“No, not just tapes. I want men on each of those taps for the next few hours. The call from the kidnapers will come in over the wires and we have to act on it immediately,” said Schmidt. “We want to be in on the payoff if we can.”
Schmidt listened again, looking at Feigin, his eyes inquiring if he had left anything out. Feigin shook his head.
“That’s right. And as soon as the kidnapers call in, get word over Communications. We’ll be nearby in private cars with squawk boxes.”
The voice on the other end was talking again. Schmidt fished a cigarette out of a pack on the desk, cradled the phone under his chin and lit the cigarette, blowing the smoke out of the corner of his mouth.
“Okay, right,” said Schmidt. “We’ll be here a little while longer, then we’re going out to that bowling alley.”
He hung up and looked at Feigin. “Get Barrios to come with us. And tell Curtis he’s coming too.”
“Curtis? The young colored kid?” asked Feigin. “He’s still wet behind the ears. What about Quinny?”
“We need someone on the wire here, and we need Curtis because he’s probably the only detective Sal’s boys don’t know yet. He’ll be able to go inside the bowling alley and hang around to see what’s going on. The fact that he’s colored makes it even better. Nobody will take him for a cop.”
“Can’t Barrios stay on the tape machine and let Quinn come with us?”
“You going to be lonely without your partner?”
“He’s been in on this thing from the beginning. He knows the whole case,” said Feigin.
“That’s a good reason for him to stay on the wires,” said the lieutenant. “But, okay, let Barrios take the wires, and Quinn can take one of the cars.”
“Right, Lou. Are we going to alert some of the squads out there?” asked Feigin.
“No—the only thing they could do is fuck it up. We’ll be at the bowling alley, and we’ll get to the payoff at the same time Sal’s people do. I’m afraid that more cars’ll just endanger Sal even more. The way they got it set up, one word on the telephone to those goddamn cars, and they’ll kill Sal.”
“Yeah, how about that Aquilino? Two cars with phones—the whole works. Just like the movies,” said Feigin.
“But it’s good. It keeps us out of the picture and keeps them in, and yet lets Sal get a little breathing room. He’s a clever bastard, that Aquilino.”
“Can’t we get those conversations on car phones by radio?” said Feigin.
“Yeah, have Communications set up their radios to pick up car phones—it’s just like ship-to-shore. But I don’t know what good it’ll do. They could be anywhere. And by the time we got anything, they’d be someplace else.” Schmidt waved his hand. “Have Communications try anyway.”
“Okay.”
“And let’s move it. If we get out there now, we can set ourselves up and get a first-hand view of what’s happening.”
9:30 P.M.
Lieutenant Schmidt drove his station wagon into the large parking lot that surrounded the bowling alley. It was a square, windowless building; neon lights in the front blazed the name through the rainy night. Randolph Curtis, a young detective third grade, was sitting next to his lieutenant.
“There’s Quinny’s car,” said Schmidt. He was looking straight ahead and could see the old red convertible with the black top that some punk vandal had sliced while the car was parked across from the station house. It was now parked on the far side of the bowling alley. Schmidt parked on the near side.
“I didn’t see anybody in Quinn’s car, lieutenant,” said Curtis.
“They’re in the back seat. Probably Feigin’s jawing about turning in his papers.”
Curtis smiled. He was eager, and pleased that the lieutenant had tapped him for this assignment.
Schmidt lifted the walkie-talkie from the seat beside him. “Stake Two, this is Stake One. Come in,” Schmidt said into the small black speaker.
There was an abrupt squawk. “Stake One. This is Stake Two. In position,” Feigin’s voice replied.
“See anything?”
“Nothing. Only a nut would come bowling on a night like this,” replied Feigin. “We’re freezing our brass monkeys.”
“Would you rather be nice and warm at home?” Schmidt asked him, smiling.
“Funny, Lou,” said Feigin. “Here comes a car,” he whispered in a quickened staccato. “It looks like—Matteawan’s Cadillac. Sure, that’s it.”
“Anyone with him?”
