Inside Job

by Levinson, Len

  “I don’t know how to dance.”

  “How come you don’t know how to dance?”

  “Never learned.”

  “Then what’re you doing in here? It makes me mad so many people come just to be spectators. We need more participants in this world. C’mon. I’ll teach you how to dance.”

  She wore a v-necked blouse and her little breasts were showing. Brody looked at them and remembered the old adage that good things came in small packages. “Sorry,” he said, “but I don’t like to do anything unless I know I can do it well.”

  “What do you do well?”

  He bent over and whispered in her ear, “Fuck.”

  “No kidding?”

  “I’m not kidding.”

  “Why don’t you take my number?”

  “I’d love to. What is it?”

  “Six seven five eight two one oh. Aren’t you going to write it down?”

  “I’ve already got it memorized.”

  “Give me a call sometime. I’ll tell you how good you are.”

  “I know how good I am already.”

  She winked. “Don’t forget my number.” Turning, she walked away, shaking the cutest little ass Brody had seen in a long time. These East Side girls were something else.

  At four in the morning Brody was standing in front of the disco smoking a cigarette, his hands in the pockets of his slacks. He was wearing a turtleneck sweater under his brown leather jacket. Hardesty came out wearing his navy blue topcoat.

  “Let’s go for a cup of coffee around the corner,” Brody said.

  “Okay.”

  They walked toward Lexington Avenue, two big men with serious faces and big feet.

  “What’s the job?” Hardesty asked.

  “I’ll tell you when we get inside. It’s a long story.”

  “What the fuck are you doin’ me a favor for, Brody?”

  “I’ll tell you when we get inside.”

  It was a late night sandwich restaurant with a counter and booths along the wall. It was brightly lit and had a lot of customers. They found an empty booth, hung their coats on the rack, and sat down. The waitress came with menus; Brody ordered a hamburger, rare, and Hardesty a chicken salad sandwich on rye. They both wanted black coffee. The waitress went away.

  Hardesty leaned forward. “Now what’s this about Brody.”

  “First of all, I want you to keep your voice down about what we’re saying. Got it?”

  “What’s the big fucking secret?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough. Okay, the second thing is that I understand why you’re so suspicious of me. I don’t like you particularly, and I know you don’t like me. But the point is that I need somebody like you right now, and you need somebody like me.”

  Hardesty snorted. “What the fuck do I need you for?”

  “Are you happy with your job, Hardesty?”

  “It could be worse.”

  “And it could be better too, right?”

  “I guess so.”

  “You’re fucking right you guess so. You’re a proud man, Hardesty. I can tell that you hate your job. It’s written all over your face. One of these nights you’re liable to go bananas and start cracking people’s head open, you’re so unhappy. So don’t fucking pretend you’re not.”

  “Okay—I admit I could be doin’ better. But what’re you doin’?”

  “I’m on unemployment and I’m living in a shitbox rooming house.”

  “Looks like you’re not doing any better than me.”

  “I’m not, but I got plans for the future. Have you?”

  “Nothing in particular.”

  “How’d you like to make a million dollars, Hardesty?”

  “That’s a dumb question. Why don’t you just tell me what’s on your mind, Brody?”

  “I am telling you, but I’m going about it my own way. My question was: how’d you like to make a million dollars?”

  Hardesty stared at Brody with a mixture of malice and curiosity. The waitress arrived with the food and coffee.

  “I could use a million dollars,” Hardesty said after she was gone. “Now what’s the joke?”

  “How far would you go to get a million dollars?”

  “As far as I had to.”

  “Would you break the law?”

  Hardesty bit into his sandwich and commenced chewing. “No.”

  “You wouldn’t?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m not a crook.”

  “Why do you want to be different from everybody else? You’re a fucking bouncer now because of crook politicians and bankers, don’t you know that?”

  “Two wrongs don’t make a right. Just because they’re motherfuckers, it doesn’t mean I have to be.”

