The Outfit

by Richard Stark

  The receptionist knew that no one was supposed to come behind the desk. If anyone tried to without permission, she was to push the button on the floor under her desk. But this time she didn’t even think of the button. She reached, instead, for the package.

  Suddenly, the mailman grabbed her wrist, yanked her from the chair, and hurled her into a corner. She landed heavily on her side, knocking her head against the wall. When she looked up dazed, the mailman had an automatic trained on her. “Can you scream louder than this gun?” he said in a low voice.

  She stared at the gun. She couldn’t have screamed if she’d wanted to. She couldn’t even breathe.

  The outer door opened and the four men came in, two carrying shotguns, and two machine guns. The girl couldn’t believe it — it was like something in the movies. Gangsters carried machine guns back in 1930. There was no such thing as a machine gun in real life. Machine guns and Walt Disney mice — all make-believe.

  The mailman put his gun away under his coat, and removed the mailbag from his shoulder. He took cord from the mail sack and tied the receptionist’s hands and feet. She gaped at him unbelievingly as he tightened the knots. They were in the wrong office, she thought. It might be a television show shooting scenes on location — they must have wanted the office next door and these men had come into the wrong place. It must be a mistake.

  The mailman gagged her with a spare handkerchief as one of the other men brought the two musical instrument cases and two briefcases in from the outside hall. The mailman took the briefcases. The men with the machine guns led the way. They all walked down the inner hall and stopped at the door next to the bookkeeping room. The mailman opened the door, and all five of them boiled into the room.

  This was the room where the alarm buzzer would have rung if the receptionist had remembered to ring it. Four men in brown uniforms wearing pistols and Sam Browne belts, were sitting at a table playing poker. They jumped up when the door burst open— then they all froze. They believed in machine guns.

  The mailman told them to lie on the floor, faces down, and they did so immediately. He used their ties to bind their hands, their belts to bind their feet. He tore strips from their shirts to gag them. Then the five men went back to the hall. One of the trombone players walked back to the receptionist’s office and sat down at the desk, cradling the machine gun in his lapel and guarding the door. The other trombone players stood at the far end of the hall, watching the closed door that lined it. The phoney mailman and the insurance salesmen with their shotguns walked into the bookkeeping room.

  There was only one man there, the chief accountant. He was standing by the window, smoking a cigarette, waiting for the couriers. He turned when the door opened, saw the three men coming in, and the cigarette dropped from his fingers. He raised his hands over his head. He was a CPA, a husband and father, forty-seven, medium height, somewhat paunchy, and not prepared to argue with sawed-off shotguns.

  The mailman said, “Open the safe.”

  “I don’t know the combination.” He said it quickly, the first thing that came to his mind.

  The mailman walked over and slapped his face with his open hand. “Don’t waste my time.”

  “All right, take off your shoes.” The mailman took a penknife from his pocket and opened it.

  The accountant stared at the penknife. “What are you going to do?”

  “Every time I ask you to. open the safe and you say no, I cut off one toe. You already owe me one. Take off your shoes.”

  “Wait! Wait, please! I’m not lying, I —”

  He gestured to one of his men. “Take his shoes off.”

  One of the insurance salesmen came over, grabbed the accountant by the shirtfront, and dropped him into a chair. He stooped to grab the accountant’s right foot.

  The accountant shouted, “I’ll do it! Don’t! I’ll do it!”

  “You do it in under a minute, you don’t lose any toes.”

  The accountant hurried to the safe. It was a big steel box, four feet high, three feet wide, three feet deep. He worked the combination hurriedly, but was so nervous he did it wrong the first time. He tried again, got it that time, and the safe opened.

  While the mailmen tied and gagged the accountant, the other two loaded the money from the safe into the briefcases. Then they went out into the hall where the trombone players joined them, and they walked to the receptionist’s desk. They packed the burp guns into the trombone cases and the shotguns away in the mailbag. Once they were out in the outer hall, they removed their handkerchief-masks and shoved them into the mailbag.

