“If something goes wrong because of this, because of my calling on you to help me, I… I will never forgive myself.”
“Don’t think like that,” Jack said. “It gets you nothing. And you’ve got to face it: No matter what you do – cut off one finger, two fingers, your left leg, kill somebody, blow up Manhattan – it’s never going to be enough. He’s going to keep escalating until you’re dead. You’ve got to stop him now, before it goes any further. Understand?”
Munir nodded. “But I’m so afraid. Poor Robby… his terrible pain, his fear. And Barbara…”
“Exactly. And if you don’t want that to go on indefinitely, you’ve got to take the offensive. Now. So let’s get back to your place and see how he wants to take delivery on your finger.”
12
Back in the apartment, Jack bandaged Munir’s hand in thick layers of gauze to make to look injured. While they waited for the phone to ring, he disappeared into the bathroom with the finger to wash it.
“We want this to be as convincing as possible,” he said. “You don’t strike me as the type to have dirty fingernails.”
When the call finally came, Munir ground his teeth at the sound of the hated voice.
Jack was beside him, gripping his arm, steadying him as he listened through an earphone he had plugged into the answering machine. He had told Munir what to say, and had coached him on how to say it, how to sound.
“Well, Mooo neeer. You got that finger for me?”
“Yes,” he said in the choked voice he had rehearsed. “I have it.”
The caller paused, as if the caller was surprised by the response.
“You did it? You really did it?
“Yes. You gave me no choice.”
Well, I’ll be damned. Hey, how come your voice sounds so funny?”
“Codeine. For the pain.”
“Yeah. I’ll bet that smarts. But that’s okay. Pain’s good for you. And just think: Your kid got through it without codeine.”
Jack’s grip on his arm tightened as Munir stiffened and began to rise. Jack pulled him back to a sitting position.
“Please don’t hurt Robby anymore,” Munir said, and this time he did not have to feign a choking voice. “I did what you asked me. Now let them go.”
“Not so fast, Mooo neeer. How do I know you really cut that finger off? You wouldn’t be bullshitting me now, would you?”
“Oh, please. I would not lie about something as important as this.”
Yet I am lying, he thought. Forgive me, my son, if this goes wrong.
“Well, we’ll just have to see about that, won’t we? Here’s what you do: Put your offering in a brown paper lunch bag and head downtown. Go to the mailbox on the corner where Lafayette, Astor, and Eighth come together. Leave the bag on top of the mailbox, then walk half a block down and stand in front of the Astor Place Theater. Got it?”
“Yes. Yes, I think so.”
“Of course you do. Even a bonehead like you should be able to handle those instructions.”
“But when should I do this?”
“Ten a.m.”
“This morning?” He glanced at his watch. “But it is almost 9:30!”
“Aaaay! And he can tell time too! What an intellect! Yeah, that’s right, Mooo neeer. And don’t be late or I’ll have to think you’re lying to me. And we know what’ll happen then, don’t we.”
“But what if–?”
“See you soon, Mooo neeer.”
The line went dead. His heart pounding, Munir fumbled the receiver back onto its cradle and turned to Jack.
“We must hurry! We have no time to waste!”
Jack nodded. “This guy’s no dummy. He’s not giving us a chance to set anything up.”
“I’ll need the… finger,” Munir said. Even now, long after the shock of learning it was real, the thought of touching it made him queasy. “Could you please put it in the brown bag for me?”
Jack nodded. Munir led him to the kitchen and gave him a brown lunch bag. Jack dropped the finger inside and handed the sack back to him.
“You’ve got to arrive alone, so you go first,” Jack said. “I’ll follow a few minutes from now. If you don’t see me around, don’t worry. I’ll be there. And whatever you do, follow his instructions – nothing else. Understand? Nothing else. I’ll do the ad libbing. Now get moving.”
Munir fairly ran for the street, praying to Allah that it wouldn’t take too long to find a taxi.
13
Somehow Jack’s cab made it down to the East Village before Munir’s. He had a bad moment when he couldn’t find him. Then a cab screeched to a halt and Munir jumped out. Jack watched as he hurried to the mailbox and placed the brown paper bag atop it. Jack retreated to a phone booth on the uptown corner and pretended to make a call while Munir strode down to the Astor Place Theater and stopped before a Blue Man Group poster.
As Jack began an animated conversation with the dial tone, he scanned the area. Midmorning in the East Village. Members of the neighborhood’s homeless brigade seemed to be the only people about, either shuffling aimlessly along, as if dazed by the bright morning sun, or huddled on the sidewalks like discarded rag piles. The nut could be among them. Easy to hide within layers of grime and ratty clothes. But not so easy to hide a purpose in life. Jack hunted for someone who looked like he had somewhere to go.
Hollander… he wished there’d been a photo in his personnel file. Jack was sure he was the bad guy here. If only he’d been able to get over to his apartment before now. Maybe he’d have found –
And then Jack spotted him. A tall bearded guy traveling westward along Eighth Street, weaving his way through the loitering horde. He was squeezed into a filthy, undersized Army fatigue jacket, the cuffs of at least three of the multiple shirts he wore under the coat protruding from the too short sleeves; the neck of a pint bottle of Mad Dog stuck up like a periscope from the frayed edge of one of the pockets; the torn knees of his green work pants revealed threadbare jeans beneath. Piercing blue eyes peered out from under a Navy watch cap.
The sicko? Maybe. Maybe not. One thing was sure: This guy wasn’t wandering; he had someplace to go.
And he was heading directly for the mailbox.
When he reached it he stopped and looked over his shoulder, back along the way he had come on Eighth, then grabbed the brown paper bag Munir had left there. He reached inside, pulled out the paper towel wrapped contents, and began to unwrap it.
Suddenly he let out a strangled cry and tossed the finger into the street. It rolled in an arc and came to rest in the debris matted against the curb. He glanced over his shoulder again and began a stumbling run in the other direction, across Eighth, toward Jack and away from Munir.
“Shit!” Jack said aloud, working the word into his one way conversation, making it an argument, all the while pretending not to notice the doings at the mailbox.
Something tricky was going down. But what? Had the sicko sent a patsy? Jack had known the guy was sly, but he’d thought the sicko would have wanted to see the finger up close and personal, just to be sure it was real.
Unless of course the sicko was the wino and he’d done just that a few seconds ago.
He was almost up to Jack’s phone booth now. The only option Jack saw was to follow him. Give him a good lead and –
He heard pounding footsteps. Munir was coming this way – running this way, sprinting across the pavement, teeth bared, eyes wild, reaching for the tall guy. Jack repressed an alarmed impulse to get between the two of them. It wouldn’t do any good. Munir was out of control and had built up too much momentum. Besides, no use in tipping off his own part in this.