Free Ransom by Jon Cleary

sustenance was words, to keep him from thinking of the worst. “We Americans assume that everyone knows our national heroes.”

    “Australians don’t go in for national heroes, not political ones. Bushrangers and jockeys stand the best chance.”
    “Bushrangers?”
    “Old-time outlaws. Ned Kelly was the best known. I’ve had crims I’ve arrested bless themselves and say prayers to him.”
    Forte wasn’t sure if the Australian was putting him on; he had a laconic dryness to him that could have been poker-faced humour or morose hostility. Forte nodded back at the painting. “That was painted posthumously - Old Alex finished up the loser in a duel with another of our heroes, Aaron Burr. Or maybe neither of them was a hero, except to their campaign managers. You have no time for Joe Burgmann, have you?”
    The abruptness of the question caught Malone off guard; he took delaying refuge behind his coffee cup. Unexpectedly Forte, when the meeting had been breaking up, had invited him to stay behind and share a sandwiches-and-coffee lunch; and Malone, intrigued now by this man with whom he had to share a common anguish, had accepted. He had not expected to be called upon to answer leading questions such as this one.
    “In these circumstances, no,” he said at last.
    Forte stared down at the red carpet beneath his feet. He and Malone were sitting on chairs at one side of the room, a low table between them and a television set against the wall opposite them. On the table, beside the tray of sandwiches and coffee, were copies of the morning papers and the first edition of the afternoon Post. He smiled up at himself from each of the front pages: yesterday’s man. The photograph that would be in the later editions of the Post and in the Times and News tomorrow morning would be of a worried, more honest man.
    “You have to try to understand him, Inspector. I don’t think Joe is without feelings - he has a wife and kids and I’m sure he loves them. But all his life he’s been in politics - he

    began when he was still in high school, running messages for a ward boss. He sees everything in terms of votes.”
    “I wouldn’t want to understand him,” said Malone stubbornly, “if that’s the way he is.”
    Forte sighed, then looked up. “What’s your wife like? You didn’t tell the reporters much. How long have you been married?”
    “Eight weeks.”
    “Then you’re still getting to know her, aren’t you? I’ve been married eighteen years - I have two kids, a boy sixteen and a girl fourteen. I don’t know which is worse - to lose someone you’ve become accustomed to or someone you’re still finding out about.”
    “You think we’re going to lose them?” Malone had put down his own sandwich and now put down his coffee.
    “Jesus, I don’t know!” Forte put his hand over his eyes and for a moment Malone thought the other man was going to weep.
    Then there was a tap on the door and Manny Pearl came in. He was a sad-eyed little man who seemed to wear his smile as a badge of rank: it was his job to keep his boss happy. Malone was not quite sure what Pearl’s official title was, but it was obvious that he had Forte’s trust. He waited patiently and without embarrassment till the Mayor had recovered his composure, then he said, “The news is already on TV and radio. Just flashes, nothing more. All the networks have been on to me asking if you’d do a spot for their main news shows tonight, but I took it upon myself to say No. Okay?”
    Forte nodded, then looked at Malone. “You don’t want to be bothered by them, do you?”
    “No. I don’t think they’re interested in me, anyway.” Then he stopped.
    “I’m not offended, Inspector. If anyone has the right to be offended, it’s you.” Again there was the glance of recognition between them, then Forte looked back at Pearl. “What else is happening, Manny?”

    “I’ve taken some phone calls for you. A few people, some organizations. Gerry Farrelly