Blackmail Read online

“Not at all. Not unless you spell it out. Suppose she opens the package and says, ‘Damn. This isn’t everything: Go back. Go back and tell him he didn’t give you everything.’”

  “What do I say then?”

  “If you’ve been explicit about the fact that your delivery of the package terminates your job, you smile and say, ‘Oh? Are you hiring me to do another job?’”

  “I see.”

  “Which you are under no obligation to take. Or to do for the same amount. If you want to hold her up for a grand, feel free. If she doesn’t want to pay it, feel free to say no.”

  I frowned. “Suppose she has a good reason.”

  “Aha!” Richard said. “That’s something else again. So far this woman hasn’t told you anything. Hasn’t seen fit to trust you at all. If she starts giving you reasons, wants to explain what’s going on, you have a brand-new ball game.”

  “What do I do then?”

  Richard looked at me. “You would have three choices. You could say yes, you could say no, or you could say, ‘I’d like to consult my lawyer.’”

  “She might not like that.”

  Richard’s eyes widened. “Who gives a flying fuck? I’m not saying you have to do this. I’m giving you options. As you’ll recall, my advice as your attorney was to have nothing to do with this whatsoever. Considering you’re not paying me for legal advice, and considering I’ve already given you my legal advice, and considering we’re just having a hypothetical conversation here ...”

  Richard broke off and left it dangling, till I felt impelled to ask, “Yes?”

  He cocked his head. “Don’t you have someone waiting for you in the Bronx?”

  3.

  IT DIDN’T GO EXACTLY AS planned. Somehow it never does.

  “Provisions?” Marlena said. “What do you mean, provisions?”

  “Just that. In a deal like this, I have to protect myself.”

  She shrugged. “If you want to carry a gun, that’s up to you. Not that you’re going to need it.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “What did you mean?”

  “I meant in terms of the deal.”

  “There’s no deal. There’s a job. You either want it or you don’t.”

  “But the job has to be defined.”

  “It’s defined. You go meet Barry, pay him off, and bring back the evidence.”

  “What evidence?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Fine. Then I’m not responsible for it.”

  She looked at me. “What are you talking about? Of course you are.”

  I shook my head. “If I don’t know what it is, I can’t vouch for it. I can assure you that I’m giving you what he gives me. But if that isn’t what you want, it’s not my fault.”

  “If it isn’t what I want, you don’t get paid.”

  “No way. If Barry does the dirty on you, that’s not my fault.”

  “You expect me to pay you for not doing the job?”

  “My job is delivering one package and picking up another. If that guy Barry sent you bubble-gum cards, that’s not my fault and I still get paid.”

  She shook her head. “Un-uh. I know what Barry’s putting in the envelope. You bring me anything else, it means you pulled a switch.”

  I stood up. “Then I guess we have no deal.”

  She looked at me, shook her head. “What a jerk,” she said. “Here you are, arguing about things that aren’t even important. That are never going to come up.”

  “If they don’t, fine,” I said. “Great. But I still have to provide for them in case they come up.”

  “Fine,” she said. “You provide for them. Just leave me out of it.”

  That stopped me dead. I had opened my mouth to say something. I closed it again.

  And sat back down.

  How the hell did you deal with that? Logic I could deal with. Total illogic had me baffled.

  I took a breath. “All right,” I said. “Say I deal with it—how will I know this guy Barry?”

  “He’ll be the guy you deal with.”

  “Yeah, but how will I know it’s him?’

  She looked at me as if I were a moron. “If it isn’t him, he won’t be dealing with you.”

  “I mean, shouldn’t he have some way of proving his identity?”

  She stared at me. “You’re going to ask a blackmailer for his ID?”

  “No, I just meant—”

  “That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard of. The guy doesn’t have to deal with us at all. He doesn’t have to keep us happy, we have to keep him happy. Otherwise he makes good his threats.”

  “What threats?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Right,” I said. “My business is picking up a package, the contents of which I cannot check from a man whose identity I can’t check, and delivering it to you.”

  She cocked her head. “You got a problem with that?”

  “Only if you do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just what I said. If I do that, it should satisfy you.”

  “It will.”

  “Right. But what if you rip open this envelope I give you and say, ‘Oh, these aren’t the papers I want. Go back and tell him he gave you the wrong thing’?”

  “I won’t say that.”

  “Fine. But if you do, it’s a new job and you’d have to hire me again.”

  “A new job?”

  “Yes. You’re hiring me for one pickup and delivery. You want anything else, we’re talking more money and a separate job.”

  “I don’t understand. A minute ago you didn’t want to take this job. Now you want two?”

  “I don’t want two. I’m just saying, if the situation came up—”

  “It won’t come up.”

  “Good. I’m just telling you, if it did, you would owe me more money.”

  “That’s silly. Owe you more money for not doing the job right?”

  I rubbed my head. “You’re missing the point. It’s not that you’d owe me more money. If you wanted me to do more work, you’d have to agree to pay me more money. The point is, you would owe me for the job I’d already done.”

  “For bringing me the wrong stuff?”

