Authors: Colin Harrison

Manhattan Nocturne (39 page)

BOOK: Manhattan Nocturne

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The computer took a few seconds and then informed me:

PVD JUDGMENTS-
Walter K. Campbell
ADDRESS:
107A EAST 35th #2
# JDMTS- 14 AMOUNT
- $1090
INT
- $102.16
PLATE-
JD0876

Here was a British executive scofflaw who rented an apartment within walking distance of his office. Now I could learn something about him; I flipped one CD after another into the machine. He was fifty-one years old. He drove a '95 Lexus. He did not have a gun registration. He was not currently being sued. He had never been given a summons for smoking in the subway. His apartment was owned by a Lucy Delano, purchased in 1967, no amount given. Campbell's neighbor in #3 was Mr. Tim Westerbeck, age thirty-six, who had paid $345,000 for his apartment in 1994. Campbell's neighbor in #1 was Mrs. Lucy Delano, age eighty-two, who bought her apartment in 1964, no amount listed. I needed Campbell's phone number. I looked up Westerbeck's number: the message said that he was on his honeymoon in Baja and “whatever is left of me” would be back later. Screw him. I looked up Mrs. Delano's number and called her.

A tentative, old voice: “Hello?”

“Mrs. Lucy Delano?”

“Yes?”

I told her my name and that I was a reporter at the paper.

“What do you want?”

“We're terribly eager to reach your neighbor, Mr. Campbell.”

“How do you know he's my neighbor?”

“It's a matter of public record, ma'am. Would you happen to have his number?”

“Yes, but I can't give it to you.”

“I see.”

“I'm sorry.”

I made a sound of discouragement. “I very much need to speak with him, you see.”

“I'll go knock on his door, if you like.”

This was risky. “Okay,” I said.

I heard the phone being put down. Coughing. Indistinct noises. Nothing. Nothing and nothing. Nothing and then nothing. Perhaps she had died in the hallway. Nothing. Indistinct noises and coughing. Then: “I'm afraid he is not there.”

“Mrs. Delano?”

“Yes?”

“I really need that number.”

“I'm sorry. I've lived in this city a very long time.”

“Mrs. Delâ”

“The first time they mugged me was in nineteen sixty-five.”

I said nothing.

“So you
see
.”

Yes.

Thirty-fifth Street, eleven P.M., a January night. The apartment was part of a four-story brownstone, which was good; there was no doorman. The building was about twenty-five feet wide, a standard Manhattan brownstone width, with bay windows on the first and second floors. The stoop had been removed, and the main entrance was now three steps down from the street into the ground floor. The buzzer had three bells, which meant that there were three apartments in the four floors: one of them was a duplexâprobably the ground and first floors. Mrs. Delano, thinking ahead the way old women do, would have taken the ground floor to avoid the stairs; that meant that Campbell lived on top of her and that the goofball Westerbeck lived above him. I buzzed Campbell's apartment; no answer; he was not yet home. Or perhaps he would not be coming home; he could have a lover somewhere in the city. Some chick in red boots who kept a poodle.

The lights were out in #1; Mrs. Delano was asleep. I looked for a way to break into the building. I saw nothing
but alarm-service stickers and iron bars on the windows. I stood across the street, found a shadow, folded my arms into my coat. While waiting, I noticed that the lid of the garbage can next to me was attached to a fence with a short, cheap wire.

An hour later Campbell arrived, walking alone, carrying a bag of groceries. I watched him stop in front of the brownstone, get his key out. And then, light as blowing trash, I was across the street in ten steps. “Hey!” he said, but I already had the wire around his neck. He dropped the groceries and I kicked them through the open door and shoved him in, taking the key out of the door.

“I'll give you money,” he barked. “My walletâ”

“Up the stairs.”

“My walletâ”

“Shut up.” I yanked on the wire and he coughed.

“Pick up the groceries.”

He did. This would keep his hands occupied. At the door of #2, I had him identify the right key.

“Don't kill me. Please.”

“Turn on the light.”

He did. A nice apartment, rugs, lamps, Victorian decorâall in all, perhaps a bit sad for its neatness. The loneliness of an aging bachelor.

“Sex?” he coughed.

“What?”

“You want sex?”

“What?”

“I'll do you. I'm good. It'll be good.”

I laughed and yanked on the wire. I was a lot stronger; it wasn't even close. I dragged him into the kitchen.

“Point to the drawer that has the biggest, sharpest knife.”

He froze.

“Do it!”

“No. You'll kill me.”

“Do it, Campbell.” I yanked brutally on the wire and he
went weak in the knees. When he went down I could see that he dyed his hair.

“Get up, you fucker.”

“Uh. I'm. Dying.”

“No you're not, not just yet.”

“Uh.” He stumbled to his feet.

“Show me the drawer.”

He didn't. I dragged him backward toward the drawers, pulled open a few, grabbed a huge carving knife, and then a little one, which I slipped into my back pocket. Then I pushed Campbell toward the phone.

“Do you know who I am?”

“No,” he coughed. “I can't see you.”

“Wren. Porter Wren. I work for you.”

“Uh.”

“Your goons shot my little. boy this afternoon. Did you know that?” But I pulled on the wire before he could answer. His hands fumbled on the edge of the phone table. “I should kill you, Campbell.”

“No, please.”

“Call Hobbs.”

“I can't.”

“Why?”

“He's. In Brazil.”

“That's not good enough.”

“I swear!”

I took the little knife out of my pocket and I stabbed Campbell in the ass with it, once, maybe an inch deep. He screamed. It hurt but it wasn't serious.

“Start thinking, Campbell.”