“Looks like Frankie the Pig, and Angie,” said Feigin. “They’re parking about a hundred feet from us.”
The wind gusted and rocked Schmidt’s station wagon, fighting to get inside. The walkie-talkie gave a faint sound of static.
“They’re looking around now,” Feigin whispered into the walkie-talkie. “Matteawan and Frankie are getting out and moving toward the front door. Angie the Kid is coming over in your direction, Lou.”
Curtis and Schmidt ducked low as they watched Angie the Kid walk to the corner of the building and study the parking lot. Then he retraced his steps.
“He’s coming back your way,” whispered Schmidt.
“Yeah. He’s going inside now,” said Feigin.
“Okay, now,” Schmidt said to Curtis, “you go in there and mosey around. Just keep an eye on what’s happening. Got your walkie-talkie?”
“Right here, lieutenant,” Curtis said, tapping his trenchcoat pocket.
“Good,” said Schmidt. “Take your coat off inside and put it down. If anything happens that we should know about, call me.”
“Right.”
“You have your gun with you?”
“Of course, lieutenant.”
“I just want to be sure. These aren’t kids in the street, Curtis—they’re all killers. I’m not exaggerating to impress you. They really are. All of them.”
“I’ll take care of it all right, lieutenant.”
“Sure you will. Go ahead.”
Curtis got out of the car and started toward the bowling alley.
Gianni was sitting at his desk. He checked his watch and began to leaf through the newspaper on the desk for the third time. The phone rang.
“Hello?” said Gianni.
“Ma, che cotz?” gasped an exasperated Sal on the other end of the hollow-sounding connection. “Who’s this? And what the hell’s going on?”
“Hello, Sal. This is Gianni.” He smiled.
“I should have recognized one of your hair-brained schemes. Compard’ ou me. These niggers have me on a highway in the middle of the night talking on a goddamn phone. I don’t even know where the hell I am.”
“Are you alone, Sal?” Gianni asked.
“Yeah, but the bastards are right behind me.”
“Are you all right?”
“Sure I’m all right,” said Sal, “except that I haven’t had a decent meal in four days. I keep thinking of those veal and peppers Maria was having for supper Monday. They must be cold by now.”
Gianni laughed. “At least you’re in good spirits. We’re going to stay on this phone until the payoff and then you’ll be on your own. Everything’s under control.”
“Gianni, with you on the job, what do I have to worry about? I knew you’d be out there. But I’d like to hit these bastards. When I get back, get me a gun. I’m going to find them by myself and kill them.”
“Sal, this is short-wave radio. Everything you say is being broadcast. Be careful what you say. And right now I only want to know when they let you go. How many of them are there?”
“Two. Two big tutzones. The miserable bastards. What’s supposed to happen now?”
“After we make the payoff, they’ll let you drive away.”
“You trust those no good bastards?” Sal asked.
“We have no choice. At least you’re in a car by yourself,” said Gianni.
“I ought to put on the brakes and let them crash into me.”
“Sal, don’t start going crazy,” Gianni c
autioned. “If they don’t let you go, you can start doing things like that. Right now, let’s play it straight.”
“Whatever you say, compard’ ou me.”
Curtis walked casually into the bowling alley. It was a huge open place, with 35 lanes, side by side. About six lanes were being used. To the right was a snack bar. To the left was a supply shop which was now closed. Directly in front of Curtis was a counter with a man seated at a cash register.
“Bowl?” the man asked.
“Not right now,” replied Curtis. He walked to the left, where the active lanes were. Behind the alleys were three rows of spectator seats. Curtis stood behind them, watching a black ball drone down alley 3, crashing for a 7-10 split. He could feel Frankie the Pig and Bobby Matteawan staring at him from alley 5. Angie the Kid was getting set to roll.
“Maybe that’s one of the niggers?” Bobby Matteawan whispered to Frankie the Pig.
“I just wish I knew,” Frankie the Pig whispered. “I’d strangle the son of a bitch right here.”
“There’s another nigger bowling by himself on alley 3. Maybe he’s another one,” said Matteawan.
