A Dog's Ransom (9 page)

MacGregor frowned. “Why didn’t you bring the guy in right away? We could’ve got the sister’s address out of him.”

Clarence had known MacGregor would say this. “I was afraid the dog would be killed, sir. Mr. Reynolds told me he cared more about his dog than the money.”

MacGregor shook his head. “Dummell—Clarence—you’re a cop, you’re not with the A.S.P.C.A. And you let the guy get away? He just left his pad
poof
?—Where does he live?”

“He had a room at a Hundred and third and West End.” MacGregor wasn’t reaching for a pencil, Clarence noticed, though he had Rowajinski’s West End address with him. Manzoni was listening.

“So he collected
more
money?”

“Tonight at eleven. I mean a couple of hours ago. Mr. Reynolds insisted that we have no police on the scene.”

MacGregor seemed amused now. “Who is Mr. Reynolds? Is he running the force? He brings his complaints here and doesn’t let us follow up? You should have followed up, Dummell, if you were so interested.”

“I realize, sir, I’d like to do what I can now—at least. This Rowajinski is probably hiding out in a cheap hotel, or maybe with a friend. He’s got a definite limp.—If I can write a detailed description, I’d like to get a search going.”

MacGregor motioned to a typewriter. “Next time, Dummell—communicate.”

“Yes, sir.”

But MacGregor seemed already thinking of something else, and he looked down at a paper on his desk.

“Tsch-tsch,” said Manzoni, and clicked his tongue at Clarence.

Clarence had to look in another office for the right form. He typed out a description of Kenneth Rowajinski, approximate height, weight and age, color of hair and eyes, a limp in right foot, pink cheeks, lips and nose. Last known address. Clarence added: paranoid type, anonymous letter-writer, furtive, aggressive manner, kidnapper of black female French poodle “Lisa” owned by Edward Reynolds, etc. in Riverside Park 14th October at 7:30 p.m. Extortioner of $2,000 ransom. From his notebook Clarence got Rowajinski’s Social Security number and added it for good measure.

By 5 a.m. Clarence was in Astoria, Long Island. He had drunk another beer in Manhattan, debated going to his own apartment on East 19th Street, then decided to go out and see his parents. He had got off at the Ditmars Boulevard elevated stop. Clarence had spent his childhood in this neighborhood, and whenever he arrived at Ditmars, he had a flash of recollection of himself at ten or twelve—a gawky blond kid riding a bicycle or roller-skating, bringing home now and then a live miniature turtle that cost thirty-five cents from a pet shop on Ditmars that no longer existed. He’d had a happy childhood with plenty of outdoor life here, plenty of chums, mostly Italian and tough. That was all right, aged twelve. Clarence thought of Santini and Manzoni now. Neither liked him, Clarence felt. Manzoni was a patrolman like himself, but thirty years old and with the cynical, realistic attitude the cops ought to have, Clarence supposed. Manzoni had probably been a cop for six or eight years. Maybe even promotions didn’t interest him.

On Ditmars Boulevard now a few trucks were unloading—fish in open boxes of salted ice for a restaurant, and boxes of fresh lettuce, eggplant, and tomatoes for a supermarket. Men in dirty white aprons shouted to each other, wooden beer barrels bumped the pavement, and a garbage truck chewed away noisily. The neighborhood hadn’t changed much since he was a kid. But whatever his parents believed or wanted to believe, his old pals in the neighborhood (not that there were many, because to an amazing extent the young people had left Astoria) didn’t like to have a beer with him any more, even if he wasn’t in uniform, and he never was in uniform off duty. The atmosphere was different because he was a cop, a little as if he’d become a priest and might therefore be passing judgment on his friends. “To be a policeman is surely nothing to be ashamed of,” said his mother, “or what’s New York coming to?” But that wasn’t quite the point.

Now Clarence was walking down Hebble, his street, past still sleeping two-story houses with projecting glass-enclosed sunrooms at the front of almost every one. The dawn was starting. His subway-elevated trip had taken ages.

His parents’ house was white, trimmed in yellow, with a sunroom in, front, and a patch of lawn bordered by a low hedge. Clarence opened the wooden gate gently and went up the short front walk. Through the sunroom’s windows he could see the old red leather sofa, the cluttered coffee-table with copies of
Time
,
McCall’s
, and
Popular Mechanics
. Clarence suddenly realized he hadn’t his key. It was in his apartment in New York. He hesitated, immediately thought that his mother wouldn’t mind what the hour was, and he pressed the bell briefly.

