Cockeyed ds-11 Read online

  “Oh, it’s only a matter of minutes then before Mom will be free. Praise de lawd! In fact, whoever picks her up, I think they should bring her over to the house here for a victory imbibulation.

  Artie, don’t we still have some champagne in the fridge from the other night? Of course, Mumsie might go for something a little stronger, and let me tell you, so might I.”

  Hunny, in fact, had been sipping from a glass of amber fluid, and as he stood up he wobbled just a bit.

  “Are you okay to drive?” Sanders asked, wondering perhaps if he was about to enable a dui.

  But Hunny slapped himself twice on his own cheeks and strode confidently toward the living room and the front door.

  “Don’t forget the ransom,” Art said, handing Hunny the travel bag.

  “Oh, heavens to Betsy, my mind is a sieve!”

  We all followed Hunny through the living room and out the front door.

  “Where are you off to, darling?” Marylou asked.

  “I can’t say,” Hunny replied. “But our hugest problem is about to be solved. Then I guess I’ll get busy solving the other ones. Girl, there is just no rest for the weary!”

  “Will you be gone overnight?”

  “I shan’t think so, snookie-ookums. But if I don’t return,”

  Hunny added with a wink, “make sure the twins do their homework so they can get into Dartmouth and make Nelson and Lawn proud.”

  Marylou smiled agreeably, and we all moved down the front steps and toward the TV crews lined up on the sidewalk. They had their microphones poised, and Hunny turned and asked Schuyler and Tyler if he might borrow one of their T-shirts.

  Tyler whipped his off his well-formed frame and flung it to Hunny, who moved past the reporters and cameras with the shirt draped over his lowered head, as he cried out, “No pictures! No pictures!”

  Hunny got into his old Ford Explorer with its all-but-treadless tires — the suv‘s blue finish was grainy and dull but the tires were so shiny they looked waxed — and placed the travel bag with the money on the front seat next to him. Sanders’ newer Ford sedan had been double-parked nearby, and he and I climbed into it.

  As we followed Hunny down Moth Street, a couple of the TV people jumped into their vehicles and gave chase. But at the corner of Moth and Transformer, two APD patrol cars pulled into the intersection and cut off the press while Hunny sped up and 98 Richard Stevenson moved on down the hill, with us not far behind.

  I said, “If the First Amendment is suspended for thirty seconds, the republic will survive.”

  “Yeah,” Sanders said, “Or thirty years wouldn’t hurt either.

  Just kidding.”

  Sanders got on his cell phone and told somebody that we were on the way, and we should get to Stuyvesant Plaza at about six-fifty-five if traffic didn’t bog down.

  I said, “So who is this Elton Steckenfinger? Any idea?”

  “Not yet. It’s his cell phone, and it hasn’t been reported stolen. Steckenfinger lives in Watervliet, and we’ve got officers on the way up there. They’ll be cool till we see what happens at Stuyvesant.”

  “Does your experience suggest that these people will pick up the bag and then release Mrs. Van Horn?”

  “I have very limited experience with abductions. But my training tells me that this thing has all the earmarks of dumb amateurs. The twenty thousand figure, for example. What’s that about, for cryin’ out loud? Why not a hundred thousand? Why not a million? These dickheads have to know that Mr. Van Horn won the Instant Warren. Half the people on the face of the earth have heard about Huntington Van Horn, the gay billionaire. And then there’s the thing that whoever did the snatch is so confident that Mr. Van Horn wouldn’t bring APd into it. Haven’t these people ever been to the movies? The cops nearly always get called in the movies, and this is also true in reality. So, all the signs are, these are not well-organized geniuses we’re dealing with here. They’re dummies, I think, and the thing with dumb amateurs is, they’re unpredictable. So, I really don’t know what to expect, and we’ll just have to see what we see.”