There was a crash of pins. “Hey, I got a strike, I got a strike,” Angie the Kid exulted, hopping back to the scoring table.
“Fuck the strike, Kid. Keep bowling,” said Frankie the Pig.
“But I just did. It’s your turn,” said Angie the Kid.
“Yeah, maybe you’d better, Frankie,” said Bobby Matteawan.
“No, you go next,” Frankie the Pig said. “I don’t even know how. Besides, I want to watch those niggers.”
Curtis noticed the colored man bowling by himself in lane 3. He wanted to get out from under the eyes of Frankie the Pig. He moved down toward lane 3.
“Hey, how you doin’?” asked Hartley, seeing Curtis standing behind him. He was glad for a little cover himself.
“How you doin’?” replied Curtis. “You got a game?”
“No,” replied Hartley. “I’m just throwing a few balls. Want to join me?”
“Sure,” said Curtis. He walked up to the main desk and rented a pair of shoes. He went back to lane 3 and put them on.
By this time Frankie the Pig was moving awkwardly toward the foul line, the bowling ball dangling heavily from his three fingers. He lumbered across the line and released it. It traveled through the air halfway down the alley and landed with a crunch on the polished wood.
“Alley 5,” said the main desk over the loudspeakers. “A little easier on the woodwork, please.”
“A fongool,” said Frankie the Pig, walking back to the bench, giving the main desk a deadly side glance.
“Hey, you’ve got another turn, Frankie,” said Angie the Kid.
“Stuff it up in your ass,” said Frankie as he sat down.
“I’m Frank Smith,” Hartley said, shaking Curtis’ hand.
“Burton Shaw,” Curtis replied. He began trying his fingers in the bowling balls on the rack behind him.
Hartley rolled a ball and took down all but one pin.
“Nice shot,” said Curtis walking forward.
“Thanks,” said Hartley. “You from around here?”
“No, Long Island City. I was supposed to meet some guys here,” said Curtis. “But I don’t see them.” He noticed that Hartley was carefully watching Frankie the Pig and the others. Hartley took down the other pin with the second ball. Curtis bowled a six on his first ball. His second ball took down one more.
“How the hell long do I have to keep driving?” Sal complained into the phone.
“Pazienza, compard’,” said Gianni, “it won’t be long until the payoff, then you’ll be free.”
“I think we’re in Long Island somewhere, but I’m not sure,” said Sal.
“They still behind you?”
“Right on my ass.”
A phone began to ring behind them. Frankie the Pig leaped up. The phone kept ringing. The man from the main desk started toward the three booths. So did Frankie the Pig. Frankie made it first. But none of those phones was ringing—Frankie the Pig could still hear the sound coming from somewhere in back. The man from the main desk pushed open the door of the men’s room. The phone stopped ringing. The man came out.
“Is there a Larry Fields here?” he called out.
“Yeah, that’s for me,” said Frankie the Pig. He rushed into the men’s room. The phone was on the wall, the receiver dangling, making a slow circle through the air. Frankie snared it.
“Hello?”
“You ready to move?” asked Bull.
“Ready.” Frankie’s lips curled in hate.
“This isn’t the same voice,” said Bull.
“No. I’m making the payoff. He sent me,” said Frankie the Pig.
“Okay. Now get it straight the first time. You ready?”
“Come on, come on,” said Frankie the Pig. “Let’s not waste time.”
“Okay then, listen.” Bull spoke and Frankie the Pig listened.
Curtis had watched Frankie the Pig go into the men’s room to get the call. He wasn’t sure Communications had tapped that number. Even if they had, he thought he’d better get back to Schmidt and be ready to move. This was coming off right now.
“I think I’m going to split,” said Curtis, turning to Hartley. “I’m going to try to find those cats that were supposed to meet me.”
“Okay, thanks for the game,” said Hartley. He too was watching the men’s room door.
Curtis took off the bowling shoes, put on his own and moved as quickly as he could without attracting notice.
“Here comes Curtis,” Feigin’s voice squawked through the walkie-talkie.
“I got him,” said Schmidt.