  “You dumb cocksucker, have you been shit on so much that you’ve lost your nerve? Are you trying to be the nice establishment black guy and hope Whitey throws you a few crumbs, or are you going to take what you know you deserve? What a disappointment you turned out to be. You hate white people and you know it, and you’ve got every right to rip them off, but instead you want to be a nice guy. You fucking blacks are ridiculous. You’re ass kissers and toe suckers.”

  Hardesty looked at Brody evenly. “I hate your fucking guts, Brody. Do you know that?”

  “Sure I know it. And I know you hate every other white man and white woman in America. And I hate your black ass too because your kind is squeezing my kind out of everything.”

  Hardesty was enjoying this turn of conversation. He liked to see white folks get mad at him, instead of taking him for granted. “If you hate me so much, how come you’re offering me big bread?”

  “Because you’re tough, you’re smart, and you know how to take care of business. You were a Green Beret in Vietnam and you were a good cop. I heard you killed a hold-up man once, and you didn’t even bat an eyelash afterwards.”

  Hardesty smiled. “That’s because he was white.”

  “You’re filled with hate just like I am, and you’re ready to do something, just like I am. Well this is the deal: four men are going to pull off the biggest heist in history within a few weeks. Each man will get at least a million dollars. Each man will be as tough and filled with hate as you and me. And each man will be on easy street for the rest of his life and be able to tell the world to kiss his ass. Why shit, you could have a different white girl every night if you wanted.”

  “I can have a different one every night right now. That’s no great feat. You know, white girls don’t like the way you white guys fuck. They say you got little dicks and don’t have no rhythm.”

  “I could out-fuck any nigger any day,” Brody said.

  “Shit you could.”

  “I’d like to go to a whorehouse with you right now and teach you a lesson, you motherfucker, but I don’t have any money and I know you don’t either. So that brings me back to square one: how’d you like to make a million dollars?”

  “What’s the deal?”

  “You’re interested now?”

  “Yeah.”

  “If I tell you, and you decide to become a stool pigeon, you’re gonna be a dead stood pigeon. You understand that?”

  “I’m no stool pigeon, you pale, sickly-looking fuck.”

  “Have you ever been in the Property Room at Police Headquarters?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you know what’s in there?”

  Hardesty wrinkled his forehead. “You’re not thinking about. . .”

  Brody smiled. “Oh yes I am.”

  “Holy shit!”

  “It’d be easier to knock over than any bank or any jewelry store.” Hardesty whistled. “The Property Room at Police Headquarters—who’d believe it?”

  “The whole world’s gonna believe it in just a few weeks. Are you interested?”

  “I might be. Tell me more.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  On a Wednesday afternoon at two in the afternoon, Ricci, Laganello, and Hardes
ty came to Brody’s room near Roosevelt Avenue. Brody had acquired a card table and four folding chairs. They sat around the table and Laganello and Hardesty said they were in.

  Brody spread out his diagrams of Police Headquarters, the Property Room, and the New York streets through which they would make their getaway. They went over each step and detail of the heist, asking questions and working out answers. It was decided that they must obtain silencers for their guns in case there was any shooting. The four badges were examined and appeared authentic.

  The next day they went out in Ricci’s brother’s car, and drove to the various places they’d go during the course of the heist. They timed themselves so they’d know for sure how long every step would take. They went over the route from beginning to end three times. They saw the possibilities of little problems cropping up, discussed them, and worked out alternate measures. It was decided that if any of them were shot down, the others would leave him and continue with the operation. They were solemn and businesslike. This was to be the most important episode of their lives, and each of them knew it.

  Two days later they went to a shooting range in Scotch Plains, New Jersey, and fired their pistols. They hadn’t used them for a while and wanted to be certain of their accuracy, because that might make the difference between success and failure.

  The next day they went over the route again, incorporating various refinements they’d worked out in the meantime.

  The following day they met again in Brody’s room for the final planning session. There were no more questions or suggestions. They were ready to go. A date and time were set. They shook hands and separated.

