Snatch Read online

  Rinaldi came across the room. Passing Augustus, he didn’t even stop.

  The back of his hand smashed into Augustus’s face.

  The side of Augustus’s head hit the wall He found himself sitting on the floor next to the wall.

  “Little bastard,” Rinaldi said.

  Augustus remained on the floor. He heard the Jeep start and immediately gun down the road.

  “It’s all right,” his mother said. “He’ll do something now.”

  They arrived in Liverpool, England, in November, when Augustus was eight years old. His mother never did adjust. She worked in a factory, joined a church and went to a neighborhood pub on Saturday nights.

  When Augustus was twelve years old, he came home from school on a January Monday to find his mother hanging by her neck from a pipe in the kitchen. For him, then, it was institutions until he was old enough to be put into the Army.

  He served two hitches, then spent eight years in various African nations as a mercenary. Finally he returned to England and rejoined the British Army with the understanding he would be assigned to Army Intelligence. Of course, after full training, he was assigned to the Persian Gulf States.

  It was while he was recovering from a three-day drunk in a fleabag hotel in Sirik, Iran, that the idea occurred to Augustus Turnbull. Was it an idea or a realization…a goal toward which he had been moving unconsciously all his life?

  Old Rinaldi was dead. His other son, Teodoro, little Teodoro, was alive. Over the years, Augustus had heard Teodoro was in school in Switzerland, in school in America, assigned to the legation in London. Skiing, yachting, playing polo. He was being groomed for the highest posts in His Majesty’s government. Precious little Teodoro.

  The idea was so grand, so basic, so simple that lying on his fleainfested bed, he felt it between his legs.

  Infiltrate and destroy.

  He would wipe out the Rinaldi family. Nice and slow. He would give himself the pleasure of doing it

  Nineteen months later, Augustus Turnbull changed employers again.

  He used everything he had: having been born in that nation, having been trained by British Intelligence, having an intimate knowledge of the politics and the sewers of the Middle East, the Persian Gulf. He was accepted readily into His Majesty’s Intelligence Service. Within three years of his decision in Sirik he was chief of His Majesty’s secret intelligence wing in the United States.

  And Teodoro Rinaldi, married, with a child, a son, was stationed in the United States as Ambassador to the United Nations.

  Faithful to the King—oh, Colonel Augustus Turnbull had been faithful to the King, was faithfully doing the legwork, the blackmail and the bribery, to get Resolution 1176R passed in the United Nations, when along came his old friend from mercenary days Simon Cord with a proposition, an idea so grand, so basic, so simple, again Augustus Turnbull felt it between his legs….

  Eleven

  In the lobby of San Francisco’s Fairmont Hotel, Spike put a quarter into a pay phone, carefully dialed 0, the Manhattan exchange and then the number.

  The operator said, “May I help you, please?”

  “Yeah. Oh. This is a collect call.”

  “Your name, sir?”

  “Ah—Wilkins.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’m ringing. Will you talk with anyone?”

  Spike said, “Just the guy who answers.” A few meters away from him sat Tobias Rinaldi. His back was straight, his hands folded in his lap. Near him on the divan sat a girl in a brown velvet suit and leather boots reading Vogue. Toby was looking at her.

  “Jeez,” Spike said into the phone. “That kid’s used to bein’ pushed around.”

  “Pardon me, sir?” the operator asked.

  “I wasn’t speakin’ to you.”

  “There doesn’t seem to be an answer, sir.”

  “There hasta be.”

  “Well, there isn’t, sir. No one seems to be answering.”

  “What number did I give you—I mean, dial?”

  The operator recited the number.

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “Would you like me to try it again?”

  “Yeah. There must be some mistake. The guy said he’d be there. This number.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Again, there was the ringing. The girl who had been sitting next to Toby was gone and Toby was looking down at his fingers as if he’d never seen them.

  “Jeez, what a punk kid.”

  “Sir? There is no answer at that number.”

  “Oh, yeah? How can that be?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Aw, okay, operator. But don’t go home yet. I’ll try later.”