  We swung onto the interstate and headed west. We could see Hunny’s Explorer two cars ahead of us. Hunny was doing fifty-five in the far right slow lane as the Sunday evening traffic roared by in the multiple lanes to our left. It was good that Hunny was dawdling, for he would need to exit I-90 at Route 85, and also CoCkeyed 99 in case one of his bald tires blew. The mid-August early evening sunlight was strong but shot through with the kind of tar-colored shadowyness that lets you know summer is not going to last forever and neither is anything else. Sanders had the windows up and the air conditioner on medium. Hunny had driven off with his car windows open — maybe because his Explorer’s AC was shot, or because his was a cheaper model that had never had any.

  Sanders gave our location to somebody on his phone — cops seemed to be exempt from the New York State prohibition against driving with a hand-held cell phone — and then he said to me, “Who are the Brienings?”

  “Good friends of Hunny,” I told him.

  “I’ll say.”

  “I’m not really sure who they are. Some people Hunny has a history with.”

  “He’s giving them half a billion dollars? I find that mind-boggling.”

  “So do I. If I had half a billion dollars, I wouldn’t know what to do with it. It’s unreal.”

  “It just sounds weird.”

  “If you had a billion dollars, detective, what would you do with it? Where would you start?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t give half of it away the minute the check cleared, that’s for sure. I’d buy a few people a beer, and then I would give the matter a whole lot of thought.”

  “Hunny Van Horn is impulsive. You must have picked that up.”

  “Impulsive.” He laughed. “Well, he’s an effeminate gay.

  They’re a mystery to me. So, who knows? Are the Brienings also homosexuals?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “My supervisor’s daughter is a dyke. She’s hot, too. Two women. It’s a turn-on. I saw her with her girlfriend and I thought, 100 Richard Stevenson

  Jesus, I wouldn’t mind watching those two going at it. Or even getting in there. I wonder if my wife wouldn’t consider that cheating.”

  “You could ask her.”

  Sanders followed Hunny down the exit ramp and onto Route 85 south.

  “There are still guys in the department who badmouth gays.

  But not so much as before. You never know who you might be talking to.”

  “No. For heterosexual America, it’s a minefield.”

  After a moment, Sanders said, “For example, I heard you were gay. So there you are. I wouldn’t have suspected.”

  “No, I don’t wear my bumper sticker on my forehead. But I do drive around with it on my car.”

  “Gays like Mr. Van Horn make a lot of people uncomfortable.”

  “This is true.”

  “If it wasn’t for fruity guys like that, gay people would have an easier time. People get turned off, is what happens.”

  I said, “Ever hear of Stonewall?”

  “Sure. The gays in the city revolted against the cops. Back in the sixties.”

  “Hunny Van Horn was there. Gore Vidal wasn’t. And neither was I.”

  “Vidal the hairdresser?”

  “No, he might have been there.”

  We were on Western Avenue now, Hunny about four cars ahead in the right lane. We passed the big State Office Campus, and we could see the entrance to the Stuyvesant Plaza shopping complex up ahead. Hunny signaled and turned into the access road, and then onto the sprawling tarmac, which was thick with the parked cars of Sunday shoppers and diners. tgi Friday’s was close by, on the left, at the near end of a long strip of shops.

  Sanders parked within sight of the rear of the restaurant, and we CoCkeyed 101 watched Hunny halt next to the Dumpster near the restaurant’s back door. Another Ford was parked about thirty feet from us, and I could make out a man and
a woman seated in the front, their windows rolled up. I indicated this car, and Sanders said,

  “Ours.”

  Hunny got out of his suv, went around to the passenger side, and removed the travel bag from the front seat. He closed the car door, looked around until he spotted our car, then walked over to the Dumpster. The lid was closed on the Dumpster, and Hunny stood briefly taking in this apparently unexpected development.

  Then he lifted the heavy plastic top with one hand and held it open while he heaved the travel bag over the lip and into the receptacle. He let the lid fall back, glanced around, and walked back to his vehicle. No one in the area seemed to notice Hunny do this, or if they did they didn’t react.

  Hunny drove back out to Western Avenue and turned toward downtown Albany. We followed.

  Sanders said to me, “We’ve got three teams of two monitoring the Dumpster. Now we wait for word from Sergeant Nechemias that the kidnappers have released Mrs. Van Horn and phoned the house with the drop-off information. But they’ll pick up the ransom first, and we’ll be told when that happens.”

