The tension on that Saturday morning in Eddie’s Woodhaven apartment was as thick as it had been in the tailor shop on the day Burt White came out of the box. Eddie sat with us at breakfast, but for once he didn’t make us recite our lessons. Morasso didn’t complain about the food, either, and Parker seemed to have forgotten his lost computer. Even Annie was quiet. She cooked breakfast, moving from one frying pan to another without saying a word.
After breakfast we went into the living room. Avi suggested a card game, but after half an hour we gave it up. Nobody seemed able to concentrate on the hands. Finally, Avi announced that he was going upstairs to clean the Winchester. Morasso left, too, probably to watch cartoons while he stroked the shotgun. That left me, Eddie, and Parker. Annie was still in the kitchen with the dishes.
“How you feelin’, cuz?” Eddie asked Parker. “You up for this?”
“Why don’t you ask him?” Parker indicated me with a flip of his hand.
“Don’t take it the wrong way, cuz. Ya know how it is with a virgin. You never know for sure if you’re gonna get in or not.”
Parker managed a faint grin. “It’s harder than I thought, but I’ll be all right. I mean it’s not that I’m having second thoughts or anything. It’s just hard.”
“You’re probly worried about gettin’ caught. That’s natural. We get popped, cuz, we ain’t gonna see the outside for a long time. Maybe forever. This job is as good as a job can get, but that don’t mean nothin’ can go wrong. If shit happens, you know what you gotta do. You’re gonna be the only one in the van.”
One of Eddie’s contingency plans involved Parker driving if things got too hot and we had to get out in a hurry.
“I know what I have to do,” Parker said firmly.
“Don’t get excited, cuz. What I’m tryin’ to do is make it easier. Here.” He handed Parker a revolver, an S & W .38, the same one I’d exchanged for the 9mm. “All you gotta do is point it and pull the trigger. You might not be able to hit nothin’, but we’re the only ones who know that and we won’t tell.”
Parker took the gun and put it in the pocket of his jacket. He grinned over at me, reminding me of the deal we’d made. Maybe he was regretting the offer. Maybe he figured it wasn’t likely that Eddie would give him a piece if Eddie was planning a doublecross. Maybe he didn’t understand that, for Eddie, giving a revolver to a man who didn’t know what to do with it besides point and shoot might be just another brushstroke in the art of betrayal. Or it might be just what it seemed—a good officer reassuring a rookie before his first battle. If there’s no way to be sure, it pays to prepare for the worst-case scenario. I don’t think Parker understood that, either.
Annie served lunch a little after noon. Avi ate with the nonchalance of a veteran warrior, but the rest of us only picked at our food. Eddie kept looking at us. I couldn’t tell if he was happy with what he saw, but somewhere between the soup we didn’t drink and the tuna fish we didn’t eat, he walked over to the refrigerator, took out a bottle of champagne, and opened it.
“The bunch of yiz look like you’re goin’ to a funeral. Lighten up, for shit sake. Today God is gonna give us a fuckin’ gift. We should have proper gratitude.” He filled five paper cups with champagne and handed them out. “Drink up. Then I got a treat for ya.”
The treat turned out to be a porno film. Two hours of watching half-hard cocks pound into sweating, pink vaginas. There was nothing sexual about it that I could see, but it passed the time. We sat straight in our chairs, each of us wrapped in our own thoughts, while the women moaned and the men sweated. After the final scene, an orgy involving eight people, Eddie snapped off the VCR.
“Awright, boys, it’s game time. Parker, get your ass down to the van. Make sure the radios are workin’ right, especially Avi’s portable. Tune in to the Chapman dispatcher and find out where 345 is. We’ll be down in twenty minutes.” He waited for Parker to get out the door, then turned back to Avi. “Avi, you’re gonna be on your own. I don’t want no improvisin’. You don’t move till we signal you on the radio that 345 is leavin’ its next-to-last stop. You don’t get a signal, you don’t do nothin’. You come back to the apartment and wait for us.”
Avi started to voice his contempt, but Eddie waved him off. “Don’t say a fuckin’ word, cuz. You ain’t gonna hear my shit after this minute, so you could put up with the paranoia. When the time comes, you’re gonna get five beeps. No voice, because sure as shit, if we go vocal, some asshole with a ham radio’s gonna pick up the transmission. Now suppose good old 345 should burn up an engine and the dispatcher sends a substitute truck I don’t know nothin’ about. If shit like that should happen and I gotta call the job off, I don’t want you to go shootin’ no cop.” He tossed Avi a set of keys. “Take the fuckin’ gun, pick up ya portable from Parker, and get in the wind. No bullshit.”