  Then they all went to the stairs. The insurance salesmen went down to the sixth floor, the mailman to the ninth floor, the trombone players to the tenth floor. They rang for the elevator operator at almost the same time. He seemed pleased that the people he’d taken up separately would all be coming down together. Saved him two trips.

  The trombone players got on first, and told the elevator operator they’d managed to get the gig for the weekend. One floor down, the mailman got on and said some idiot had mailed a special-delivery package to the wrong address. Three floors lower, the insurance salesmen got on and discussed profit percentages with each other. The five men left the elevator and the building together. The mailman turned to the right and walked slowly off down the street. The trombone players stood in front of the building, lit cigarettes, and chatted together about their gig. The insurance salesmen went into the parking lot and got their car. When they came out of the lot, the trombone players sauntered over and slid into the back seat. The driver turned to the right, and, half a block further, stopped long enough for the mailman to climb aboard.

  Forty minutes later, at a motel, the trombone players removed their beards, the mailman removed his glasses and moustache, and all five men washed the colour rise out their hair. Then they got pencils and paper and split $61,323 five ways. They’d left five dimes in the safe. One of them was our lady’s dime.

  FIVE

  The same day and seven hundred miles to the east — Once a month, Eric LaRenne put on a brown suit with $75,000 in cash sewn into the jacket lining and took a plane ride. They’d picked him for the job in the first place because he was in the Outfit anyway, in the right city, and was trustworthy. Besides he wore a size 36 short. This last attribute was most important, because a man at the other end wore a 36 short, too.

  The man at the other end was Marv Hanks, and he had the same excellent qualities as Eric LaRenne. Once a month, he got a telegram — always on the same day that Eric LaRenne got his monthly phone call up north. The telegram always read: “Mother sick. Must postpone visit. Effie.” On the day he received the telegram, Marv would put on his brown suit and go out to the airport to meet the 5.20 plane from the north.

  The day chosen for Eric LaRenne’s plane ride always began the same way — with an early morning telephone call. Usually it came around nine o’clock, and, usually, it woke him up. A cool female voice always informed him. “We’re confirming your reservation on the 1.50 pm flight to Miami today.” He always said, “Thanks,” hung up, washed his face, put on his brown suit, and went over to the Argus Imports office.

  At Argus Imports he invariably went directly to Mike Semmell’s office, took off his jacket and gave it to Mike. Mike would give him another brown jacket that looked exactly like it, but if it were wadded up, would have rattled like thick paper. LaRenne would put on the coat, leave the office, have a late breakfast, and go out to the airport to catch his plane. It was not a through flight; there was a change-over at approximately midpoint with a forty-minute wait. LaRenne always went all the way to Miami and spent a day or two there, but after the change-over his job was finished.

  The way it worked, Hanks would be out at the airport when LaRenne’s plane arrived. LaRenne would get off and go into the terminal to sit down for the forty-minute wait. At some point during the forty minutes, he and Hanks would switch jackets somewhere in the terminal building — perhaps in the luncheonette
, or hi the men’s room, or out on the observation platform — wherever Hanks decided was best. Then LaRenne would get on the new plane and go on his own to Miami. Hanks would take a cab back into town to Winkle’s Custom House Trusting and go directly into Mr Winkle’s office. There he would take off LaRenne’s suit coat and give it to Fred; Fred would give him another suit coat, and he would go home. In the pocket of the coat he wore home there would be an envelope containing a twenty-dollar bill and a five-dollar bill — his pay.

  So there were four brown suit coats in the operation, all exactly alike, and that was the way the money was delivered. The heroin was sent back up some other way that neither LaRenne nor Hanks knew anything about. They didn’t have to know about it, so they didn’t know about it. All they knew was their own part, how to transfer the cash.

