"Maybe they got stuck in traffic."
"Man, what happens now? We fucking sit here and wait? I don't even know what we're waiting for.
They got the money and we got what? Fucked is what we got. I don't know who they are or where they are. I don't know zip, and—
Petey, what do we do?"
"I don't know."
"I think she's dead," he said.
Peter was silent.
"Because why wouldn't they, the fucks? She could identify them.
Safer to kill her than to give her back.
Kill her, bury her, and that's the end of it. Case closed. That's what I would do, I was them."
"No you wouldn't."
"I said if I was them. I'm not, I wouldn't kidnap some woman in the first place, innocent gentle lady who never did anybody any harm, never had an unkind thought—"
"Easy, babe."
They would fall silent and then the conversation would begin again, because what else was there to do?
After half an hour of this the phone rang and Kenan jumped for it.
"Mr. Khoury."
"Where is she?"
"My apologies. There was a slight change in plans."
"Where is she?"
"Just around the corner from you, oh, uh,Seventy-ninth Street , I believe it's the south side of the street, three or four houses from the corner—"
"What?"
"There's a car parked illegally at a fire hydrant. A gray Ford Tempo. Your wife is in it."
"She's in the car?"
"In the trunk."
"You put her in the trunk?"
"There's plenty of air. But it's cold out tonight so you'll want to get her out of there as soon as possible."
"Is there a key? How do I—"
"The lock's broken. You won't need a key."
Running down the street and around the corner, he said to Peter,
"What did he mean, the lock's broken?
If the trunk's not locked why can't she just crawl out? What's he talking about?"
"I don't know, babe."
"Maybe she's tied up. Tape, handcuffs, something so she can't move."
"Maybe."
"Oh, Jesus, Pete—"
The car was where it was supposed to be, a battered Tempo several years old, its windshield starred
and the passenger door deeply dented. The trunk lock was missing altogether. Kenan flung the lid open.
No one in there. Just packages, bundles of some sort. Bundles of various sizes wrapped in black plastic and secured with freezer tape.
"No," Kenan said.
He stood there, saying "No, no, no." After a moment Peter took one of the parcels from the trunk, got a jackknife from his pocket, and cut away the tape. He unwound the length of black plastic— it was not unlike the Hefty bags in which the money had been delivered— and drew out a human foot, severed a couple of inches above the ankle.
Three toenails showed circles of red polish. The other two toes were missing.
Kenan put his head back and howled like a dog.
Chapter 2
That was Thursday. Monday I got back from lunch and there was a message for me at the desk. Call Peter Curry, it said, and there was a number and the 718 area code, which meant Brooklyn orQueens . I didn't think I knew a Peter Curry in Brooklyn orQueens , or anywhere else for that matter, but it's not unheard-of for me to get calls from people I don't know. I went up to my room and called the number on the slip, and when a man answered I said, "Mr. Curry?"
"Yes?"
"My name's Matthew Scudder, I got a message to call you."
"You got a message to call me?"
"That's right. It says here you called at twelve-fifteen."
"What was the name again?" I gave it to him again, and he said,
"Oh, wait a minute, you're the detective, right? My brother called you, my brother Peter."
"It says Peter Curry."
"Hold on."
I held on, and after a moment another voice, close to the first but a note deeper, a little bit softer, said,
"Matt, this is Pete."
"Pete," I said. "Do I know you, Pete?"
"Yeah, we know each other, but you wouldn't necessarily know my name. I'm pretty regular atSt. Paul
's, I led a meeting there, oh, five or six weeks ago."
"Peter Curry," I said.
"It's Khoury," he said. "I'm of Lebanese descent, lemme see how to describe myself. I'm sober about a year and a half, I'm in a rooming house way west on Fifty-fifth Street, I've been working as a messenger and delivery boy but my field is film editing, only I don't know if I'll be able to get back into it—"
"Lotof drugs in your story."
"That's right, but it was alcohol really stuck it to me at the end.
You've got me placed?"
"Uh-huh. I was there the night you spoke. I just never knew your last name."
"Well, that's the program for you."
"What can I do for you, Pete?"
"I'd like it if you could come out and talk with me and my brother.
You're a detective and I think that's what we need."
"Could you give me some idea what it's about?"
"Well—"
"Not over the phone?"
"Probably better not to, Matt. It's detective work and it's important, and we'll pay whatever you say."
"Well," I said, "I don't know that I'm open to work right now, Pete.
As a matter of fact I've got a trip planned, I'll be going overseas the end of the week."
"Whereabouts?"
"Ireland."
"That sounds great," he said. "But look, Matt, couldn't you just come out here and let us lay it out for you? You listen, and if you decide you can't do anything for us, no hard feelings and we'll pay for your time and your cab out and back." In the background the brother said something I couldn't make out, and Pete said, "I'll tell him. Matt, Kenan says we could drive in and pick you up, but we'd have to come back here and I think it's quicker if you just jump in a taxi."
It struck me I was hearing a lot about cabs from somebody who was working as a messenger and delivery boy, and then his brother's name rang a bell. I said, "You have more than one brother, Pete?"
"Just the one."
"I think you mentioned him in your qualification, something about his occupation."
A pause. Then, "Matt, I'm just asking you to come out and listen."
"Where are you?"
"Do you knowBrooklyn ?"
"I'd have to be dead."
"How's that?"
"Nothing, I was just thinking out loud. A famous short story, 'Only the Dead Know Brooklyn.' I used to know parts of the borough reasonably well. Where are you inBrooklyn ?"
"Bay Ridge.Colonial Road ."
"That's easy."
He gave me the address and I wrote it down.
THE R train, also known as the Broadway local of the BMT, runs all the way from179th Street inJamaica to within a few blocks of theVerrazanoBridge at the southwest corner ofBrooklyn . I caught it at Fifty-seventh and Seventh and got off two stops from the end of the line.
There are those who hold that once you leaveManhattan you're out of the city. They're wrong, you're just in another part of the city, but there's no question that the difference is palpable. You could spot it with your eyes closed. The energy level is different, the air doesn't hum with the same urgent intensity.
I walked a block onFourth Avenue , past a Chinese restaurant and a Korean greengrocer and an OTB
parlor and a couple of Irish bars, then cut over toColonial Road and found Kenan Khoury's house. It was one of a group of detached single-family homes, solid square structures that looked to have been built sometime between the wars. A tiny lawn, a half-flight of wooden steps leading to the front entrance.
I climbed them and rang the bell.
Pete let me in and led me into the kitchen. He introduced me to his brother, who stood to shake hands, then motioned for me to take a chair.
He stayed on his feet, walked over to the stove, then turned to look at me."Appreciate your coming," he said. "You mind a couple of questions, Mr. Scudder? Before we get started?"
"Not at all."
"Something to drink first? Not a drink drink, I know you know Petey from AA, but there's coffee made or I can offer you a soft drink.