The Frumious Bandersnatch (19 page)

J. P. Higgins, Bison's VP in charge of Video Production, had been silent until now. Truth of the matter was that he was nursing a hangover this morning, having partied too strenuously aboard the
River Princess
on Saturday night, and having partied privately with the black reporter from
Rolling Stone
last night, celebrating what he considered the fortuitous circumstance of a kidnapping that had thrust Tamar's video into national prominence.

Dressed this morning in sweater and slacks and wearing a blue beret he thought made him look debonair if only he had a mustache, he turned to Binkie Horowitz and, seemingly suddenly inspired, asked, “Any chance we can get more cable stations to show our video?”

“Why not?” Loomis said from the sideboard, and while he was just standing there, fixed himself another bagel with salmon and cream cheese. “If Foster's going to join the talking heads, then maybe they'd like to lead in with our actual goddamn video! Let it speak for itself. Hell, that video isn't about
race,
it's about
rape!
”

“That's a good point to make to the radio stations, too,” Harry Di Fidelio said. “A good talking point. ‘Bandersnatch' isn't about race, it's about rape. Race, rape, they almost rhyme, in fact. What they call a slant rhyme.”

Dressed this morning in a dark blue suit with a white shirt and a blue tie, Di Fidelio lacked only laced black shoes to blend right in with most of the FBI agents down the hall in Loomis' office. Instead, unaware that he might be emulating the fashion preferences of a former U.S. President, he was wearing brown loafers with the blue suit. His socks were brown, too, but that's because he was color blind.

As Bison's VP in charge of Radio Marketing, Di Fidelio was constantly on the lookout for ways to convince the deejays that they actually had something to
talk
about. It was one thing to Pay-for-Play a radio station, and another to sic the indie promoters on them, but if you could give a deejay a truly
personal
reason to plug a record, you were home free. So far, the single had been played on more than 115 Top 40 stations including Z100, WKTU, KIIS, WHYI, KZQZ, WNCI, KDWB, KSLZ, WEZB, and enough damn alphabet soup to feed an army of fans. But if this thing became
really
controversial…

“Rape or Race, we could say,” he suggested, and spread his hands on the air to spell out the words. “Rape or Race.
You
decide.”

“That's not bad,” Binkie said. “Rape or Race. We fight fire with fire. Go head to toe with Foster or anyone else who wants to bring up the race issue. Hell, our hands are clean, our credentials are spotless,” he said, seemingly unaware of the fact that no one around that table was black.

“Let's shotgun the video all over the place,” Loomis said. “Use the ‘Rape or Race' pitch, I like it, spell it all out for them. Maybe get viewers to call in or e-mail, get a poll going, is it rape or race?
You
decide.”

“Rape or Race,” Di Fidelio repeated, spreading his hands on the air again, reminding everyone that this was
his
idea, after all. “
You
decide.”

“Be great if we could get some women's rights groups to champion the video,” Higgins said. “Get them to say what a brave stand Tamar took, get them to suggest she
herself
may be out there getting raped this very…”

“I wouldn't go there,” Loomis said at once.

“Well, we don't really
know
what's happening to her, do we?” Higgins said. His head was pounding. He didn't feel like arguing.

“When they call today,” Loomis said, and looked at his watch, “I'll ask to speak to her. Before we turn over any money, I want some assurance that…”

“Incidentally…”

They all turned toward the far end of the table.

A short, slender man wearing a blue blazer, gray flannel slacks, a paler blue shirt, and a gold-and-blue silk-rep tie, sat there with only a cup of coffee in front of him. Jedediah Bailey, the firm's accountant.

“Do you have any idea how much they'll be asking for?”

“Of course not,” Loomis said. “How would I know how much…?”

“Just asking,” Jedediah said, and spread his hands defensively, palms outward. He'd merely wanted to ascertain that Loomis could get hold of what would most certainly be a sizable amount of cash in a short period of time. Loomis was the company's sole shareholder and CEO. Were his personal assets liquid enough? That's all Jedediah wished to determine, so sue him.

“I'm hoping we'll have her back by tonight sometime,” Loomis said.

The room went silent.

“You know…” Higgins ventured, and then shook his head.

“What?” Loomis asked.

“It wouldn't hurt if this thing dragged on even longer. Few days longer,” Higgins said, and shrugged. “It wouldn't hurt, really.”

He was the only one in the room who'd dared say it.

 

THE ENTIRE SQUAD
was in the office when Endicott gave Loomis' private secretary her marching orders.

Gloria Klein was in her early thirties, a somewhat plain-looking woman, even in the mini and tight sweater she felt appropriate to her job at a record company. She kept shifting her attention and her pale blue eyes from Endicott to Loomis, as if checking to see that her boss agreed with all this.

“Mr. Loomis won't be taking any calls from people you can identify. If you recognize a name, you tell the caller Mr. Loomis will get back to him or her. Have you got that?”

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“Now, Gloria,” Endicott said, “if a caller refuses to give his name, or if he says something like ‘This is personal,' you ask him to hold, please, and then check with Mr. Loomis before putting him through. Have you got that?”

“Yes, sir. Does this have to do with Tamar, sir?”

