounded more like a stage-French Canadian, rather than an Italian, and could only hope the little man was no expert in linguistics.
“I’m a friend,” the little man said quietly, “just as long as you behave yourself and do what you’re told. Now, put the cuffs through the door handle and cuff yourself, and don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about, because if I’ve got to translate any more, I’d just as soon shoot you. Not kill you, friend, because George wouldn’t like that; just shoot you where you won’t be cantankerous. Now, do what I told you.”
“I don’—” Dondero suddenly decided the little man meant what he said, and getting shot, at least this early in the game, wasn’t part of his brilliant scheme. He put the cuffs through the heavy handle of the door and with some maneuvering managed to click them about his wrists. The little man reached over with his free hand to check them, and then moved back, satisfied. He slid the gun onto a small tray built to the left of the steering wheel beneath the dash, and then leaned back, more relieved. Dondero stared at him.
“Okay, I’m cuffed. Now, what’s all this? Who are you?”
“I said, a friend, didn’t I? We got you out of the slammer, didn’t we?”
“Slammer?”
“The clink, the jug. Jail,” the little man said, and muttered, “Good God!” under his breath. He thought the dummy was supposed to speak English!
“Sure,” Dondero said suspiciously. “For why?”
The little man looked at him with amusement. “You wouldn’t kid me, would you, buster?”
“I don’ understand.”
“If you don’t, buster, then you’re even dumber than you look.” His amused look turned into a grin. “And if you’re as dumb as you sound, old George’ll smarten you up. He’s got a talent for that.”
“What you mean? Who is dis ol’ George?”
“I said, don’t worry.” The little man seemed to realize he was talking too much and lapsed into silence.
Dondero was just getting warmed up. “Why we sittin’ here? We waitin’ for somebody?”
“We ain’t waiting for nobody. We’re just waiting.”
“Why?”
“Because I feel like waiting,” the small man said shortly, and added almost grudgingly, “Anyway, it won’t be for much longer.”
There was a brief silence, then Dondero said, “Hungry.”
He was proud of the conversational change of direction, although he had no notion as to what had suddenly made him say it. The fact was that at the moment he was sure he couldn’t have eaten a thing, although a drink would certainly have been gratefully accepted. But he doubted the little man had a drink in the car, or would offer him one if he had it.
The little man frowned in his direction. “What?”
“Hungry. Affamato.”
“What the hell — didn’t they feed you in the joint?”
“Food rifuiti.” Dondero made an expressive grimace. The little man didn’t need to understand Italian to get the meaning.
“Well, I doubt we got much in the place, and we certainly ain’t stopping at no McDonalds,” the little man said, and looked at his wristwatch. He nodded; they were on schedule. “Okay, Pisano, we’re on our way. It ought to be clear by now.” He considered Dondero thoughtfully and then said, “Look, I’m going to blindfold you. Those are orders, so don’t blame me. And don’t try to butt me with your dome — guy did that to me once, almost bust my nose.”
He picked an elastic ski band from the all-purpose tray beneath the dashboard and slipped it over Dondero’s head, adjusting it so the wide portion covered the eyes. Satisfied with his handiwork, he slid back under the wheel, inserted the ignition key, and twisted it. A powerful and nearly silent motor sprang to life beneath them, rumbling quietly. The little man listened to it with evident pride for several moments, and then eased the car from its position beside the boxcar, swaying over the rough terrain until he bumped gently over a curb into a street. To Dondero’s surprise they turned to the right, toward the bay, rather than to the left in the direction of Third Street; for a moment he wondered if they were to be picked up at some small dock and transported by water, after all, but the detour was only temporary, and then they turned again, heading north once more. One more turn and the car gathered speed as it crossed what Dondero judged to be Third Street in a rush, far from the bridge, and well north of Army. If Reardon was parked anywhere near the bridge, still wondering where Dondero had disappeared to, the blindfolded man thought, he was apt to wait there for a long time.
Beneath the lightly itching ski mask, Dondero tried to keep track of their location by counting dips at each intersection, trying to picture a map of the area in his mind and then place them upon it, as the car twisted and turned, but he soon gave it up. According to his calculations, they should have been halfway to Oakland, somewhere in the middle of the bay. In any event, he assumed he would know where they were when they stopped and the ski band was removed; in the meantime it was reassuring to think that if they had blindfolded him, they obviously had no immediate plans for killing him, since what difference would it make what he saw if he were going to end up in the bay in any case? On the other hand, he suddenly realized, the man they weren’t planning on killing was an Italian fugitive named Patrone with some valuable answers, and not an upright, hard-working, well-intentioned — if overly nosey — cop, who could well be into something a trifle over his head.