  Twelve

  Christina dragged her suitcases from her rented car in the parking lot down the long, dark path between a high hedge and the All Stars’ Tennis Camp’s staff bungalows. The young woman who showed Christina to the bungalow referred to the path as “Slave Alley.” As a guest, Christina had never noticed the area or known of its existence. A party was going on in one of the other bungalows. Music was playing softly over the murmur of voices.

  She stayed under a hot shower a long time, hoping it would relax her, make her feel better.

  It didn’t.

  In her robe she sat on the lumpy divan, glancing frequently at her wristwatch, observing time stand still. Next to the divan was the telephone.

  The bungalow was tiny. There was a Pullman kitchen, a bathroom with shower, a bedroom barely big enough for the bed and a dresser, and the living room with one long couch, two wicker chairs and a pine coffee table. There was no air conditioning.

  On the walls were posters of the two popular model-filmstars of the moment, in poses more athletic than seductive, a T-shirt tacked up by its shoulders saying forest hills, an autographed tennis schedule and a large number of fly stains.

  In every corner of the bungalow, it seemed, was something discarded—one sneaker, one sock, an empty rum bottle, a torn tennis magazine, a cracked Frisbee, a pair of blue jeans torn at the crotch.

  Christina thought of getting up and finding something to eat. She felt slightly nauseous.

  Again she glanced at her watch.

  There was a rapping on the window of the bungalow door. Hearing it, the only immediate thought she had was that the pane of glass was loose in its frame.

  Someone rapped again.

  Remaining seated, Christina called out, “He’s not here. Mark’s away—at a tennis tournament.”

  Outside, a voice said, “Mrs. Rinaldi?”

  “Yes.” She got up. “Yes.”

  She opened the door.

  A heavy man in a bulky tweed suit stood on the path.

  “I’m Mrs. Rinaldi,” she said.

  “Augustus Turnbull, ma’am. Colonel Augustus Turnbull. Here to do anything I can to help.”

  “Oh, yes. Come in. Please.”

  After he entered, she saw that his tweed suit was green.

  “I’m alone,” she heard herself say.

  “Your husband mentioned me?”

  “Yes, I think he did. I don’t know. He mentioned someone would be here. I’m so—”

  “You’re in a state of shock, Mrs. Rinaldi. A terrible state of shock. Over this terrible thing that has happened to your family.”

  “I was hoping someone would appear. I—I’m not thinking too well.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be doing just now. I don’t know what I can do.”

  She had difficulty seeing the man’s eyes in his fat face.

  “I don’t think there’s anything to be done just now. Get some sleep. We both need sleep.”

  “But Toby could be anywhere…anything could be happening to him.”

  Turnbull put his hand on her arm. “You can’t think that way, Mrs. Rinaldi. I’m here now. Everything will be all right.”

  “That’s very kind,” she said. “But I don’t know what it means.”

  “
There are people in Washington and New York working on this, and there’ll be more in the morning. Have you eaten? Would you like a drink? A sedative?”

  “No. I don’t want anything.”

  “This is very difficult.” Turnbull moved around the living room, apparently seeing everything.

  He picked up a broken tennis racket and went to one corner of the room. Stooping, he picked something up with the racket’s handle. Christina saw it was a jock strap. Turnbull carried it to the door and threw it outside.

  She smiled at him.

  “There’s one bed, I suppose?” he asked. “One bedroom?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll sleep there. On the couch.” He could not conceal his look of dismay.

  “There are no other rooms available,” she said, “but there are motels nearby. I’ll be all right.”

  “I’d rather stay with you,” he said quietly, “for what comfort I may be to you.”

  “You really needn’t.”

  “That’s all right, Mrs. Rinaldi.” He asked, “May I call you Christina?”

  “Yes.” She looked away. “Of course.”

  “All right, then. Good night, Christina. Try to sleep.”

  At the bedroom door, she said, “And what do we do? What do we do in the morning?”

  “I’ll need to make some phone calls,” he answered. “I’ll need to go out for a while. Don’t you worry yourself. Just follow your own instincts. Leave everything in my hands.”