No, it has to do with the price of fish in Norway, Endicott thought, but did not say.

“Yes, it has to do with Tamar,” he said.

“Are we expecting a call from her kidnappers, is that it?”

“You don't need to know that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anyone whose name you recognize…”

“Mr. Loomis will call back.”

“Any strange name, or anyone who won't give a name…”

“I buzz Mr. Loomis, check if it's okay to put the call through.”

“Very good, Gloria. And if anyone should ask, there's no one here with Mr. Loomis.”

“Yes, sir.”

“He's alone.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That's it.”

“Thank you, sir,” Gloria said, and made eye contact with her boss again, checking.

Loomis gave a slight nod.

 

THE PHONE
on his desk rang at twelve o'clock sharp.

He picked up.

“Yes?” he said.

“Mr. Loomis, there's someone who says you're expecting his call. He wouldn't give a name.”

“Give me three minutes, and then put him through.”

He replaced the receiver on its cradle, and turned to the others. “Won't give a name, says I'm expecting his call.”

“Bingo,” Corcoran said, and nodded toward a makeshift structure not unlike a phone booth, its walls baffled to deaden any sound in the office around him. Loomis entered the booth at once, sat in a chair set up in front of an extension phone. Endicott, Corcoran, and two of his detectives put on ear phones at the monitoring equipment. Carella stood by the green phone that would connect him directly to the Eight-Seven. The three other detectives and the remaining agent were already sitting at phones that linked them to One Fed Square.

The room was utterly silent.

When the phone rang again, its sound burst on the air like a hand grenade.

“Here he is,” Endicott said. “Just sound natural, hear what he has to say. We'll be on him, believe me.”

The phone kept ringing.

“That's three, four…”

“Pick up,” Endicott said.

In the booth, Loomis picked up the receiver.

“Barney Loomis,” he said.

“We have the girl,” the voice on the phone said. “We want $250,000 in unmarked, hundred-dollar bills. We'll call at three
P.M.
sharp to tell you where to deliver it. Do anything foolish and she dies.”

“How do I know she's still alive?” Loomis asked at once.

“Would you like to talk to her?”

“Yes. Yes, please. Let me talk to her.”

There was a silence.

“Verizon landline is tracking,” one of the agents said.

“Sweetheart, come here a minute.”

This on Loomis' phone. Somewhat apart, as if the caller were holding the receiver out to someone.

“Verizon says it's a cell phone,” one of the detectives said.

There was another silence, longer this time.

“Tell Mr. Loomis you're okay,” the voice on the phone said. “No, don't touch the phone!” Sharply. “Just tell him you're fine.”

“It's AT&T wireless,” the same detective said.

“Get on it,” Endicott said.

A shorter silence.

“Hello?”

“Tamar?”

“Yes, Barney.”

Across the room, an agent was asking an AT&T operator to determine the number of the cell phone and track its location.

“Are you all right?”

“I'm fine, Barney.”

“Nobody's hurt you, have they?”

“No, I'm fine.”

“I'll get the money they want, Tamar. You'll be home soon.”

“Thank you, Barney.”

“How's the CD doing?” Tamar asked.

“Very well, actually.”

“First tower's tracking,” one of the agents reported.

“Am I gonna be a star?”

“Oh, you betcha, kid. A real diva.”

“Good. I have to go now, Barney. He wants me to get off the phone.”

“I'll see you soon,” Loomis said.

The man's voice came on again.

“Okay?” he asked. “Satisfied, Mr. Loomis?”

“Second tower's got it.”

“Yes. Thank you,” Loomis said.

“Get the money by three
P.M.
”

“Keep him on,” Endicott said.

There was a click on the line.

“Shit!”

“The way this works,” Corcoran said, yanking off his ear phones, “is the landline company hands us off to the wireless provider, who tracks the call through the base station towers handling it. It's called triangulation. These are three
radio
towers, you understand, a cell phone is a
radio
phone. The first tower judges a rough distance to the caller. Second tower narrows the choice to two points. Third tower pinpoints the location. Unfortunately, our guy got off before the third tower could zero in.”

“He's out on the Island someplace, that's for sure,” one of the agents said.

“Here comes the info now,” a second agent said, and joined him at the computer. They both turned to look at the printer as it began spewing paper. Two detectives rose from their phones and immediately put on their jackets.

“How does it jibe with Sands Spit?” Endicott asked.

“Rosalita Guadajillo,” the first agent said, yanking the printout free. “3215 Noble. Nowhere near. She's right here in the city.”

“Maybe an accomplice,” Corcoran said.

“Move on her,” Endicott ordered, and the two agents went out the door, followed immediately by the two detectives. Carella, sitting by his new green toy with his thumb up his ass, looked at Special Agent in Charge Stanley M. Endicott.

“We have experience in such matters,” Endicott explained, and shrugged.

“What's happening?” Loomis asked, coming out of the booth.

“We lost him,” Endicott said.

“This is going to be elaborate,” Corcoran said.

“How do you know?”

“We've had experience with these things.”

“She's alive,” Barney said. “Thank God for that.”

“Everything'll be fine,” Endicott told him. “You'll see.”

Carella said nothing.

“You pissed off about something?” Endicott asked.