The little man drove with the assured knowledge of both his vehicle and the area. Dondero leaned his head against the cold glass, listening to the rhythmic clicking of the windshield wipers, and tried to blank his mind to whatever he would face when they arrived wherever they were going. Sufficient unto the day, or the night, he thought, and would have liked nothing better than to take a brief nap, but the constant braking and acceleration for the many corners made that impossible. He knew he should be thinking like mad, except he couldn’t think of anything at the moment to think about. He bit back a yawn and waited.
They drove in this fashion for what Dondero judged to be approximately half an hour before he felt the car being braked. It halted, purring contentedly, and he heard the car door open and felt the car list slightly as the little man descended. There was a brief pause and then the screeching sound of a large motorized garage door being raised. Then the little man was back and they were driving inside a building. The motor revved once in a powerful roar; the garage door screeched its way to closing, and then there was silence. A small hand touched his wrist, one cuff was unlocked, and then relocked free of the hampering armrest. The small hand touched his forehead and the ski band was removed.
He looked up and saw a large man with a heavy beard studying him expressionlessly through the wet glass of the car window. Well, he thought, in for a nickel, in for a buck; he pushed down on the door handle with his handcuffed wrists, shoved the door open, and stepped from the car, raising himself to his full height, but the other man was still looking down on him from a much greater height.
“Hello, Patrone.”
What attitude to take? Well, his mother always taught him that nobody ever got ahead in this world by being overly subservient, and even though any time he tried to disobey one of her orders he got himself a fat ear, it still struck him as being a basically proper teaching. He therefore paid no attention to the greeting but looked around coolly, noting that he was in what seemed to be the loading area of a factory of some sort. He tried to picture what part of the city was most apt to provide factory buildings, but dropped it as being highly unimportant. Instead he chose to bring his gaze back to the man facing him; he made his voice harsh.
“Okay, what in hell’s all this about?”
If the little man who had driven the car noted any marked improvement in his captive’s English, he made no mention of it, but remained beside the automobile, as if waiting. The big man with the beard smiled genially.
“Look, Patrone — Vito — we’re not enemies; not really. We’re on the same side, or we can be if you have any intelligence. You came over to this country to — but we can talk more comfortably upstairs.”
Dondero masked his disappointment. Old hair-face might have waited until he got through saying exactly why Patrone had come to this country before he became so hospitable! He held a poker face, however, and followed the bearded man up a small flight of steps to the loading dock itself, and then along the platform to a freight elevator in one corner. The little man stayed behind with the car.
The elevator rose creakily in the silence and the gloom. Dondero wondered exactly what kind of place he was in; he knew it was a factory or a warehouse of some sort, but the nature of the operation was a mystery; the elevator doors effectively hid any sight of the floors they were passing. The cab stopped at the top floor and the two men got off. The bearded man opened a door set in a partition across a narrow corridor, and Dondero entered. He was not at all surprised to find that Pop Holland was not present. His analysis for all the reasons the kidnapper would keep the two apart, apparently, was sound. He looked about.
A comfortable sofa graced one wall of the large room, flanked on either side by small end tables. Colorful pictures were spaced tastefully on the walls, a wide desk occupied one corner of the room with a utility bar behind it; venetian blinds had been tilted as if to keep out light, but heavy closed shutters could be seen behind them at the edges.
The large man closed the door behind him, walked over and seated himself behind the desk, and waved a hand hospitably for Dondero to take a seat. Dondero managed to drag up an upholstered chair with his manacled hands and dropped into it. The bearded man lit a cigar, offered one to Dondero; Dondero shook his head and raised his manacles as if in explanation for his refusal. The bearded man appeared not to notice the gesture, but leaned back, puffing smoke, stroking his beard gently with his free hand.
“All right, Patrone — Vito — let’s get down to business.”
“I got no business with you,” Dondero said, and tried to sound disdainful. He had no clue as to what he was talking about, but he did know he was at least stretching out an interview that could well end up uncomfortably for himself. He thought of Scheherazade and the thousand nights, and forced himself not to smile. “I got no business with anyone handles me like you handle me.” He raised the manacles again.
The large man shrugged. “I’m afraid that’s necessary for the moment. Certainly they are not uncomfortable; be patient and put up with them for the moment—”
“And I want dry clothes. I want—”
“Later,” the bearded man said and leaned forward. “Let’s forget what you want and get down to what I want. Where...?”
“And another thing,” Dondero said, frowning across the desk, “how much you have to pay to get me out of jail? And who you pay it to, huh? I meet a guy up there, good guy, maybe I buy him out, too.”
The bearded man smiled. “I’m afraid we didn’t buy you out of jail. I saw no necessity for wasting time determining the extent of corruption in our city police. No, we kidnapped a policeman and offered to trade him for you. It was that simple.”
“What!” Dondero glared across the desk. “Un vigile? A cop? You kidnap him?” He shook his cuffed hands violently. “I got nothin’ to do with no kidnap of a cop!”
George laughed, a small delightful laugh, somehow oddly out of place coming from the large body.
“Don’t worry, my friend. As you say, you have nothing to do with the matter.” The smiling face lost some of its jollity; the eyes studying Dondero turned cold. “The policeman need not concern you. You are here—”
“This vigile — you kill him?”
“I said, that scarcely concerns you—”
“What you say, it don’ concern me!” Dondero glared at the bearded man and waved his hands excitedly, the manacles jangling. “Right now they got nothin’ on me! Nothin’! I don’ get mixed up in no kidnap, see? An’ I don’ get mixed up in no killin’, either, see? They got nothin’ on me, an’ I don’ get—”
“They have nothing on you?” The delightful laugh returned. “Oh, my dear friend! Please! They may not know what they have on you, but I do. So let’s stop playing games—”
“I wan’ a drink,” Dondero suddenly said. He thought about it a moment and nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I wan’. Hey, all I think about in the figlio de madre carcere is somethin’ to drink, you know?”