Eddie spun on his heels to face Morasso. “Tony,” he snarled, “if you ever in your whole fuckin’ life bother to do somethin’ with your head instead of ya fuckin’ fists, this is the time to do it. We’re talkin’ about a million dollars here. And if that ain’t enough, I’m tellin’ you personal that if you fuck up, I’m gonna kill ya. You got a shotgun that’ll put a man’s head in fuckin’ orbit. You pull the trigger without me givin’ the word, your head’s gonna follow.”
Now it was my turn. Eddie looked at me, started to say something, then stopped, then started again. “You done good, cuz. You got us here, which in some ways is more than I expected. But you’re too independent. You don’t know how to follow orders. From here on, it’s by the numbers. Understand what I’m sayin’?”
“No problem, Eddie.”
“Glad to hear it, cuz. Now, I’m gonna go and say goodbye to Annie. You and Tony should try to keep each other from gettin’ lost.”
I was as wired as if we were actually going to do the job. That strange mixture of fear and exhilaration, of smug satisfaction in being the outlaw and greed in anticipation of the reward to follow jumped back and forth between me and Tony like lightning flashing from one cloud to another. We stood there in the middle of the living room, not even bothering to sit down on chairs two feet away, and waited for Eddie. The wait was interminable.
“What the fuck is he doin’ in there?” Tony finally asked.
“Tell you the truth, Tony, I’m afraid to think about it.”
“And how come he’s always jumpin’ on me?”
“He thinks you’re gonna shoot someone.”
“Ain’t that what I’m here for?”
He still hadn’t gotten it right. After all this time.
“Just the opposite, Tony. You shoot somebody and most likely the guard inside the truck will decide you’re gonna shoot him, too. Think about it. If you were locked inside that truck and you just saw your buddy’s head go flyin’ across the parking lot, would you open the door?”
His mouth was swollen and discolored, his eyes round and hard as marbles, his breathing fast and shallow. If it was me in the truck, I wouldn’t open the door whether he killed my buddy or said, “Pretty please.” But then again I’m a criminal.
“What you gotta do,” I explained, “is look scary, but not actually do anything.”
He thought about it for minute, then stared up at me with a mixture of hate and triumph. “Then how come Eddie’s givin’ me shells to go wit’ the shotgun? If I ain’t supposed ta do nobody, wha’da I need with a loaded shotgun? I could do it unloaded.”
Which is exactly the way I’d have him do it, if it was my job. I shrugged my shoulders. “Have it your own way.” Actually, Eddie had anticipated the possibility that the guard inside might decide to abandon his buddies. If we couldn’t get the door opened then and there, I was going to drive the truck up to the Bronx and park it in the garage. Given enough time, we’d be able to cut our way in with a torch.
Eddie came out a few minutes later, Annie in tow. She raised a glass of soda and said, “Until we meet again on a beach in Rio. Good luck, boys.”
Parke
r was waiting in the van. He had the radio humming.
“What’s the story?” Eddie asked as soon as the door closed. He and I were sitting up front, him driving. Parker and Tony were crouched on the floor in the back.
“Three forty-five just left Alexander’s on Queens Boulevard. They’ve got two supermarkets before they get to the movie theaters in Fresh Meadows. I figure about two hours until they show up in Douglaston.”
Eddie checked his watch. “That’s almost an hour early.”
“Maybe they’ll go for coffee,” I suggested. “Anyway, the sooner the better.”
“Yeah, cuz, you got that right. Let’s move.”
We drove out to Parsons Boulevard in Flushing, to a large parking lot surrounding a Waldbaum’s supermarket, then parked the van fifty yards from the rear loading docks. An armored car bearing the name Chapman Security and the number 345 was standing in the loading area, its motor running. As Eddie and I watched, two men, both white, came out of the supermarket. One of them, the taller of the two, was dragging a large canvas bag. Both had their weapons out, barrels pointed toward the ground. When they got to the back of the truck, the rear door opened and the bag was tossed inside.
Three forty-five to base, K.
Three, four, five?
We’re 10-16 on Parsons Boulevard. Proceeding to account number … let’s see, account number S8776 on Union Turnpike.
Roger, three, four, five. Tell George to phone Evelyn. She’s drivin’ the operators crazy.
Will do. 10-4.
10-4.
Eddie took off before the truck left the parking lot. He drove to an A & P on Union Turnpike, but instead of turning into the parking lot, he pulled the van to the curb across the street. The armored car lumbered into the parking lot ten minutes later.
When the two guards climbed out of the truck, the only thing they carried was a clipboard and some papers. Both men kept their weapons securely holstered. They disappeared into the supermarket, reappearing twenty minutes later with the expected canvas bag. Their weapons were in their hands.
