"You want some breakfast?"
"Sure," she said groggily.
"I let you sleep a little longer."
She pulled a pillow toward her. "What time is it?"
"Almost seven-thirty."
"That's nice."
"I did a sort of ridiculous, paranoid thing," he confessed with a smile.
She rolled over, as if to drift back to sleep. "What?"
"I called your mother."
She frowned. "Say that again?"
"I called your mother."
She looked at him in horror, no longer sleepy. "When?"
"Maybe an hour ago. I just wanted to check to see if you were who you said you were. She said she might give you a call here."
"You gave her this number?"
"I didn't think it compromised me much."
"You?" She suddenly threw back the covers and looked for her clothes. "You? I can't believe it."
"What?" he said.
"That was incredibly stupid," she cried hatefully, wriggling into her panties and bra. "Who gave you the right? Now they know where I am! God! For someone who makes fucking phone parts, you're pretty stupid!"
"Wait, now-" he began, confused and hurt.
She was shaking, eyes wild. "I have to get out of here."
He put his arms around her. "Now, look-"
"You fucking jerk!" she screamed, breaking loose from him and pulling on her heels. "They're probably downstairs, waiting!"
She stuffed her remaining things in her bag and walked straight out the door. He looked around the room quickly, gathered up his watch and wallet and the picture of the boyfriend, since it seemed somehow incriminating, and followed her.
In the elevator down, she shook her head in fury. "Tony or the cops or somebody has her phone bugged."
"You didn't tell me that."
"I didn't think you would fucking call my mother, Charlie!" The elevator doors opened. Christina stalked quickly toward the hotel entrance, head down. "I can't believe you did that," she hissed.
They exited the hotel on Sixty-first Street, and he was about to suggest they find a place to eat breakfast when she hurried away from him.
"Hey!" Charlie called. " Hey! "
She waited at the curb for two taxis to pass, taking the opportunity to slip off her heels, then ran barefoot across Fifth Avenue into Central Park, dark hair bouncing behind her- too fast, Charlie thought, I couldn't catch her in a million years. He watched her run with one shoe in each hand, then disappear through the trees. He looked up and down the street, feeling confused. What was the problem? Except for calling her mother, hadn't he comported himself well? They'd had a nice night, hadn't they? I pay for a great room, he thought bitterly, I give her a great fucking time, and she runs away from me? What's she so scared of? No one's here. He glowered at an elderly woman who stood admiring her small dog as he deposited a tiny curl of shit onto a piece of tissue paper.
Then he eased along the avenue, actually enjoying the morning but feeling an odd new pain in his back. All that screwing last night, he thought proudly, pulled something. But it'd been worth it. Would he ever be able to do it again like that? Why not? He still had some of the Chinese tea in the apartment. And more on the way! Thinking of it put him in a better mood. He'd look at the paper with breakfast. Eggs, he could make eggs, for God's sake. Read about the Jets. Bill Parcells. Call Ellie and listen to her babble about the azalea bushes.
As he turned the corner to Sixty-third Street, a tall man carrying the New York Post appeared in front of him. "Like to introduce myself, sir." He extended his hand. "Name's Tommy."
Charlie gave the man a vague nod but kept walking. Kelly the doorman stood in front of the apartment building flagging down a taxi. In and out of the heat all day, always a smile.
"Sir?" called the tall man, following Charlie.
He turned around in irritation. "What?"
The man slid the newspaper back, revealing a black semiautomatic pistol. "Get in the car."
Which had slid up behind Charlie silently, another man getting out of the back door, a third in a green baseball jacket behind the steering wheel.
"Hey, fellows," said Charlie agreeably, "you got the wrong guy here."
The driver in the green jacket lifted up his sunglasses at the same moment as the first man slipped a tight hand around Charlie's arm. "I don't think so," he said politely.
They drove downtown, with Tommy looking through Charlie's billfold and finding the Vista del Mar papers in the breast pocket of his coat. His hands were cuffed tightly. The driver introduced himself as Morris.
"We didn't expect your girlfriend to go running into the park."
Charlie stayed silent.
"Ran pretty fast, too."
"I guess so."
"You'll help us out, won't you?"
"This guy's name is Charles Ravich," announced Tommy. "We have his home address, work address, and this looks like-some kind of vacation place in New Jersey."
"See if he has a wife."
Tommy consulted the Vista del Mar papers. "Elizabeth."
"What else? Keep looking."
"Phone in his pocket."
"Charles," asked Morris. "Does she have your number?"
"Yes."
"Turn it on, Tommy. See if she calls him."
"Hey, hey!" cried Tommy, finding the photo of the boyfriend and waving it in front of Morris. "Look at this."
"What kind of animal would do that?" Morris shook his head. "Fucking barbaric."
They drove south for five minutes, then cut west on Fourteenth Street and then one block south into the meatpacking district. There they stopped and hustled him out of the car in front of a rusty door in a wall. I'm going to get out of this, Ellie, he told himself, don't worry.
"You got back trouble?" Morris asked, watching Charlie.
"I'm fine," he said.
Inside the building, they pushed him up some cement steps and then across what appeared to be an old factory floor. He noticed a rotten mattress to one side. In front of him stood a large worktable, some utility lamps, and three heavy chairs. Sitting in one was a man of about sixty.
"You go… here," said Morris, pushing Charlie onto the stained, chopped-up table and cuffing one of his arms to a ring. "This is Mr. Ravich," he said.
"Hello, Mr. Ravich." The older man lifted a hand.
"Who are you?" said Charlie. "Tony?"
Morris smiled. "I told you we got the right guy."
Tony stood up. "Mr. Ravich, I can see you're a successful businessman."
He shrugged.
The phone in Tommy's hand trilled. He handed it to Morris. "Yeah?" He listened. "It's her," he said.
"Let me have it." Tony took the phone. "You got my five million dollars now, Christina?… Didn't you see what happened to your last boyfriend?… I don't care about that-I want it in three hours. You've wasted a lot of my time, you know that? Years. And what is this fucking IRS shit? I have to meet my wife for lunch. If I don't have something by eleven o'clock, your new boyfriend will be something you can put on a sandwich. Then we'll go after your mother, okay? We know she's home now, we know where she is in her little pink bedroom
… Don't call me that… And don't call anybody down there… If my guys don't get my-It's not bullshit. My guy says she's watering her lawn right now, bunch of flowers climbing up the garage… Now you believe me?" He looked at Charlie. "She wants to talk to you."
Tony held the phone to Charlie's ear. "I'm sorry," cried Christina. "I'm sorry."
"Tell them where-"
Tony pulled the phone away. "You call back in ten minutes. Ten minutes… You're going to help us out here."
Now Tony called another number that Morris had given him. "Yes, hello, Mrs. Ravich?… This is the Bell Atlantic office, yes. Just checking the line, ma'am." He nodded at Charlie. "Everything's fine
… We had some workmen in the vicinity. Yeah. Thank you." Tony hung up. "Sounded like a nice lady. So, Charlie, here's the situation. We have you and we know where your wife is. We don't have Christina, but we know where her mother is. She knows where the five million is that she stole from me, but she isn't saying."