  Christina looked at his hands. The backs of his hands faced forward.

  “All right…” she said.

  “Not to worry, Christina. We’ll find your child. Believe me.”

  Thirteen

  “Anyway—” Toby sat on the edge of the bed in Room 102 in the Red Star-Silvermine Motel continuing to tell the story he had begun in the car with Spike. Spike had never seemed much interested in it.

  When they had arrived at the motel, Spike had left Toby in the car while he talked to the man in the office.

  Spike and Toby had gone to the room alone.

  Over the phone, Spike had ordered cheeseburgers, french fries and milk for them both.

  Then he made another call. He dialed a lot of numbers, told the operator it was to be a collect call and said his name was Wilkins. He held the phone to his ear a long time before hanging up. There was no answer.

  As Toby talked, Spike prowled around the room, looking in the closets, out the window, walking in and out of the bathroom several times.

  Toby thought telling Spike a story might make him more peaceful. Stories always made Toby more peaceful.

  “This policeman says to this newspaper reporter, Clark Kent, who really is Superman, you see, in different clothes—do you remember my telling you that, Spike?—‘If we don’t catch this crook soon, we can wave goodbye to all decency in this city!’ I told you, Spike, that this terrible crook was stealing buses right off the city streets so everybody had to walk to the store. He would go disguised as a bus driver, you see, and knock out the real bus driver and then drive the bus away. He was selling them to some poor city in China. They could never catch him because all bus drivers look the same in their bus driver’s uniforms—”

  Spike turned from the window. “Shut up, kid. Go to the bathroom.”

  “What?”

  “Get into the bathroom.”

  “I went when I came in.”

  “Get into the bathroom!” Spike put his head too close to Toby’s, his glass eye staring. “Or I will twist off two of your fingers and make you eat ’em!”

  Toby wrinkled his nose. He put his hands in his pockets.

  He went into the bathroom.

  * * *

  “Lissen,” Spike said. They were sitting on the edges of their beds, eating the cheeseburgers and french fries. Each had a pint of milk on the floor by his feet. “Sick of your stories. Fac’ is, you don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. How old are you? Twelve years old?”

  Pleased, Toby said, “No.”

  “How old?”

  “Eight.”

  “Eight years old. Shit. I don’t even remember eight years ago hardly. Eight years is nothin’.” He tried to snap his fingers, but they were too greasy. “Eight years means nothin’. What you ever done?”

  “I done plenty,” Toby said. He looked up from under his eyebrows at Spike. “I mean, I have done plenty.”

  “Yeah? You don’ sound it. You sound like an ignoramus kid.”

  “I’ve done plenty. I go to school.”

  “Everybody goes to school,” Spike said. “Mos’ly.”

  “I’ve done the quad in under three. I’m age champion in the hundred-yard dash….”

  “‘Done the quad in under three.’ What kinda language is that?”

  “Yes. And I’ve studied French—”

  “Who needs to speak French? Everybody I ever come across speak one of those crazy languages all you have to do is say shut up to, and if they don’t, you punch ’em out. Stupid shits.”

  “I can sail a Beetle Cat—”

  “Anybody can do thatl You pick it up by its stupid tail, swing it through the air and let go! ‘Sail a cat.’ Fancy Dan talk.”

  “In Gstaad last year, skiing with His Majesty, they allowed me on the medium-advanced slopes. That’s pretty good for a kid my age. And it wasn’t because of anything His Majesty said, either.”

  “What’s a Gstaad? Ko-zum-tite!”

  “It’s a place we go skiing. With His Majesty.”

  “Who’s ‘His Majesty’? Your old man?”

  “Old man?”

  “Your father?”

  “No. The King.”

  “‘The King.’ Jeez, ignoramus kid.”

  “Sure. And the King has put me on some of his ponies. He even had a special short mallet made for me.”

  “What for? What’s a mallet?”

  “For polo.”