  Laganello went to his taxi garage and took out a cab for the night. As he drove through the city, he thought of the vast wealth that soon would be in his possession. His cab driving days would be over, and he’d move his family to California. And then, fuck the world.

  Hardesty was on duty that night at the Monte Carlo Disco. He thought that with part of the money he might open a little club in the Village someplace, and make it a showcase for up and coming black musicians.

  Ricci went to see his girlfriend, an airline stewardess who had her own apartment in Flushing. They screwed for most of the night.

  Brody took a subway to Broadway and saw a movie called The Boys in Company C. It was about the Vietnam War.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Monday night is traditionally the quietest night in the week in New York City. Most of the theatres and many restaurants are closed, and potential miscreants are usually sleeping away what got them off over the weekend.

  At one o’clock on Tuesday morning, Anthony Ricci, in his blue patrolman’s uniform with phony badge on his breast, strolled through the gate of the Police garage on Duane Street in Lower Manhattan. No one stopped him; he was just another cop. Except for his badge, he carried all the authentic equipment of a cop, except for the cylindrical silencer in his jacket pocket. In the dispatcher’s office, he signed for a paddy wagon. No one questioned him—cops signed for paddy wagons all the time.

  He walked into the cavernous garage with his receipt, and the Motor Sergeant directed him to the appropriate paddy wagon. Ricci thanked him, got in, and drove out of the garage. He headed south on Duane, east on Grand, and south on Lafayette. On a dark street lined with broken-down factory buildings closed for the night, he spotted a Chevy van. Looking around, he saw no one about. He pulled to a stop behind the van and raised and lowered his high beams a few times. The backdoor of the van opened, and Brody, Hardesty, and Laganello got out, pulling behind them three canvas carriers on wheels, one inside the other. Each wore his patrolman’s uniform.

  Ricci got out of the paddy wagon and opened the rear door. Laganello and Hardesty loaded the canvas carriers into the paddy wagon while Brody acted as lookout. Ricci locked the doors of the paddy wagon, got back in the front seat, and drove off. In his rearview mirror he saw the lights of the van go on, and saw it pull away from the curb.

  Brody was driving the van, with Hardesty and Laganello hidden in back. Brody wore an oversized tan raincoat over his uniform, and a fedora on his head. He was careful not to break any traffic laws, and as a former cop, he knew them all. Slowly he made his way to a deserted street near the Fulton Street Fish Market, which was only a few blocks from Police Headquarters. He parked, and soon thereafter the paddy wagon turned onto the street.

  “Here he comes,” Brody called to the men in back.

  They opened the rear door and got out. He took off the raincoat and fedora, put on his police hat, and stepped down from the cab of the van. The paddy wagon pulled up beside him. Ricci got out and unlocked the rear door. Hardesty and Laganello climbed in. Ricci returned to the front seat, and Brody joined them. The paddy wagon drove to the corner, turned, and circled back in the direction of Police Headquarters.

  “We’re almost there,” Brody said. “Anybody got any questions.”

  Nobody said anything. They’d been cops and soldiers and they knew the plan backwards and forwards. There was nothing more to say. Streetlamps flashed on their somber faces as they drove the final blocks to Police Headquarters.

  Ricci drove into the parking lot beside Police Headquarters. Brody, Langanello, and Hardesty got out. Laganello pushed the three canvas carrier. Inside them were blankets and a briefcase. The three walked side by side to the front door of Police Headquarters. Ricci backed up and drove to the loading platform, which was connected to a ramp that went down to the basement. He got out of the paddy wagon and unlocked the rear doors.. Then he returned to the front seat, and with trembling hands lit a cigarette.