  I shook my head. “This is getting nowhere. I don’t know if we have a deal at all. If there’s any chance we do, it depends on whether you agree to the payment schedule.”

  “Payment schedule?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Obviously, this is a job where we won’t have a written contract.”

  “Of course not.”

  “That’s why we’re having problems. Because the contract would spell all these things out. But in the absence of a contract, we have to come to an agreement. Particularly in regard to the payment schedule.”

  “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

  “You’re going to give me five hundred dollars for the job, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Okay,” I said. “That’s the only real stumbling block. If we can work out a satisfactory payment schedule, I’ll agree to do the job.”

  She gave me a look. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

  “I’m sorry. I was trying to get these matters clarified.”

  “Clarified?” she said. “You got me so mixed up I don’t know what’s going on. Saying if he does that, if I do that, if you do this. None of that matters. All that matters is, I give you a sealed envelope. You do not open it, you give it to him. He gives you a sealed envelope or package or whatever. And you do not open it, you give it to me. That’s the whole deal. All this other stuff is just irrelevant.”

  “Fine,” I said. “As long as you agree to the payment schedule. Here is what I want. I want half—that’s two hundred and fifty dollars—when you give me the money, or rather the sealed envelope to go to him. I want the other half payable immediately upon my delivery of the package he gives me. Is that agreed?”

  She frowned. �
��It’s fine in theory.”

  I felt my heart sinking. “What do you mean, in theory?”

  “Well,” she said. “It’s just a little bit complicated.”

  She opened her purse, took out a wallet.

  “Why don’t I just give you the whole five hundred now?”

  4.

  IT WAS A SMALL MOTEL JUST off the Saw Mill River Parkway. A long, narrow, single-story affair, running parallel to the road. I turned into the driveway, drove right past the office with its Vacancy sign, and pulled into the parking space in front of unit twelve.

  It was five minutes to eight by the dashboard clock. I’d been told eight o’clock, but I figured for a blackmailer that was close enough. I turned off the lights, killed the motor, got out, went up to the door, and knocked.

  The door was opened by a chunky man with curly red hair and a scowl on his face. “You’re early,” he said.

  “Eight o’clock,” I told him.

  “Five to.”

  “Gee, I’m sorry,” I said. “You want me to stand out here five minutes, knock again?”

  “Don’t try to be funny,” he said. He jerked his thumb. “Come in.”

  I figured it was as cordial an invitation as I was likely to get. I pushed by him into the room.

  Or started to. He put out his hand, stopped me in mid-stride. Holding me there with one hand, he closed the door behind me with the other, then turned and proceeded to pat me down.

  It was early fall, still quite warm, and I was wearing the lightweight suit that I wore for my ambulance-chasing job. I suppose It could have concealed a shoulder holster, though I’ve never worn one. Barry, if that’s what his name was, gave it a check.

  When he was satisfied that I was unarmed, he half motioned, half dragged me into the room.

  Which was your typical, stark, no-frills motel room. A double bed, a chair, a table, a dresser, and a TV. The bed, though made, was slightly mussed, as if someone had recently been lying on it, sitting on it, or what have you. On the bureau was an ice bucket and a bottle of Scotch. On the table were two empty glasses.

  While I was taking all that in, Barry’s attention was riveted on me.

  “What you gawking at?” he said.

  “Nothing. Are you Barry?”

  He scowled. “Cut the comedy. You got it or not?”

  “That depends.”

  “Depends on what?”

  “On who I’m talking to.”

  “You’re talking to the guy with all the aces in the deck. You’re talking to the guy who’s calling the shots. You’re talking to the guy who’s gonna get real pissed off if you don’t cut the crap and hand over the money.”

  “Oh, you know about the money?” I said. “Then I guess you’re Barry.”

  The scowl deepened. “You guess? I warned you to stop talkin’ cute. You happen to see any other guys in the room?”

  “No, I assume you’re him. Even if you won’t say you’re him, who am I to argue?”

  “Quit yakkin’ and give me the dough.”

  I reached into my inside jacket pocket, pulled out the thick envelope Marlena had given me earlier that evening. I looked at it a moment, then held it out to him.

  He snatched it out of my hand, ripped the end off the envelope, turned and dumped the contents out on the bed.

  It was a stack of bills, held together by two rubber bands.

  Even from where I stood, halfway across the room, I could tell the bill on top was a hundred. Marlena had given me five of them just like it in my office that morning.

  Barry grabbed the packet of bills off the bed and riffled through it. He was obviously just checking the denominations on the bills—he couldn’t possibly have counted them that fast.

  At any rate, he appeared to be satisfied. He was wearing a brown leather coat, and he jammed the wad of bills in a side pocket and zipped it shut.

  Then he reached under one of the pillows on the bed and pulled out a large manila envelope.

  “Okay,” he said. “And here’s your pictures.”

  Oh. What I was buying were pictures. No real surprise, except I wouldn’t have known that if Barry hadn’t said so. Marlena hadn’t wanted me to know. However, if Barry chose to spill the beans, that was hardly my fault.