  “Jeez, kid. Ignoramus kid. Fancy Dan talk. You’re outa your tree. Fac’ is, you’ve had too much of that red horse.”

  “What red horse?”

  “That red-horse stuff you were always talkin’ about on the plane. In your suitcase.”

  “That’s Red Pony.”

  “There’s a diff’runce?”

  “Where is my suitcase?”

  “I tol’ ya, kid. Fac’ is, the airlines lost it. You need a fix, kid? Ahh, you don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. Fac’ is, you confuse me.”

  “I don’t have any clothes. Any pajamas. Any clothes for the morning.”

  “What’sa matter with the clothes you got on?”

  Toby looked down at the sleeves of his jacket. “I’ve been wearing them all day.”

  “‘Wearing ’em all day’! I wear clothes two, three weeks. Then I throw them away.”

  “Two, three weeks at a time?”

  “Yeah. See, I got money now. I can do that.”

  “Don’t you itch?”

  “When I itch, I go to the store.”

  “So that’s why you don’t have any luggage, either?”

  “That’s right, kid. Travel light. On the road. Keep movin’.”

  “Why wasn’t my mother at that big hotel we went to?”

  “You already ast me that.”

  “In the car I said, ‘Where’s my mother?’ and you didn’t answer.”

  “You saw me on the phone?”

  “Of course I saw you on the phone.”

  “Fac’ is, they tol’ me she couldn’t make it. She was gonna be late. Real late. Maybe two, three days late.”

  “Oh. You were talking with my mother?”

  “No. ’Course not. The airlines. I was talkin’ to the people at the airlines. ’Cause your mother wasn’t at the hotel, see?”

  Toby said, “You never asked at the desk.”

  “Fac’ is, she supposed to be waitin’ for us in the lobby, see? So I called the airlines.”

  “Oh.”

  “They said to come over here. Cheaper, you know? Who nee
ds a big hotel like that?”

  “But if my mother’s going there—”

  “Oh, yeah, kid. When she arrives, she’ll call us here. That’s why we’re supposed to stay here, see? Wait for her to call us. Then we’ll go back to that other hotel.” Spike ran his index finger around his teeth, wiped his fingers on his pants and smiled at Toby. “See? You don’t know everything. Just an ignoramus kid.”

  Toby said, “I need a toothbrush.”

  “In the morning, kid. Maybe we’ll get things in the morning.”

  “Pajamas?”

  “Shit, no. Pajamas is for sissies.”

  Toby said, “Why?”

  “Why? I dunno. ’Cause you don’ know much, that’s why. Just an ignoramus kid. Swingin’ a cat—”

  “Sailing a cat.”

  “We used to call it swingin’ a cat. You don’t think I never swung a cat?” His eyes narrowed. “Lissen, you pour kerosene on it, set a match to it, set the cat on fire, then you swing it by its tail over your head a few times. Then you let go.”

  Toby felt his blood fall down through his body.

  “You never did that, did you, kid?”

  Toby swallowed hard.

  “See? Fac’ is, you don’ know nothin’. Nothin’ at all. This stuff you make up. His Majesty. The King. Jeez, kid.”

  “There is a King.”

  “There are no kings.”

  “My father works for him.”

  “Yeah? You’re full of bullshit.”

  “There are lots of kings.”

  “There are no kings. They’re called presidents nowadays, stupid. Fac’ is, I even been in some places they call ’em presidentes. There are no kings, but I can tell you some real stories. You want to hear some real stories?”

  They were surrounded by greasy cheeseburger wrappings, french fries containers, milk cartons. Toby was looking from one scrap to another. He was thinking about going to bed without pajamas.

  Uncertainly, he said, “Sure.”

  “Okay.” Hands behind his head, Spike lay back on his bed. “Fac’ is, there are no crooks, either.”

  Toby said, “Oh.”

  “Just guys who have a job to do, makin’ a livin’ at what they can, like bankrobbin’ or knockin’ over a liquor store, burglarin’, like that. It’s a profession, see? Like, I’ll bet your daddy is a banker or somethin’, isn’t he? Rich guy?”