The Big Bamboo (29 page)

“But the cops will be there again,” said Mel.

“Of course they’re going to be there,” said Tori. “That’s why you need to get ahold of yourself. All we have to do is make it through this one last meeting and we’re in the clear.”

“They’re not going to buy it,” said Ian. “I can feel them closing in.”

“Will you relax?” said Tori. “The police don’t know a thing. They’re totally in the dark.”

The closet suddenly got very bright. The startled trio turned toward the open door.

“We’re ready to take the call,” said Detective Babcock.

Serge loved
The Big Lebowski.
He was on the edge of the bed, repeating lines with Jeff Bridges and John Goodman. He hit the back button again, replaying the scene leading up to the ransom phone call.

“This isn’t a fucking game!”

“Oh, but it is a game. She was involved in her own kidnapping. You said so yourself…”

The actors checked their watches in the movie. Serge checked his own watch. “Dammit! We were supposed to make the call ten minutes ago!…Ally, they’re going to want to hear your voice to prove you’re alive…. Ally?…”

Serge ran out onto the balcony, pulled her back inside and yanked the curtain shut. “Does everyone remember their lines?”

Ally sat on the side of the bed and looked away. “Fuck off.”

“Coleman, you ready?…
Coleman!
”

Coleman was sprawled facedown on the carpet with limbs bent in unintended directions like a chalk outline. Serge grabbed him under the armpits and sat him up against a wall. He lightly slapped his cheeks. “Coleman! Wake up! We have to make the call!”

Coleman’s head began bobbing. “Ooooo. Serge, what happened?”

“Your regular afternoon power pass-out. Remember our code names?”

“Code names?”

“The ones we rehearsed all morning!”

“Oh, those.” Coleman got up and grabbed a beer.

“Okay, everybody. This is it. Take your places.” He flipped open a cell phone. “And…
action!
”

The Glicks’ office was at full, fire-marshal capacity. The brothers, Tori, detectives, electronics experts. A sound guy was wearing headphones, adjusting knobs. There was a distant whapping noise from the helicopter hovering over the Vistamax lot, waiting to triangulate microwave signals. Nobody talking. Anxious smiles from the movie people. A clock ticked. Trickles of sweat ran down Ian’s forehead.

Detective Reamsnyder handed him a handkerchief. “You’re sweating.”

“Uh, because we’re dealing with bloodthirsty kidnappers?”

“Now you’re starting to understand,” said Babcock. “You should have called us from the beginning.”

Reamsnyder checked his watch, then the Xerox of the crammed, ten-page ransom letter. “They’re late. The note says they were supposed to call ten minutes ago.”

“Let me see that thing again.” Babcock took the letter from his partner and put on reading glasses:

Dear Ian and Mel Glick,

First, let me say I’m your biggest fan—love all your movies. Yes, sir, best stuff coming out of Tinseltown today. Like the wacky-but-touching mob comedy about the dyslexic don who keeps getting the wrong people killed but leaves the life after winning the Scramble-Gram championship. Or that totally fresh idea turning a
Saturday Night Live
skit into a full-length feature—genius! You can’t crank them out fast enough for me!

Hey, I got a movie joke for you. It’s from the legendary screenwriter Terry Southern, who left us far too soon, but I don’t want to dwell on that injustice because the business article said to keep this positive. The joke is about a terrible film being made. When you tell it at parties, you can substitute one of your competitors. Anyway, this film is really stinking up the set, and finally the lead actress says, “Who do I have to fuck to get
off
this movie?” Get it? See how she turned the whole thing around? I laugh every time!

In case you’re wondering, you don’t know me. But I’m very dependable and ambitious, so we should have no problem working together. Speaking of which, I have a number of treatments I’m working on. Are you ready? Think Farrelly brothers. Personally, I don’t care for their stuff, but there’s nothing wrong with making a little money, eh? It’s a nutty-but-moving feel-good about unsymmetrical conjoined twins attached at the butt and the forehead who weather their classmates’ cruel taunts to win heart or hearts on the cheerleading squad. Okay, forget that. It sounded better in my head before I saw it glued together here. This next one’s a lot better. Designed to attract a handsome A-list star who’s never won an Academy Award and looking for a surefire vehicle to overcome his pretty-boy image. So in his role, he has to gain thirty pounds, wear makeup to deform his face
and
he’s a retard. Start clearing space on the mantel! What am I talking about? You must get thousands of annoying letters every day asking for stuff, and I don’t want you to throw it in the trash with the others. Right now, our business is what
I
can do for
you
.