Now I broke him at the knees and made him lie down on the carpet. I sat on his back. I weigh about two hundred and ten pounds. I pulled the phone down, as well as what looked like a rather well-organized international personal phone directory.

“Put your hands behind you.”

“No.”

I stabbed him again.

He put his hands back. I tied them tight with the wire. Then I put the directory on the carpet next to his face and pushed the speakerphone button so that I could hear the conversation.

“Who do we call?”

“It's impossible,” he moaned.

I moved my lips close to his ear. “Campbell, pal. My son is eighteen months old, he is a perfect angel, he is innocent. You have damaged his body and perhaps his soul. I am not a violent man by nature, Campbell. But I swear I will torture you until you get Hobbs on the phone.”

“I'll lose my job!” he screamed, kicking.

I stabbed him in the ass again. Pretty deep. But it didn't bleed much. I did it again, twisting the knife. It was a weird yet familiar sensation, sort of like testing the readiness of a Christmas ham. I did it again. Campbell was starting to hyperventilate.

“Call him,” I said.

“You don't understand,” Campbell said. “I can't justâ”

Politely stabbing him in the rear wasn't working, I realized. Maybe he had a pain thing. I grabbed a lamp from the table, knocked off the shade, and waved the hot bulb in front of Campbell's mouth.

“Open wide,” I said. “This will be a new feeling.”

“No!”

“What do you want next, the knife or the bulb?”

“All right, all right! Call London!” he breathed. “Wake up Mrs. Fox!”

We did this. It took a few minutes. Mrs. Fox was Hobbs's housekeeper. Campbell explained to Mrs. Fox that he needed Mrs. Donnelly's home number. Mrs. Donnelly was Hobbs's personal secretary, went with him everywhere. Mr. Donnelly answered. It was early morning in London. A sleepy fellow talking to a hysterical countryman in Manhattan. I need your wife's number in Brazil, said Campbell. Why? Just give it to me! Bloody rude, aren't you? And so on. A call to Brazil, with the correct country and city code. No answer. Ten rings. Then a voice in Portuguese. Mrs. Donnelly was summoned.
She had been asleep. Yes, she remembered Mr. Campbell, what could she do for him? I need to talk with Mr. Hobbs. I'm very sorry, he's out right now. And so on. Campbell was sweating heavily, wetting his lips. Please, he said, please, Mrs. Donnelly, I'm in a very difficult situation, an emergency situation. Give me the cellular number. He always has a cellular phone. I'm sorry, Mr. Campbell, he's asked that there be no disturbancesâCampbell groaned. I'm thinking! he breathed aloud. Is there a cellular, Mrs. Donnelly? Not that I know of. No cellular; that means the cellular service is bad. Mrs. Donnelly! Yes? The driver will have a satellite phone! What's that? Direct phone to a satellite; it fits in the limousine trunk! I'm not familiar with thisâYes you are, it's the car number, call the car number. Oh, the car number. Well, then. She gave it to him. I dialed. Five rings. Yes? came a British voice. Is this the driver? Yes. This is Campbell in New York. Give me Hobbs. I'm afraidâThis is an emergency. He's attending a dinner inside. There're a lot of people inside. Get him out to the car. I can't do that, sir. This is Campbell in New York. I don't know who you are. Campbell in New York. I run the U.S. operations! I'm sorry, sir. Listen, go to the door and get the number of the house inside. You can do that. We'll call them. There was a long pause. I'm fucking trying, can't you see that? spat Campbell. My ass hurts. You stabbed me in the ass. Then the voice came back with the house number, which we dialed. A maid answered, speaking Portuguese. Much miscommunication. Then the teenaged daughter, who spoke perfect English. Yes? They are in the dining room. I will ask my father. English, Daddy. Yes? A deep voice. This is Arturo Montegre. This is Walter Campbell in New York. I must speak with one of your dinner guests, Mr. Sebastian Hobbs. This is irregular, no? Yes, sir, it very much is, but I'm in a very bad spot. A long pause.

Yes? Hobbs. Who is calling?

I let Campbell go on a minute, explain the basics. How he had fucked up. But he was apologizing too much, nearly weeping in exhaustion, and my message wasn't getting through. I took over: “Hobbs, listen to me, you motherfucker.
If you do not call off your fucking goons, I will make a thousand copies of the videotape.” This was the easiest lie of my life. “I will make a thousand copies and I will send one to every fucking newspaper and television station in the country and I will provide a transcript of the conversation for the idiots who can't do it for themselves. I will go down in a glorious fireball, you fat cocksucker, and I will take you along. Your fucking goons beat me up, stole the wrong tape from me, and shot my boy, Hobbs, and you are smart enough to know how stupid that is. You can sue me into the next century, I don't care. I'll be a fucking wild man, Hobbs, if anything more happens to my wife or children. I will hunt you down and cut out your heart, you fucking fat monstrosity, do you understand that? And before I do that I will also tell the New York City Department of Police that your man here, your
executive
, has possession of the tape that your goons took off of me, a tape that happens to show a policeman being killed. The cops want this tape. They're gonna throw Campbell into fucking Rikers Island. You ever hear of Rikers Island? Largest penal colony in the world, right here in New York! Seventeen thousand inmates! Campbell goes there, he'llâwait! Your man is crying, Hobbs. Here he is.”

I put the phone next to Campbell's lips.

“Beg him,” I ordered.

His breathing was panicked but he said nothing. I poked the tip of the knife into his ear.

“Mr. Hobbs! Mr. Hobbs!” Campbell screamed hoarsely. “It's my fault! I'm very sorry! I went too far with the men! I needâplease give me authorization to withdraw them!”

A pause. His head dropped to the carpet.

“Okay,” he said.

BOOK: Manhattan Nocturne

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