King walked away from the coffee table, blew out an impatient stream of smoke, said, “They probably won’t even call—” and noticed Reynolds. He pulled up short, sucked in on the cigarette again, and said, “You startled me, Reynolds.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Reynolds paused. “Sir, I… I would like to talk to you.” He paused again. “Mr. King, I would like to talk to you,” and Carella knew from those first words that this was going to be painful, and he wanted to get out of the room.
“Reynolds, couldn’t…” King started, and then hesitated. “All right, what is it? What do you want, Reynolds?”
Reynolds took a single step into the room, as if that was as far as he was prepared to go, as if even that single step was a break of the rules he had formulated for himself before making his entrance. His shoulders slumped, his hands hanging awkwardly, he said, “I want to ask you to pay the ransom for my son, Mr. King.”
“Don’t ask me,” King said, and he turned away.
“I’m asking you, Mr. King,” Reynolds said, and he extended his hand as if to pull the retreating King closer to him. But he did not budge from his spot just inside the entrance archway. He stood with his hand extended and pleading, until King turned to face him again from the other end of the room. And then, separated by forty feet of livingroom area, separated by God alone knew how many miles, the two men faced each other like knights about to charge with lances, and Carella felt like a spectator who had no favorite.
“I have to ask you, Mr. King,” Reynolds said. “You see that, don’t you?”
“No. No, I don’t. Please, Reynolds, I really feel…”
“I have never begged in my life,” Reynolds said awkwardly, “but I’m begging you now. Please, Mr. King. Please get my son back.”
“I don’t want to listen,” King said.
“You have to listen, Mr. King. I’m talking to you like a man now. A father to a father. I’m pleading with you to save my son. God, God, please save my son!”
“You’re coming to the wrong person, Reynolds! I can’t help you. I can’t help Jeff.”
“I don’t believe that, Mr. King.”
“It’s true.”
“I…I have no right. I know I have no right. But where else can I go? Who else can I turn to?”
“Do you know what you’re asking me to do?” King said. “You’re asking me to ruin myself. Am I supposed to do that? Goddamnit, Reynolds, I wouldn’t ask that of you!”
“I have to ask!” Reynolds said. “Is there a choice for me, Mr. King? Is there someplace I can go, someplace to get five hundred thousand dollars? Where? Tell me. I’ll go. I’ll go. But where? No place.” He shook his head. “I’m coming to you. I’m asking you. Please, please…”
“No!”
“What do you want me to do, Mr. King? Name it. I’ll do it. Anything you say. I’ll work for the rest of my life, I’ll…”
“Don’t talk nonsense. What can you possibly… ?”
“Do you want me to get down on my knees, Mr. King? Shall I get on my knees and beg you?”
He dropped to his knees, and Carella winced and turned away. Separated by forty feet of broadloom, the men stared at each other, Reynolds on his knees, his hands clasped, King standing with one hand in the pocket of his robe, the other hand holding a trembling cigarette.
“Get up, for God’s sake,” King said.
“I’m on my hands and knees, Mr. King,” Reynolds said. “I’m begging you. Begging you. Please, please, please…”
“Get up, get up!” King said, and his voice was close to breaking. “Good God, man, can’t you—”
“…save my son.”
“Reynolds, please.” King turned away, but not before Carella saw him squeeze his eyes shut tightly. “Please, get up. Please, man. Please. Could you… could you leave me alone? Could you? Could you please do that? Please?”
Reynolds got to his feet. With great dignity, he dusted off the knees of his trousers. He did not say another word. He turned and walked stiffly out of the room.
Humiliated, Douglas King stared at the door.
“Does it make you feel like a big turd, Mr. King?” Carella asked.
“Shut up!”
“It should. Because that’s what you are.”
“Goddamnit, Carella, I don’t have to listen to—”
“Oh, go to hell, Mr. King,” Carella said angrily. “Just go to hell!”
“What’s the matter with you, Steve?” Byrnes asked, coming down the steps. “Let’s cut that out.”
“I’m sorry,” Carella said.
“I was just on the phone upstairs,” Byrnes said. “I checked our list of stolen cars and, sure enough, there she was. A gray 1949 Ford. Teletype’s going out on it now. I don’t suppose the license plate’ll still be the same as on that list, do you?”
“No, sir.”
“Now just cut it out, Steve,” Byrnes said.
“Cut what out, sir?”
“The slow burn.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were, and don’t lie to me, remember that we’ve got a job to do here, and we’re not going to get it done if everybody goes around with his ass being—” He cut himself short. Liz Bellew was coming down the steps, one hand clutching a valise, the other holding Bobby King’s hand.
“Good morning,” she said. “Any word yet?”
“No, ma’am,” Byrnes said.
“Daddy?” Bobby said.
“What is it, son?
“Is Jeff back yet?”
“No, son. He isn’t.”
“I thought you were getting him back.”
There was a long uncomfortable silence. Carella watched them and devoutly hoped he would never see the look that was on Bobby King’s face at this moment on the face of his son, Mark, in years to come.
“Bobby, you should never throw questions at a tycoon so early in the morning.” Liz said breezily. “He’s coming over to my house for now, Doug.” She winked. “It’ll work out.”
“Where’s Diane?”
“Upstairs putting on the finishing touches.”
“Did you… ?”
“I talked to her.” Liz shook her head. “It’s no go. But give her time.” She turned to Byrnes. “Do I get a police escort, Lieutenant?”
“Darn right you do.”
“Make it the tall redheaded cop,” Liz said. “The one with the white streak in his hair.”
“Detective Hawes?”
“Is that his name? Yes, him.”
“I’ll see if I can.”
“He’s just outside the door, Lieutenant, getting some air. I saw him from the upstairs window. Shall I tell him his services are required?”