Please keep reminding yourself that this is a happy letter. I’m very content as I paste these words, and we’re still on good terms. Okay? Here’s goes: We’re the guys who kidnapped Ally Street. I don’t know how you usually handle these things, whether you require proof of life.
Proof of Life
. Did you see that one? What’s up with Meg Ryan? I decided I don’t like her anymore. I wanted to cut some of Ally’s hair, but she wouldn’t let us, so those are some toenail clippings taped to the bottom of the page…

Rrrrrrrrrring!

Heads turned. The technician checked modulation levels and the caller ID: FORD OELMAN. He gave detectives the thumbs-up.

“Okay, everybody,” said Babcock. “This is it. Take your places.” He silently signaled the room—one finger, two fingers,
three
! The detective and Ian simultaneously picked up receivers.

“This is Ian. Talk to me.”

“A million dollars in unmarked bills. No sequential serial numbers.”

“Sure, but you’ll have to give us time.”

“You’re stalling. The police are there, aren’t they?”

Babcock shook his head at Ian, then made a swirling motion with a finger: Keep him talking.

“Absolutely not,” said Ian. “We’d never—”

“It’s okay,” said Serge. “That’s what I’d do…Put me on the speakerphone so we can all talk.”

Ian looked at Babcock. The detective thought a moment, then nodded. Ian pressed a button.

Serge’s voice rattled out of a small box on Ian’s desk. “Who’s in charge there?”

“Detective Babcock. What’s all that noise in the background?”

“You mean the ionizing?”

Babcock gave the sound tech a look that asked if they had a location yet. The tech shook his head. Babcock turned back to the speaker. “I thought ionizers were quiet.”

“Yeah, but I got fifteen of ’em. Because my roommate’s—…You’re not eating, are you?”

“Roommate? How many of you are there?”

“I can’t say any more,” said Serge. “No offense—it’s kidnapping rules. Otherwise I’m a big supporter of the LAPD.”

“We appreciate it.”

“No, really. You take a lot of unfair criticism. The public just doesn’t understand why twenty guys with batons have to beat the piss out of some drunk who can’t even stand up by himself. He could have a grenade, right? Or a vial of anthrax. That’s what would be going through
my
mind.”

“Let me speak to Ally.”

“This is the part where you want to make sure she’s still alive?”

“This is the part.”

“All right…Hey, Ally! Someone wants to talk to you…Come on, Ally, don’t be like that…Just say a couple words…Jesus, when I’m trying to watch a movie, I can’t get you to shut up!…”

“Is everything all right?” asked Babcock.

“She’s mad at me again,” said Serge. “Are you married?”

“Put her on the phone.”

“We’re having technical difficulties.”

“She’s not there, is she?”

“No, she’s definitely here, unfortunately.”

“Why can’t I speak with her?”

“She wants her water.”

“You’re withholding food and water?”

“Long story,” said Serge. “But I’ll make it short: Never kidnap an actress. Probably won’t come up in your line, but this is absolutely my last…Ally! Please! You’re embarrassing me in front of people—I’m on the speaker…You’re in trouble when I get off the phone…Uh, Babcock? You still there?”

“I’m here.”

“I’ll have to call you back.”

“Wait, I—”

Click.

Babcock looked at the sound tech. He shook his head. “Almost had ’em.”

The detective turned to the Glicks, drenched in sweat. “You recognize that voice?”

They began stuttering.

The phone rang.

The detective hit the speaker button. “Babcock.”

“Is this Babcock?”

“Who’s this?”

“Coleman. He’s trying to talk to her now…”

Yelling in the background: “Code name!”

“Oh, shit,” said Coleman. “What do I do now, Serge?”

“You did it again!”

“Wait, I can fix it…”

The desk speaker made the sound of a beer can popping open.

“Detective?”

“I’m here.”

“Yes, this is the kidnapper code-named Coleman
Lantern
, and me and my partner code-named Serge
Suppressor
want to assure you that Ally is perfectly fine.”