  We were nearly all the way back to Hunny’s house, heading up Moth Street, when Sanders received a call. He listened and said,

  “Okay.”

  “The bag has been picked up,” Sanders told me. “By a man and a woman in an old Buick LeSabre. We’re on them.”

  Back at the house, Hunny parked and again ran the gauntlet of mikes and cameras. We followed him into the house.

  “No call yet?” Sanders asked Nechemias.

  “Nothing. Just a few calls from media.”

  Hunny looked grim. “I did what they said. So, come on, you puke-heads, come on! Where is my mom?”

  At eight o’clock, no call had been received from the kidnappers. Sanders learned that the old Buick had been followed back to Elton Steckenfinger’s second-floor apartment in a rundown section of Watervliet, and the man and woman who had taken the ransom bag had disappeared inside.

  Hunny fretted — and drank — and nothing Art or Antoine said could console him. He refused to eat anything — the rest of us had some caviar and Ritz crackers left over from Wednesday’s celebration — and Hunny’s left hand developed a tremor.

  Sanders talked to somebody on his phone just after eight fifteen, and a decision was made to confront and arrest the two people who had picked up Hunny’s bag from the tgi Friday’s Dumpster — presumably, though not necessarily, Elton Steckenfinger and a female accomplice.

  Twenty minutes later, Sanders received a call. He listened and said, “Yeah, yeah. Okay. Yeah. Sure. That’s all you can do. Okay.”

  Sanders rang off and said to Hunny, “I’m sorry to tell you, Mr. Van Horn, that your mother was not in the home of the people who took your twenty thousand dollars. In fact, my officers believe their story that they never held her captive at all.

  The Steckenfingers are a couple of crystal meth freaks who tried to exploit your situation. Everyone is extremely disappointed. As I’m sure you must be. At least we got the twenty K back.”

  Hunny choked back a sob. “But then, where is Mom? What happened to Mom?”

  Sanders had no answer for that.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Bill O’Malley rarely left his New York City studio, but he had been driven up to Albany for what the promos on Focks News were calling a special investigation into “bombshell developments at the New York State Lottery.” O’Malley had bumped Geraldo Rivera from his Sunday-night-at-ten spot so that he could score a scoop with his expose of “moral corruption involving underaged drinking, deviant sexuality, and impersonating a socialite” at the home of Huntington Van Horn, “the homosexual celebrity lottery billionaire.”

  Hunny had agreed to appear on the show, hoping that he could spread the news of his mother’s disappearance to more people. Mrs. Van Horn still had not reappeared by nine thirty, and the East Greenbush sheriff had organized more volunteer groups to comb the area near Golden Gardens beginning at first light. An Amber Alert had been issued by the State Police.

  While Rita Van Horn was not a missing child, Hunny’s celebrity afforded him the clout to bend the Amber Alert law to include the elderly. Meanwhile, Albany police had reported their arrest in the kidnapping hoax, and Elton and Marcie Steckenfinger had already been filmed doing a perp walk at Division Two headquarters.

  I had driven over to the house on Crow Street to pick up some clothes and toiletries so that I could spend the night at Hunny and Art’s, and Timmy and I settled in to watch the Bill O’Malley show together.

  Timmy said, “Poor Hunny. I suppose this television appearance will be a lot different from his Today Show fiasco. His mother’s going missing must be a sobering experience for him.”

  “Sobering? Not exactly that, no.”

  “Oh?”

  “I advised him against doing the O’Malley show. He’d had more than a few shots of what I think was undiluted Jack Daniels and was semi-fuddled when he left the house for Channel 23.

  Anyway, the interview is sure to be unfriendly, and these promos we’ve seen can only begin to hint at just how hostile and unfair O’Malley is bound to be. But Hunny was determined to do it so that Mrs. Van Horn’s picture could be seen by Focks News’s millions of viewers. Hunny himself would prefer a cozy tete-a tete with Anderson Cooper, but — media-savvy celeb that he’s become — Hunny knows where the ratings advantage lies.”