Finally his mother emerged in the dimness of the living-room doorway, wearing what looked like a bulky terrycloth robe, and peered across the sunroom. Then recognizing him, she broke into a big smile and flung the door open.

“Clary! Hello, darling! Come in, sweetie! How are you?” She seized his shoulders and kissed his cheek.

“Fine. As usual. Everything okay?”

His mother started coffee in the kitchen—already primed in an electric percolator, so she merely had to plug it in. Questions. They hadn’t seen him for six weeks, wasn’t it? The red cuckoo clock opened and a bird announced 5:30. The kitchen was smallish, immaculately clean, and full of yellow Formica. And what about his girlfriend, Marion, wasn’t it?

“Marylyn,” Clarence said, glad that his mother hadn’t got the name right. “She’s all right.” He was in shirtsleeves now, sitting at the kitchen table.

“Did something go wrong?”

Clarence laughed. “No! Is that the only reason I’d come out, if something went wrong?”

“Why don’t you bring Marylyn around? You’re hiding her.” His mother turned from the stove, a spatula in her hand. She had insisted on making a brace of eggs—Clarence could sleep afterwards if he wanted to.

“Oh, it’s hard for her to find time. Marylyn works freelance. Typing jobs.” He should have had Marylyn meet his parents by now, Clarence supposed, but Marylyn was a bit shy, Astoria was a boring trip, and in short he hadn’t arranged it as yet. He hadn’t met Marylyn’s mother, either, but Marylyn wasn’t the type to suggest that. Her parents were divorced.

His mother poured coffee, then turned her attention back to the stove while she chatted with Clarence. Nina was forty-nine, blondish with short, naturally wavy hair that needed little attention. She was practical, but in a sense had never found her métier. She had tried running a dress shop, interior decorating, had started a restaurant with a friend, and had stayed with none of these things, though none had been a financial catastrophe either. Now in her spare time, which was at least six hours per day, she did volunteer work for handicapped children, and was unofficially on call day and night.

Clarence’s father, hearing the stir in the house, came down in bathrobe and slippers. This was Ralph, fifty-two, an electrical engineer at a turbine factory ten miles away called Maxo-Prop. Clarence had been named for Ralph’s brother, whom Ralph had adored and Clarence had never met, who had been killed in France in the Second World War. Clarence disliked his name, but it could have been worse—Percy or Horace. Clarence was not close to his father, but he respected him. Ralph made a decent salary, had a skilled job, and he had got where he was with no college education, merely by taking correspondence courses in engineering and by studying at night. The fact that Clarence had gone to Cornell, an Ivy League university, for four years, was a source of pride to his father, Clarence knew. Not just NYU or City College, but Cornell, as a boarding student. His family had sacrificed for that, Clarence realized, though it had probably not caused them to buy one overcoat or bottle of whisky less, if they wanted it. But they might have gone to Europe, for instance. A diploma from Cornell was something Clarence had and his father hadn’t. His father had never said to him, “I expect you to work summers, be a waiter or a taxi driver, but pull your weight a little.” Lots of rich families said that to their sons and daughters. Clarence had gone to Cornell like a prince. His parents could have moved, years ago, to a better neighborhood in Long Island, but they had chosen to stash away their money, bequeathed to Clarence their only child, in case they died. And in case they didn’t die, they were going to retire in eight years now, and buy a house in California overlooking the Pacific. Clarence thought his parents hopelessly old-fashioned, but he had to admit they were decent, honest people, and he didn’t meet decent, honest people every day in New York. That was why the Reynoldses were such an exception for him.

“Well, Patrolman Duhamell, how goes life?” asked his father. “Are you mingling with delinquent youth, setting them on the right path?”

Clarence groaned. “Not all of them are young. Lots with gray hairs in their whiskers.” When he had started on the force, he had talked to his parents about making contact with young people in trouble. He had tried to get a job along these lines when he had been at the 23rd Street Precinct, but men already with such jobs (patrolmen with special connections with Bellevue) hadn’t wanted to yield place, or there hadn’t been a place then for a newcomer. But had he been forceful enough in asking for such work? The matter still bothered him. He could of course try again.