  Four years before, LaRenne had fallen ill with appendicitis followed by pneumonia, and was unavailable for courier work for three months, so the Outfit had had to get someone else to take over the route. They’d chosen Artie Strand, primarily because he was a 36 short, and for three months he’d made the trips to Miami. It was necessary to have someone take over the route because it was a cash-before-delivery operation; if no money went down, no heroin came back up. A year and a half after LaRenne had recovered and gone back to work, the Outfit discovered that Artie Strand was unreliable and retired him with flowers. What they didn’t know was that it was too late. He’d already shot his mouth off once too often.

  Artie Strand was married, and his wife’s brother was a stock-car racer named Fred Farnell. Parnell was also a driver in operations with people like Parker, Jacko, Handy McKay, and he was considered one of the best in the business. He never got nervous and stalled the engine, or picked the second-best route away from the hit. So he was called two or three times a year, from all over the country, to drive cars for jobs. Because Strand was a loud mouth, Parnell knew what he did for a living, who his co-workers were, how much he took in a week, and everything else about him. Parnell never talked except to his cars, so Strand didn’t know anything at all about Parnell. However, he guessed that Parnell skated over on the wrong side of the fence from time to time because Parnell spent more than he ever earned on the race tracks. So Strand figured they were not only brothers-in-law, but brothers under the skin, and that made it all right for him to shoot off his mouth.

  One night, when Parnell was visiting his sister and they were all loaded on beer, Strand said, “You know what? You know what? If I ever need run-out money — you know what? I know right where to get it, you know that? Right where to get it. Seventy-five grand.” He snapped his fingers “Like that.” This happened about two months after Eric LaRenne was back on the courier job again.

  Naturally, Parnell started listening when he heard Strand talking about $75,000. Then Strand spilled the whole setup — the brown jackets, the pickup at Argus Imports, the plane ride, the stopover, and the switcheroo. Parnell listened, then asked one or two questions. He learned that the courier job — at least for the three months Strand had done it — had always taken place within the first week of the month. If the Outfit had men covering him at either airport to be sure he wasn’t tapped he, Strand, had never seen them. The amount was always the same—seventy-five grand — it never varied by a nickel.

  Parnell was only a driver, and was afraid to hit the Outfit anyway so he just filed the information away in his head for a rainy day. Then, a little more than a year later, Strand fell off an elevated subway platform and died, so even if Parnell did pull the job there wouldn’t be any way for the Outfit to trace the leak.

  Then Parnell got the go-ahead letter from Parker. He’d worked with Parker three times, the last time five years ago, and got along with him better than with most. Nevertheless, he felt no particular kinship with Parker nor any responsibility towards him. He would have ignored the letter if it hadn’t been for his sister’s late husband.

  But Strand had given him a setup and Parker had given him a reason to use it. With $75,000 he could build his own car again and take it to France and Italy the next summer for the races. All of his earnings from the jobs with Parker, Jacko, Handy McKay, and the rest of them went into his racers, which is why he could never save enough to quit. Besides, he didn’t want to retire, not from either of his occupations, because he enjoyed them both in the same way.

  Seventy-five grand.

  He thought at first about doing the job himself. It would be a one-man operation with no trouble at all, but, when he thought it over, he changed his mind. He wasn’t a heavy, he was a driver. So he got in touch with a heavy he knew, Kobler, and gave him the details of the score. Kobler agreed to come in, and they worked out the cut. Parnell would get 25 per cent for fingering the job, Kobler would get 50 per cent for pulling it off, and Parnell would get another 25 per cent for driving the getaway car. Kobler hadn’t liked the idea of giving Parnell 50 per cent of the take without Parnell doing a 50 per cent job like actually running the operation with him, but he didn’t mind at all paying out 25 per cent to the finger and 25 per cent to the driver. Who cared if it was the same man both times? So they came to an agreement on the last day of the month.

  Each moved out of his apartment. Parnell moved out of town altogether — down to the stopover city, where he found a furnished room three traffic lights from the airport, a distance of 2-6 miles. He sent the address to Kobler, whose move had taken him only across town to the apartment building facing the one where Eric LaRenne lived. Kobler had found out what Eric LaRenne looked like, and now spent every morning staring out of the window at the street, waiting for LaRenne to emerge wearing a brown suit. LaRenne usually wore grey pants and a flannel shirt, so there’d be no question when the day of the job came along.