  Brody, Hardesty, and Laganello entered Police Headquarters. At this time of morning there were only a few cops and detectives moving through the brightly-lit corridors like ghosts. Brody and Hardesty turned down the corridor that led to the Sergeant of the Day’s office, while Laganello and the canvas carriers took the elevator to the basement. Laganello made his way to the Property Room, opened the door, and pushed the canvas carriers inside. Two uniformed cops were checking in a cardboard box at the desk. Laganello cursed under his breath; they’d hoped to find only the cop on duty in the Property Room.

  The cop on duty, a middle-aged black patrolman, looked up from his desk. “Be right with you.”

  “That’s okay,” Laganello said. “I’m waiting for my partner to show up.”

  The black went to work on his forms. The other two cops smiled at Laganello and he smiled back. He was glad he didn’t know them.

  On the first floor, Brody and Hardesty entered the office of the Sergeant of the Day. A young patrolman was sitting behind the desk in the outside room.

  “We’re looking for the Sergeant of the Day,” Brody said.

  “He’s not here.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He went to the cafeteria. Should be right back.”

  Brody looked at Hardesty. “We’ll wait.”

  They sat on wooden chairs and tried to appear casual as they waited for the Sergeant of the Day to return. They’d already figured that he might not be in, so were ready for this contingency. The seconds passed like minutes, and the minutes like hours.

  Brody stood up. “Maybe we’d better go to the cafeteria and get him.”

  Hardesty stood up. “Yeah.”

  At that moment Sergeant Callahan walked into the office. He had a beer belly, red face, and red hair, and was one of the old line Irish cops of the N.Y.P.D. Despite his belly, he was an imposing figure in his blue uniform.

  “These men are waiting to see you, sergeant,” the clerk said.

  Callahan looked at Brody and Hardesty with cold blue eyes that’d seen just about everything on the streets of New York. “What is it?”

  “There’s a problem in the Property Room, sir,” Brody said. “The officer on duty said us up to get you. There’s something wrong with the vault—it won’t close.”

  Callahan screwed up his eyes. “Why didn’t he call me?”

  “He was busy, and
I guess he didn’t want to take the time to make the call. Sent us instead.”

  “Who’re you?”

  “We were checking some stuff in.”

  Callahan looked at them. “Hmmm. Okay, let’s go.” He looked at the clerk. “If anybody wants me, tell ‘em I’m in the Property Room.”

  Brody and Hardesty followed Callahan down the corridor to the elevators. On the way down, Callahan looked at their faces, and Brody knew that this old cop would be able to identify them someday.

  In the basement, Callahan led the way to the Property Room. He opened the door and went inside, with Brody and Hardesty behind him.

  “What’s the problem?” Callahan asked in a booming voice.

  “Problem?” asked the cop on duty. “I ain’t got no problems.”

  Brody pulled out his service revolver. “Put up your hands—all of you!”

  Callahan, the cop on duty, and the other two cops check in the box, stared at Brody in total disbelief.

  Hardesty drew his service revolver and stuck on the silencer. “Do as he says—move!”

  Brody quickly screwed the silencer onto his gun. Laganello opened his briefcase, took out a plastic sign, and set the briefcase on the floor. He took the sign, left the Property Room, and affixed it to the outside of the door. The sign read:

  CLOSED FOR INVENTORY

  TAKE ALL PROPERTY TO CENTRE STREET

  STATION

  It was identical to the sign used whenever inventory normally was taken. Laganello stood at parade rest beside the door.

  Inside the Property Room, the cops were raising their hands.

  “What’s going on here!” demanded Callahan.

  Brody walked up to him. “Give me the combination for the vault.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “If you don’t give it to me, I’m going to take it.”

  “Take it then.”

  “You fucking asshole—you want to be a hero, eh?” Brody rapped him upside the head with his gun, and Callahan sagged to the floor. Brody bent over him and unbuttoned his jacket, started to search for the combination.

  At that moment, one of the cops checking in the box went for his gun. He’d been with the N.Y.P.D. and had won numerous citations for valor. Hardesty saw the sudden movement, took aim with both hands, and fired. There was a flash of light, a plopping sound, and the cop went flying backwards, blood spurting from his chest.