They drank coffee, and his father smoked a cigarette.

“What brings you here at this ungodly hour? You’ve deprived me of an hour’s sleep,” Ralph said.

Clarence said he’d come out on a whim. Clarence realized he couldn’t tell them about Rowajinski, because he felt ashamed (at that moment) of his stupidity, therefore he couldn’t tell them about the Reynoldses. He wanted to talk about the Reynoldses, because he liked them.

“I hope you don’t have to go to work today, Clary,” said his mother, serving his father a pair of fried eggs flanked by two pieces of neatly buttered toast.

“No,” Clarence said.

“You were on duty tonight?” asked his father.

“No. But I’m off today.” Clarence didn’t want to tell them he was on an 8 p.m. to 4 a.m. shift, because they thought it was the most dangerous part of the twenty-four hours, so he was glad that his mother began talking of neighborhood affairs.

“How’s the girl?” asked Ralph. “When can we meet her?”

“I don’t know why you take her so seriously!” Clarence suddenly realized that he was very tired. He felt almost hysterical suddenly, as if something had burst in his heart. He felt on the brink, on some brink, on the edge of a great decision. It was whether he stayed in the police force or not. He wanted to tell his parents this. It concerned Marylyn and the Reynoldses. Marylyn didn’t like policemen. It concerned the Pole called Rowajinski, the bastard whom he had allowed to escape him. It concerned the fact that Marylyn didn’t want to marry a cop, and he was still in the force, even though he could quit any time he wished.

“What is it, Clary?” his mother asked in a kind voice.

Clarence shook his head.

“Our boy is exhausted,” said Nina to Ralph. “Walking those streets—Come up to your room, Clary.” She extended a small, energetic hand, then as if realizing he was a grown man, she stopped.

“I’ll go up,” said Clarence. He was aware that his father was studying his face. Clarence looked straight at his father, ready for his words of well-meant advice or wisdom. But about what? It occurred to Clarence that his father was a little like Edward Reynolds. They were the same height and weight, and their features had a similar rugged handsomeness.

Then his father said with surprising lightness, “It’s logical that you sleep now, isn’t it?” He put some home-made jelly on a bit of toast and popped it into his mouth. “We can talk later. This evening. I hope you’ll stay over.”

“Oh, I think so,” Clarence said automatically.

A few minutes later, he was upstairs in his room, having brushed his teeth with his own toothbrush in the bathroom next door. His room had a gabled front window that made two slants in the ceiling. Under one of these, in a corner, was his bed, under the other a long bookcase that still held some boys’ adventure books along with college texts on sociology and psychology, plus several novels—Fitzgerald, Kerouac, Bellow, William Golding. On the wall was a picture of the Cornell basketball team, himself third from right in the back row. He really ought to remove that, he thought. Marylyn would laugh: she would think it square, snobbish, and childish, though the picture was only five or six years old. Marylyn would think his parents’ house square also, and boring, though not expensive enough to be bourgeois. Well, he and Marylyn would never live in a house like this, in a place like Astoria. They’d have an apartment in Manhattan, maybe a house in northern Connecticut, if he ever got the money together.

The sheets were fresh. Clarence slid into bed and felt himself in a cocoon of safety. Was this another dead end, the police force? Was it like the bank job, in the personnel department? Not the end of the world, of course, even if people like Captain MacGregor and Santini said, “You’re just not cut out for the police, Dummell.” The trouble was that he had tried, was still trying, and presumably had an advantage over most young cops because he had a college degree, but even so, he had goofed in a way the dumbest most primitive cop wouldn’t have goofed; he had caught his man and let him go. And Marylyn—she hadn’t taken his job seriously, and Clarence knew it would be months before he could get a promotion, even if he went to the Police Academy, which he intended to do. Would Marylyn marry a cop under any circumstances? “No one bothers marrying these days,” Marylyn had said. Clarence felt he could be loyal to Marylyn for the rest of his life. That was something. That was everything. Odd that in the old days men usually fought shy of marriage, while girls held out for it. Now he wanted marriage and—yes, a kind of security, just what the girls used to fight for . . . Must call Marylyn as soon as he woke up. The play tonight . . .

“Clary?—Clary?”

Clarence raised himself on an elbow, tense and groggy.

“Clary, I’m sorry to wake you, but it’s your precinct on the phone. They want to speak with you.”