‘You just ask for a copy of the New York Times and hand over a $100 bill. He’ll give you a quarter change, as if you’d handed him a dollar. That way, if there’s anyone else in the shop, they won’t be suspicious. Don’t open the envelope until you’re in a safe place - there are a lot of people in New York who’d like to get their hands on $100,000. And whatever you do, don’t ever contact me again. If you do, it won’t be a payoff you’ll get next time.’
The line went dead.
Jake hung up, having completely forgotten that he was meant to be ringing his mother.
He sat down and considered what to do next - if anything. His wife Ellen had taken the kids to a movie, as she did most Saturday evenings, and they weren’t expected back until around nine. His dinner was in the microwave, with a note to tell him how many minutes it would take to cook. He always added one minute.
Jake found himself flicking through the telephone directory. He turned over the pages until he reached B: Bi … , Bil … , Billy’s. And there it was, at 1127 Oak Street. He closed the directory and walked through to his den, where he searched the bookshelf behind his desk for a street atlas of New York. He found it wedged in between The Memoirs of Elisabeth Schwarzkopf and How to Lose Twenty Pounds When You’re Over Forty.
He turned to the index in the back and quickly found the entry for Oak Street. He checked the grid reference and placed his finger on the correct square. He calculated that, were he to go, it would take him about half an hour to get over to the West Side. He checked his watch. It was 6.14. What was he thinking of? He had no intention of going anywhere. To start with, he didn’t have $100.
Jake took out his wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket, and counted slowly: $37. He walked through to the kitchen to check Ellen’s petty-cash box. It was locked, and he couldn’t remember where she hid the key. He took a screwdriver from the drawer beside the stove and forced the box open: another $22. He paced around the kitchen, trying to think. Next he went to the bedroom and checked the pockets of all his jackets and trousers. Another $1.75 in loose change. He left the bedroom and moved on to his daughter’s room. Hesther’s Snoopy moneybox was on her dressing table. He picked it up and walked over to the bed. He turned the box upside down and shook all the coins out onto the quilt: another $6.75.
He sat on the end of the bed, desperately trying to concentrate, then recalled the $50 bill he always kept folded in his driving licence for emergencies. He added up all his gatherings: they came to $117.50.
Jake checked his watch. It was 6.23. He would just go and have a look. No more, he told himself.
He took his old overcoat from the hall cupboard and slipped out of the apartment, checking as he left that all three locks on the front door were securely bolted. He pressed the elevator button, but there was no sound. Out of order again, Jake thought, and began to jog down the stairs. Across the street was a bar he often dropped into when Ellen took the children to the movies.
The barman smiled as he walked in. ‘The usual, Jake?’ he asked, somewhat surprised to see him wearing a heavy overcoat when he only had to cross the road from his apartment.
‘No thanks,’ said Jake, trying to sound casual. ‘I just wondered if you had a $100 bill.’
‘Not sure if I do,’ the barman replied. He rummaged around in a stack of notes, then turned to Jake and said, ‘You’re in luck. Just the one.’
Jake handed over the fifty, a twenty, two tens and ten ones, and received a $100 bill in exchange. Folding the note carefully in four, he slipped it into his wallet, which he returned to the inside pocket of his jacket. He then left the bar and walked out onto the street.
He ambled slowly west for two blocks until he came to a bus stop. Perhaps he would be too late, and the problem would take care of itself, he thought. A bus drew into the kerb. Jake climbed the steps, paid his fare and took a seat near the back, still uncertain what he planned to do once he reached the West Side.
He was so deep in thought that he missed his stop and had to walk almost half a mile back to Oak Street. He checked the numbers. It would be another three or four blocks before Oak Street crossed with Randall.
As he got nearer, he found his pace slowing with every step. But suddenly, there it was on the next corner, halfway up a lamppost: a white-and-green sign that read ‘Randall Street’.
He quickly checked all four corners of the street, then looked at his watch again. It was 6.49.
As he stared across from the opposite side of the street, one or two people went in and out of Billy’s. The light started flashing ‘Walk’, and he found himself being carried across with the other pedestrians.
He checked his watch yet again: 6.51. He paused at the doorway of Billy’s. Behind the counter was a man stacking some newspapers. He wore a black T-shirt and jeans, and must have been around forty, a shade under six foot, with shoulders that could only have been built by spending several hours a week in the gym.
A customer brushed past Jake and asked for a packet of Marlboros. While the man behind the counter was handing him his change, Jake stepped inside and pretended to take an interest in the magazine rack.
As the customer turned to leave, Jake slipped his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket, took out his wallet and touched the edge of the $100 bill. Once the Marlboro man had left the shop, Jake put his wallet back into his pocket, leaving the bill in the palm of his hand.
The man behind the counter stood waiting impassively as Jake slowly unfolded the bill.
‘The Times,’ Jake heard himself saying, as he placed the $100 bill on the counter.
The man in the black T-shirt glanced at the money and checked his watch. He seemed to hesitate for a moment before reaching under the counter. Jake tensed at the movement, until he saw a long, thick, white envelope emerge. The man proceeded to slip it into the heavy folds of the newspaper’s business section, then handed the paper over to Jake, his face remaining impassive. He took the $100 bill, rang up seventy-five cents on the cash register, and gave Jake a quarter change. Jake turned and walked quickly out of the shop, nearly knocking over a small man who looked as nervous as Jake felt.
Jake began to run down Oak Street, frequently glancing over his shoulder to see if anyone was following him. Checking again, he spotted a Yellow Cab heading towards him, and quickly hailed it.
‘The East Side,’ he s
aid, jumping in.
As the driver eased back into the traffic, Jake slid the envelope out from the bulky newspaper and transferred it to an inside pocket. He could hear his heart thumping. For the next fifteen minutes he spent most of the time looking anxiously out of the cab’s rear window.
When he spotted a subway entrance coming up on the right, he told the driver to pull into the kerb. He handed over $10 and, not waiting for his change, jumped out of the taxi and dashed down the subway steps, emerging a few moments later on the other side of the road. He then hailed another taxi going in the opposite direction. This time he gave the driver his home address. He congratulated himself on his little subterfuge, which he’d seen carried out by Gene Hackman in the Movie of the Week.