  I held out my hand, but Barry didn’t pass the envelope over. Instead he stood there, holding it in one hand and tapping it into the other.

  He grinned at me. “Some pictures, huh?”

  “I wouldn’t know what you’re talking about,” I told him.

  “Yeah, sure,” he said.

  “I’m just doing my job.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, so am I. Ain’t it a kick?”

  I wasn’t quite sure what to say to that.

  And while I was trying to figure it out, he took the nice nine-by-twelve manila envelope that I had agreed to bring back to Marlena unopened, tore the end off it, and dumped the contents out on the bed.

  Oops.

  Here was an eventuality not covered by Richard, me, Marlena, or any other living creature on god’s green earth. How the hell was I gonna explain this?

  The photos had fallen facedown on the bed, so I hadn’t actually seen them. It occurred to me I could tell Marlena that. If she happened to believe me, I could sell her some land in Florida while she was in the mood.

  I’d just barely had time to think this when Barry rendered the matter academic by picking the photos up, turning them over, and saying, “Here, get a load of this.”

  I suppose I could have just closed my eyes. But if there’s a person alive who would have done that, I’d like to meet him. Anyway, Barry said look and I looked.

  The photograph on top was of a man and a woman. They were naked. The woman had the man’s penis in her mouth.

  All things considered, that was not particularly surprising.

  What was surprising was the fact that the woman wasn’t Marlena.

  “That’s something, huh?” Barry said, and proceeded to shuffle through the pile of pictures, showing me each one.

  There were about a dozen. Each featured the same man and woman, always unclothed. The only difference in the pictures was the location of the man’s penis, which, aside from her mouth, showed up in the woman’s vagina, anus, and hand.

  The woman, an attractive young brunette, seemed to be enjoying all this immensely.

  The man didn’t look displeased either.

  Anyway, the nature of the photos was so distracting, it wasn’t until Barry had finished showing them to me that I realized the full extent of the position he had put me in.

  How the hell was I going to explain this to Marlena?

  There was no time to dwell on this, however. Barry shoved the pictures back in the manila envelope, thrust the envelope at me, and said, “All right, you got what you came for. Now get out of here.”

  There was nothing else to do. I took the pictures, stumbled out the door. I got in my car, started the motor, turned on the lights, backed out of the space, and pulled out of the lot. I got on the Saw Mill River Parkway, headed home.

  I felt like shit.

  Marlena hadn’t wanted me to know what was in the envelope she gave me, and I knew. She hadn’t wanted me to know what was in the envelope I was picking up. I not only knew it was pictures, I’d seen each and every one of them. Well enough to be able to recognize the people in ’em if I ever met ’em again. So I had a right to feel bad.

  I’d just made my first blackmail payment, and it couldn’t have gone worse.

  5.

  “OH, MY GOD.”

  Alice was quite right. My god described the blackmail photos fairly nicely.

  Maybe you’re thinking I shouldn’t have shown her. Well, maybe not. I don’t know what the etiquette is in these things. As I say, I’d never made a blackmail payment before. Maybe showing your wife the blackmail evidence isn’t entirely kosher.

  If I’d made arrangements to meet Marlena later that night to drop off the goods, that would have been that. I certa
inly wouldn’t have detoured home first to give my wife a peek. But I was meeting Marlena in my office at nine o’clock the next morning per her request. That meant taking the pictures home. And under those circumstances how could I possibly not show my wife?

  Alice flipped to another picture. “Oh, my god.”

  I looked over her shoulder. “Yeah. Athletic, isn’t she?”

  “That isn’t the word for it.”

  “You getting any ideas from this?”

  “You wish.”

  Alice leafed through another. “Are these porno actors?” she said.

  “Of course not.”

  “How do you know?”

  “If they were, why would anyone pay blackmail money for them?”

  “Yeah, I suppose. Still ...”

  “Still what?”

  “For blackmail photos, these are awfully good.”

  “None better.”

  “No. That’s not what I mean. I mean the quality. It’s not like someone snapped them through a keyhole or something. These are well lit, well focused, well framed. They look almost posed.”

  I frowned. “Yes, they do.”

  “So where’s the blackmail? These people obviously knew they were being photographed.”

  “Sometimes people do something, then regret it later.”

  “True.”

  “And there’s no date on these pictures. What if the woman’s a porno actress ten years ago, and she’s on the city council?”

  “Recognize her face?”

  “I don’t know. What does it look like?”

  “You’re awful.”

  “No, I’ve never seen either of these people before. I have no idea who they are.”

  “Me neither. And for that theory to wash—that she was a prominent person embarrassed by something in her past—you’d expect we would. Recognize her, I mean.”

  “Not necessarily. I know so little about politics, and—”

  “And another thing,” Alice went on. “Where’s the negatives?”

  “What negatives?”

  “Exactly,” Alice said. “There’s no negatives. When you buy blackmail photos, don’t you always want the negatives?”

  “Always? This may surprise you, but I’ve never bought blackmail photos before.”

  “Damn it, Stanley.”