  “I have to say, I really do feel sorry for the guy. Obnoxious as he often acts, it’s apparent that Hunny is basically a good-hearted man who doesn’t deserve all this hideous trouble that’s come crashing down on him since he won the Instant Warren. And he must feel horribly guilty about his old mom being victimized, too. If, that is, her disappearance has anything to do with his own weird situation. Do you think it does?”

  “Probably. Her life at Golden Gardens was apparently calm and uneventful until the state dropped a billion big ones in Hunny’s lap. And the Brienings turning up, post-Instant Warren, might also have set something off with Mrs. Van Horn. Panicked her into doing — I don’t know what.”

  “The news at six said Hunny was a well-liked and generous worker out at BJ’s. Apparently he’s giving his former coworkers each a million dollars. The manager of BJ’s was interviewed and said he was concerned about a lot of associates — that new euphemism for retail wage slaves — giving notice first thing Monday morning.”

  “Yeah, something like thirty or forty people are going to receive a million each. Though Hunny is leaving out the guy who’s suing him for half a billion. Dave DeCarlo must be having second thoughts. Oops.”

  “Channel 10 said Hunny was also planning on putting two young people through Dartmouth Medical School. That’s pretty decent of him.”

  “Yes, Hunny is apparently concerned about a looming national shortage of podiatrists.”

  “Good for him. Podiatrists?”

  It was ten o’clock, and I turned up the sound on the kitchen TV. Timmy was on a stool enjoying a late-evening snack of raisin bran with skim milk, and I had made a pot of strong coffee for myself.

  A lurid bReAking news graphic flashed on the screen, and then the trumpet-accompanied announcement of a Bill O’Malley sPeCiAL RePoRt. O’Malley soon appeared, American flags flapping electronically to his right and left.

  “Good evening, my fellow Americans…”

  Timmy said, “My fellow Americans? What is he, the president?

  Good grief.”

  “Welcome to my special investigative report on corruption at the New York State Lottery.” Staring gimlet-eyed into the camera, O’Malley fulminated for several minutes on the immorality and illegality of the Lottery Commission’s refusal to withhold winnings from a man O’Malley said was not eligible to win the billion-dollar Instant Warren because of the poor example he was setting for America’s youth. A state-run program, O’Malley said, should not be in the business of rewarding same-sex unions like that of Hunny Van Horn and his friend — O’Malley’s fingers waggled a set of
quotation marks when he said friend — Art Malanowski. Looking especially sanctimonious now, O’Malley said he certainly endorsed “tolerance for homosexuals,” and he did not support crushing them with stone walls, “as is done in many Muslim countries.” Up came some blurry video of a bulldozer shoving a stone wall over on two men in Arab garb who were lying prone in the sand and tied up and blindfolded.

  “However,” O’Malley went on, “government tolerance is one thing and government participation in the radical homosexual agenda is not something any good American is willing to put up with.”

  “I wonder,” Timmy said, “if O’Malley thinks the dMv is advancing gay rights by issuing us driver’s licenses. God.”

  “Shh.”

  It was hard to imagine Hunny sticking around the Focks News studio and participating in this looniness, and in fact when O’Malley introduced an interviewee it was not Hunny at all, but the head of the Family Preservation Association of Albany County. The Reverend Payton Kalafut was a bulbous middle-aged gentleman leaning so far back in his chair that he seemed almost to be reclining and being viewed from above, as in a Busby Berkeley from-the-rafters shot. Looking up, he endorsed O’Malley’s plea for tolerance by saying bulldozing homosexuals was “going too far.” The reverend then argued nonetheless that

  “the dollars of taxpaying Christians must never be used to support immorality.”

  Timmy said, “Taxes don’t support the lottery. Gamblers do.

  Most of them Christians, I’d be willing to wager.”

  “You should write O’Malley and demand a correction.”

  “I might.”

  Reverend Kalafut went on about suing the Lottery Commission, and gave a post office box where viewers could send donations to help cover fPAAC‘s legal expenses. Throughout the interview, O’Malley nodded sympathetically. He then thanked the reverend for “standing up for American family values” and wished him good luck with his lawsuit, which was

  “the Lord’s own work.” O’Malley told viewers he would be back after a commercial break, and then an ad came on for erectile dysfunction pills.