A Slight problem

“I think we’ve made Dalby squirm enough,” Diane said, taking the last bite of her peanut butter sandwich.

Danny chuckled. He tossed down the old copy of Sports Illustrated he’d been flipping through. “Yeah. We’ve had the girl here a full day,” he said, gesturing to the bedroom. “I’ll bet Dalby’s squirming.”

“I wanted to wait at least twenty-four hours,” Diane said, carrying the plate over to the small sink and running cold water over it. “Sometimes rich people are so busy making money, they don’t know if their family is missing or not.”

Danny pushed himself up from the chair and stretched, a bulge of white belly showing under his olive-colored pullover. “One day is enough. Dalby is probably waiting by the phone, sweating bullets, waiting for our call.”

“I hope so,” Diane said, setting the dish beside the sink. She dried her hands on a paper towel. “Dalby’s daughter is a total pain.”

“Yeah. Can you imagine? She won’t eat and she won’t say a word,” Danny said, shaking his head.

“She better not say a word!” Diane exclaimed, shooting him a nervous glance. “You tightened the gag, right?”

Danny nodded. “I checked everything. She’s tied up, blindfolded, and gagged. The works.”

“Just make sure she doesn’t work the gag loose. I don’t want a sound coming out of her,” Diane said, pulling on her coat. “You know how thin the walls are in this dump.”

“Guess you’ll be moving into a big, fancy house,” Danny said, teasing her. “With a maid and a butler and a chauffeur.”

Diane didn’t find his remarks amusing. “I won’t be eighteen for another four months,” she told him. “I’ve got to keep the money a secret until then, or my parents will try to grab it.”

Danny tsk-tsked. “Where you going? I thought you were going to call Dalby and tell him how he can get his daughter back.”

“I am,” she replied sharply. “But you don’t expect me to call from here, do you? They’ll trace the call and pick us up in ten minutes flat!”

Danny turned his glance to the window. “Yeah. I knew that. I was just testing you.” He picked up the Sports Illustrated. “Know what I’m going to do when I get my share? I’m going to get a tattoo.”

“You always had a lot of class,” Diane said dryly. She zipped her coat and started to the door.

“Wonder why we haven’t heard from Pres,” Danny muttered, his face buried in the magazine.

“Shh. No names!” Diane said sharply, motioning to the bedroom. “I wonder too.” She stopped with her hand on the doorknob. “Hope he didn’t get into more trouble in the detention center.”

“Maybe they found out about that car he stole,” Danny said.

“Huh?” Diane turned around in surprise. “I never heard about that.”

Danny blushed. He avoided her stare. “Oh. Well. He only borrowed it for a little bit. He didn’t really steal it.”

Diane laughed. “Well, he could have offered me a ride in it! I’m getting sick of the old Plymouth.”

“You can buy five cars,” Danny muttered. “After we trade Reva in.”

Diane glanced toward the bedroom. “Just keep an eye on her, Danny. I know you plan to take a nap the minute I leave. But watch her, okay? We don’t want any slipups now, you know?”

“Yeah. Okay, okay,” he growled, scratching his head. “I’ll watch her. Go make the call already. I’m getting old, sitting here.”

Diane made her way out the door, closing it carefully behind her. She stepped out into a bright, clear day that felt more like September than December. The ground was spotted with patches of old snow, one of the few signs that it was winter.

She bent to pet the head of an old hound dog that always hung around the apartment building. “Who do you belong to?” she asked it, rubbing its damp fur. “Or do you own this joint?” The old dog wagged its tail slowly in reply.

Diane climbed into the car. It took three tries to get the engine to grind to a start. Then she headed to the Division Street Mall, where she planned to find a secluded phone booth to make her call.

The car radio was broken, but Diane didn’t need it. She hummed happily to herself, tapping her hands on the wheel, rehearsing for the thousandth time in her mind what she planned to say to Mr. Dalby.

• • •

Robert Dalby, Reva’s father, shifted uncomfortably in his armchair. He lowered his copy of the Wall Street Journal and stared into the fireplace, watching the flames jump and dance.

With a weary sigh he picked up the newspaper and began to read again.

When the phone on the table beside him rang, he let out a startled cry. He fumbled for the receiver, knocking over his small glass of sherry.

The liquid formed a brown puddle on the polished tabletop. Ignoring it, Mr. Dalby managed to grab up the receiver on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Is this Robert Dalby?” A young woman’s voice.

“Yes. Speaking.”

“Mr. Dalby,” said the young woman, very stern and businesslike, “I... uh... I have your daughter. She’s okay and everything. I... I called to tell you what you need to do to get her back. It will cost you a million dollars, see. Don’t worry. We have your daughter, safe and sound.”

“No, you don’t,” Robert Dalby replied. “My daughter, Reva, is sitting right here with me.”

Дата добавления: 2015-07-20