Curtis moved quickly to the station wagon and got inside. “The call is coming in over the men’s room phone.”
“Shit,” said Schmidt. “Stake One to headquarters, Stake One to headquarters, do you read me?”
“We read you,” the box squawked with a great deal of static. Schmidt turned up the squelch button.
“Anything from Communications yet?” Schmidt asked.
“Hold on,” said the voice at the local precinct house. There was a long pause. “Nope, nothing coming through on any of the tapped phones. I just called them.”
Schmidt frowned. “We won’t need any radio patrol cars then. We’ll have to play it by ear from here.”
“Roger,” said the voice from the precinct.
“You get that, Stake Two?” Schmidt asked.
“We’re listening,” said Feigin.
“Have they come out yet?”
“Not yet. We’re watching.”
The wall phone rang in the garage. Joey picked it up. “Hello? It’s Frankie the Pig, Gianni,” Joey told him; “he’s got the place for the payoff. He wants to know if it’s all right to go to make the payoff.”
“You still okay, Sal?” Gianni asked into the other phone.
“Okay, but hurry up, for Christ’s sake,” said Sal. “I’ll be in Palermo soon.”
Gianni laughed. “Ask Frankie where he has to make the payoff,” he said to Joey.
Joey spoke into the wall phone, then turned to Gianni. “Woodlawn Cemetery.”
Gianni nodded slowly. “Tell Frankie it’s okay to go.”
“Here they come now,” Feigin’s voice squawked softly.
“Don’t follow them too obviously,” cautioned the lieutenant.
“How the hell can you follow anybody in this godforsaken area without them knowing it,” said Feigin. “No wonder they picked it. There they go.”
Bobby Matteawan’s car screamed across the parking lot and into the night. Schmidt floored his accelerator.
“Take the squawk box and tell Feigin to hustle it up,” Schmidt said to Curtis.
The two private cars with police raced out of the parking lot and onto the city streets. Bobby Matteawan made a left turn a block ahead. Schmidt was first to get to the corner. He reached the turn in time to catch sight of Matteawan making ano
ther right.
“The son of a bitch is trying to ditch us,” said Schmidt. “He knows we’re back here.”
“Hello, mobile operator, did you get through to my number yet?” Bull asked. He was on the far side of Woodlawn Cemetery in a phone booth. His car was parked near a gate, the motor running.
“I am trying, sir. I can’t seem to get a circuit right now. Do you want to place your call later?”
“No, I want to place it now. It’s an emergency,” said Bull. “I’ve got to get a call through to that car.”
“I’m sorry, there are only a few circuits, sir,” said the mobile operator.
“Just get me one, will you, baby. I have to get that car.”
“Sir, I can’t just cut in on anybody, can I?”
Bull drew in his breath. She was a sister, so he couldn’t very well dress her down. “No, I guess you can’t. I’ll hold on.”
“I have other calls to make, sir. You hold on by yourself. I’ll come back.” The phone went dead.
“That’s a nigger bitch,” Bull muttered as he held the phone to his ear. He looked toward where Alfred would appear after he got the money.
“Come on, Bobby, you’re losing those bastards,” said Frankie the Pig, looking out the rear window. Schmidt’s car hadn’t even turned the last corner as Bobby Matteawan threw his car into a four-wheel drift and gunned around another left turn.
“They aren’t going to follow us nowhere,” said Bobby Matteawan, his face tense as he watched every object hurtling up in front of them. They screamed on through the dark.
“Alert the precinct,” Schmidt told Curtis. “Use the walkie-talkie. See if any prowl cars can see this crazy bastard in front of us.”
Curtis spoke to the precinct.
“Okay, we’ll put out a bulletin,” squawked the box.
“No, for Christ’s sake,” screamed Schmidt. “Tell them just to try and watch where the hell the car is headed.”
Curtis repeated the message.
“Roger,” said the precinct. “One of our cars just spotted them. They’re headed west, back to New York.”
Schmidt turned left and headed in that direction.
“I can place your call now,” the operator said to Bull.
Sicilian Defense Page 16