Babcock looked toward the sound tech, who held up a single finger: one more minute.

“You have to be reasonable,” said Babcock. “We’re going to need some kind of proof.”

“Proof?” said Coleman. “Let me see…I got it…Give me a second to get across the room.” They heard a rustling sound.

“Okay,” said Coleman. “I’m standing next to Ally holding up a copy of today’s newspaper.”

Serge: “Gimme that phone!”

“I’m doing good here. I think he likes me.”

“Give it to me!”

“I’m part of this, too!”

“Give it!”

“No!”

“Yes!”

“Ow! My ear!—”

Click.

Babcock turned. The sound tech shook his head.

Rrrrrrringggggggg.

“Babcock here. Everything okay?”

“Make another mental note,” said Serge. “Never work with a special-needs kidnapper.”

“If we can’t talk to Ally, could you and I meet somewhere?”

“I don’t think so,” said Serge, sitting down in front of the TV. “You’d catch me.”

“I promise I won’t.”

Serge became distracted by
The Big Lebowski.
He turned up the volume.

“Dude, are you fucking this up?”

“Who was that?” asked Babcock.

“John Goodman,” said Serge.

“The actor?”

“Yeah.”

Babcock gave the others in the room a confused look, then turned back to the speaker. “How’s he involved?”

“The driver on the ransom run,” said Serge.

“What was that noise?” asked Babcock. “Sounded like gunfire?”

“Automatic…” Serge’s voice became trance-like as he drifted deeper into the movie.

“What’s happening?”

“We fucked up! Now she’s dead!”

“Who was that?” said Babcock.

“Jeff Bridges.”

“What the hell’s going on?”

Serge didn’t answer. He leaned closer to the TV and slowly shut the phone.

An amplified dial tone filled the office of the Glick brothers. Babcock pressed a button and cut it off. Silence. An initial odd moment where nobody moved or spoke.

Babcock looked at Tori, then the Glicks. “This is way, way off the record. And I pray to God I’m wrong, but I want to prepare you…”

“For what?” asked Ian.

“No matter what they say on the phone, there’s a reason why they’re not letting you talk to the victim.”

“What is it?” asked Tori.

Reamsnyder took a deep breath. “There’s a very high likelihood she’s already dead.”

“As I said, I hope we’re wrong,” added Babcock. “But we’ve worked a number of these. Not once has the victim turned up alive after the kidnappers refused to offer proof this long past the abduction.”

“Oh, my God!” yelled Tori. “Our poor Ally!” Her sobbing face fell in her hands. The brothers ran over to console. Ian looked up. “We through here?”

The detectives nodded with sympathy and walked out of the office.

Reamsnyder turned to his partner in the hall. “Still think they’re in on it?”

“Until about fifteen minutes ago,” said Babcock. “But there’s no way those calls were a put-on.”

A massive warehouse complex stood in the industrialized outskirts of Tokyo, serviced by trucks and rail lines connected to the port. The area was similar to the rest of Tokyo but different in slight ways that would be hard to describe by someone who had never been there.

In the middle of the compound was central headquarters, and in the middle of that was a pecking order of executive offices around a large-capacity conference room. From there to the outside gates were eight levels of security. The first seven currently had two or three bodies each, draped over guard desks or slumped in corridors, some with hands still on holsters they hadn’t been able to unsnap in time.

A man dressed completely in black walked down the hallway to the last security post. The guards overcame their initial shock and jumped into action. The intruder was in his late twenties, not quite tall, but lean with a high center of gravity. A flat-brimmed Billy Jack hat sat low to his eyes. But the guards didn’t notice any of that. What grabbed their attention and didn’t let go was the full facial tattoo.

As with many young men, getting a tattoo seemed like such a great idea at the time. It had been a big night on the town with his buds, the kind that turns into a competition, each tattoo getting more and more outrageous until The Tat topped them all. Having his entire face done would have been enough, but the life-size skull sealed the deal.

Congratulations: You win!

Then life wore on, friends went their way, and the full facial tattoo, as in most cultures, hindered employment in sectors that didn’t pay badly. He worked the hard construction jobs and under the lifts of auto repair shops, days filled entirely with growing rage.