“I mean, do you know who the kidnapers are?” she said impatiently.
“What?” Snitch said.
“The kidnapers.”
“What?” he said again.
She was standing directly in front of him now, peering up into his eyes. “Snitch, do you know who kidnaped Mr. Ganucci’s son?” she asked, and Snitch thought, So that’s it, huh? That’s some felony, all right, that’s as big as they come. He needed time to think. There was money to be made out of this situation, if only he could figure out how. A little time was all he needed, but a little time was the one thing Nanny seemed unwilling to grant. Her hand clutched tightly onto his arm, her eyes blazing up into his, she insistently demanded once again, “Do-you-know-who-kidnaped-Lewis-Ganucci?”
“Yes,” Snitch said, figuring what the hell.
“Seven words,” Garbugli said. “A goddamn masterpiece.”
“Yes, but what do we do now?” Azzecca wanted to know.
“We call Benny Napkins and get the money back.”
“Right,” Azzecca said, and went immediately to the telephone. He dialed Benny’s number, waited, and then heard a sleepy voice say, “Hello?”
“Hello, who’s this?” Azzecca asked.
“Jeanette Kay. Who’s this?”
“Mario Azzecca.”
“Hello, Mr. Azzecca, how are you?” Jeanette Kay said.
“Fine. Is Benny there?”
“No, he’s not.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know. I was sleeping when he left.”
“He didn’t go to the airport, did he?”
“I don’t think so. Why would he go to the airport?”
“Tell him to call me the minute he gets in. And tell him not to go to Naples.”
“Why would he go to Naples?” Jeanette Kay asked.
“Just tell him,” Azzecca said, and hung up. “He’s not home,” he said to Garbugli. “You don’t think he left for the airport already, do you?”
“At three o’clock?” Garbugli said. “His plane doesn’t leave till ten tonight.”
“Lots of people like to get to the airport early,” Azzecca said. “It relieves anxiety symptoms.”
“Let’s call Nonaka and put him on the prowl.”
“Nonaka? Why him?”
“In case Benny has any thoughts about maybe not returning that money.”
“Even so. Nonaka.”
“Best man for the job, Counselor.”
“Nonaka gives me the shivers,” Azzecca said.
“Call him,” Garbugli said.
Azzecca shrugged and went to the telephone. He opened the address pad on his desk, searched through the Ns, and dialed Nonaka’s number.
“Hello?” a voice on the other end whispered.
“Let me speak to Nonaka,” Azzecca said.
“He’s not here,” the voice whispered.
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can’t you talk a little louder?” Azzecca said, annoyed.
“Yes, but thank God, I don’t have to,” the voice whispered, and hung up.
“He’s not home,” Azzecca said.
“Who’s that?” Luther Patterson asked his wife. He was standing at the window in the master bedroom, staring down at the backyard ten stories below. Ida came up beside him and looked.
“Where?” she said.
“There,” he said. “Those three men. Who are those three men?”
“I don’t see anybody,” she said.
“Near the telephone pole there. Those three men. The seedy-looking one, and the one with the beard, and the Chinaman.”
“Maybe they’re telephone repairmen,” Ida said.
“Have you ever seen a Chinese telephone repairman?” Luther asked.
“How can you tell he’s Chinese?”
“I can see him, can’t I?”
“From way up here?”
“My eyes are very good when I have my glasses on,” Luther said. “He’s Chinese.” A sudden thought occurred to him. “What did Simon say?” he asked. “Something. Something about the Chinese, or China. Something.” He rushed into the living room and pulled the Collected Works from his bookshelf. Rapidly turning pages, he came upon the review he’d been searching for. Aloud, he read:
His style is sheer chinoiserie, piling lacquered screens of paradox upon pagodas of hyperbole — sometimes a trifle schematically, but with unquenchable verve, bravado, and iconoclastic bravura.
Luther bowed his head in admiration.
“Stunning,” he whispered in awe. “Positively stunning. Look to your laurels, Mr. Updike, there’s another formidable John upon the scene.”
Ida came into the room. Hands on hips, she said, “What does Simon say? Is he Chinese?”
“He doesn’t comment,” Luther answered. “But I know a Chinaman when I see one.”
15: Nonaka
Tamaichi Nonaka Japanese.
He stood in the backyard with Benny Napkins on his left and Dominick the Guru on his right, and together they stared up at the sun-blinded windows on the rear of the building.
“It’s hard to say,” Dominick said. “I was in a lot of apartments last night.”
“The only one we’re concerned with is the one where you picked up that watch,” Benny said.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. But it’s hard to tell one window from another window, you know what I mean? I mean, all windows look the same to me. You go in them, you come out of them, they all look the same.”
“Try to remember,” Benny said. “Somewhere in that goddamn building is Carmine Ganucci’s kid. If we can bust in and get the kid back we’ll all be heroes. If not...”
“Listen, how did I get involved in this?” Dominick asked. “I was minding my own business, trying to engage in a simple act of commerce with The Silver Fox. Now all at once I’m involved in a kidnapping.”
“Me too,” Nonaka said.
“You are involved because I am involved,” Benny said. “No man is an Iland, intire of itselfe,” he went on. “Every man is a peece of the Continent, a part of the maine; if a Clod bee washed away by the Sea, Europe is the lesse, as well as if a Promontorie were, as well as if a Mannor of thy friends or of thine owne were; any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankinde; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.”
“I never thought of it that way,” Dominick said.
“Me too,” Nonaka said.
“And besides, Ganooch will bust our heads if he ever finds out we knew which building his son was in, and couldn’t remember the apartment.”
“Maybe it was on the eighth floor,” Dominick said, and shrugged.
“Maybe is not good enough,” Benny said. “Was it the eighth floor, or was it not? I don’t intend to go breaking down a door and suddenly find out there’s a little old lady inside whose husband is a cop.”
“Hey, there was a lady inside,” Dominick said. “In fact, the kid called her by name.”
“What did he call her?”
“Iris? Irene? Something like that. Something beginning with an I.”
“Ina?” Benny asked.
“No.”
“Ilka?” Nonaka asked.
“No.”
“Ingrid?”
“No.”
“Irma?”
“No.”
“Isabel?”
“No, no.”
“Inez.”
“No.”
“Isadora?”
“No.”
“I can’t think of any other names beginning with an I,” Benny said. “Would you recognize the apartment if you saw it again?”