  It came on a Tuesday, the fifth. Kobler watched LaRenne appear, wearing a brown suit, turn left, and then right at the corner at the far end of the street. As son as LaRenne was out of sight, Kobler made his phone calls. His first call was to the airline, reconfirming Robert Southwell’s seat on the 1.50 pm flight for Miami. He had reserved a seat on the 1.50 flight for every day until the tenth, using a different alias for each day, to be sure he would get on the flight with LaRenne. The girl confirmed Robert Southwell’s reservation. He thanked her and broke the connection. Then he called Western Union and sent a telegram to Parnell: “Arriving airport 5.20 Southwell.”

  Kobler got dressed and packed his suitcase and briefcase. The suitcase had clothing and toilet gear in it; the briefcase contained a Ruger Blackhawk .357 Magnum revolver loaded with .38 Short Colt cartridges. Unlike most men in the business, Kobler didn’t get rid of his gun after each operation and order a new one for the next job. He’d had the Blackhawk since 1955, when they had first come on the market, and he intended to keep it until he was forced to shoot somebody with it — which hadn’t yet happened. When it did, he’d get another gun.

  He was at the airport half an hour before take-off. He picked up his ticket, checked his suitcase through, but elected to carry his briefcase on board with him. Then he got in line directly behind LaRenne. Fortunately, the flight was fairly full and there was nothing odd about Kobler sitting down next to LaRenne. He took out a magazine as soon as he sat down to keep LaRenne from starting a conversation with him. After the plane took off, Kobler dozed for a while, the briefcase lying on his lap. He was a big, meaty man with blunt face and short, black hair. He looked like an ex-prize-fighter who was now regional sales manager for a beer company.

  Passengers usually look out the windows when a plane is landing. Kobler apparently woke up as the plane was landing and LaRenne was gazing out the window. So was everybody else on the plane, except two or three businessmen who were still reading their newspapers.

  Kobler opened his briefcase, poked LaRenne on the arm. “Look at this.”

  LaRenne turned, saw the open briefcase.

  Kobler said, “Look inside.”

  LaRenne leaned forward and looked inside. When he saw the Blackhawk he lunged ba
ck in his seat and stared at Kobler goggle-eyed.

  “Take it easy, LaRenne. I wasn’t supposed to tip myself to you before this, just in case.” Kobler’s voice was soft and easy.

  “In case?” LaRenne was almost panicking, but was instinctively keeping his voice as soft as Kobler’s. “In case of what?”

  “In case Hanks had a confederate anywhere around.”

  “Hanks?” It didn’t make any sense to LaRenne that this perfect stranger would know his name and know Hanks’ name, and whenever something didn’t make any sense to LaRenne he automatically looked as though the whole thing was a wrong number. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Kobler leaned close. “The seventy-five G’s,” he whispered. “In the coat.”

  “What?”

  “Keep it down!”

  “Jesus Christ!” whispered LaRenne. “Who the hell are you?”

  The plane’s wheels scraped the runway, bounced away, scraped again. LaRenne and Kobler jounced against their safety belts. When the plane calmed down, Kobler said, “I’m your bodyguard. We just found out that Hanks is figuring on walking off with the payment.”

  “He’d be crazy! They’d get him in a month!”

  LaRenne had thought, more than once, of walking off with the money, but had given the idea up because he knew the Outfit would look for him until they found him, and they would surely find him. Now he was mad when he heard that Hanks had been thinking the same thing, and was even planning on doing it. It was as though he’d been cheated, as though Hanks had stolen his idea and was getting the credit for something that should have been his.

  “Listen to me,” said Kobler. “We only got a minute. I would of told you before, but I fell asleep. You and me, we by-pass Hanks. There’ll be a car waiting for us. This time, you bring the cash all the way. Next time, there’ll be a replacement for Hanks. You’ll probably meet the new man this afternoon.”