“Did I tell ya, cuz?” Eddie said. “Did I tell ya? It’s a fuckin’ gift. They been draggin’ them bags out all day.”
Three forty-five, K.
Three, four, five?
We are 10-16 on Union Turnpike. Proceeding to account number T1161 on Horace Harding Boulevard. 10-4.
Negative, three forty-five. You are ahead of schedule. Pickups are not ready. Repeat. Not ready. Take a 10-20 and tell George to call Evelyn.
10-4.
10-4.
We followed the armored car from stop to stop. It was stupid, really, because there was always the remote possibility that we’d be spotted. I think Eddie wanted to see the money as it was being loaded, the way kids like to go into toy stores before Christmas. Or like a man watching a porno movie before going home to screw his wife.
Somewhere on our travels we passed a Catholic church bearing a large white banner over the front doors: ST. IGNATIUS LOYOLA WELCOMES JOHN PAUL II.
Eddie blessed himself as we passed, his hand moving from his forehead, to his belly button, to his left shoulder, to his right shoulder.
“Whadda ya doin?” Morasso demanded. There were no windows in the back of the van. As paranoid as he was, Tony probably thought Eddie was passing a signal to aliens from outer space.
“I’m countin’ my blessings,” Eddie responded.
“What’s that mean?”
“It means shut the fuck up.”
“When am I gettin’ my shells?”
“When I give ’em to ya.”
“When is that?”
“You believe this?” Eddie said to me. “Punch him out, cuz. Stop that diarrhea comin’ outta his mouth.”
Three forty-five, K.
The radio had been chattering continuously, the dispatcher receiving and giving information to various trucks in the Chapman fleet. It meant no more to us than background music in an elevator, but the minute we heard the words “three forty-five,” the question of Tony’s discipline became meaningless.
Three, four, five?
We are 10-6 on that 20. Proceeding to Horace Harding Boulevard.
Roger, three, four, five. Did George call Evelyn, K?
Affirmative, base.
Praise the Lord. 10-4.
10-4.
We watched 345 go through its paces one last time, then drove out to Stern’s in Douglaston. Three forty-five had another stop to make before joining us and the plan called for us to be in place and ready when it left.
Once in the lower parking lot, Eddie and I squeezed into the back of the van next to Parker and Morasso. From outside, the van was just another empty vehicle in a crowded parking lot. Nobody said a word. We listened intently to the crackle of the radio, the crisp voice of the dispatcher as she moved the fleet along. Maybe it’d been elevator music half an hour ago, but now it was all jazz, sharp and insistent. I felt my diaphragm tighten as the adrenaline rushed through my arms and legs. My mind was absolutely clear, as though I was in a movie theater a million miles away. It was demanding and important, but it didn’t have anything to do with me. Not for the moment, anyway.
I could hear the others breathing. I could hear myself breathing. Each time the dispatcher signed off, we expected to hear the next voice say, “Three forty-five.” We stared at the radio with its glowing amber diodes as if the urgency of our desire could draw up the words like a magician pulling silver dollars from the empty air. Come to Papa, honey. Come on, sweet mamma. Come on home.
“Here,” Eddie said, “put on the wig.”
Three forty-five, K.
Three, four, five?”
We are 10-16 on Utopia Parkway. Proceeding to account number D8967 on Marathon Parkway.
That’s a roger.
10-4.
Three, four, five?
Three forty-five.
Did George say he called Evelyn?
This is George and that’s affirmative, base.
She just phoned the base again.
I don’t want to violate radio etiquette, base, but if you want her psychiatrist’s phone number, I’ll be glad to give it to you. Otherwise shoot the bitch. 10-4.
10-4.
Eddie took his place behind the wheel. I got in next to him, trying not to think about what was going to happen next. Then the van began to move and I felt the weight of what I’d done fall on me like a brick tossed from the top of a Lower East Side tenement. Rats are the lowest form of life in the Institution. Baby rapers do easier time than rats. M.O.’s who kill their grandmothers do easier time than rats. All my life, I’d fought to maintain the image of a warrior. The image was my armor and now I was naked.
I might have chickened out, but there was no way to stop it. Condon and Rico would be waiting on the platform. Avi was already in custody. It was a done deal.
“You ready, cuz?”
“Let’s do it.”
Eddie pulled up behind Stern’s like any other customer about to retrieve a large purchase. The area seemed deserted, no cars, trucks, or workers in sight.
“Could it be better, cuz? Huh? Could it be better?” Eddie’s voice was joyous.
“I don’t see how.”
“Morasso, take these.” He casually tossed a pair of 12-gauge shotgun shells into the back of the van. “Pete, let’s go.”
I tried to stay a half step behind him as we climbed the four steps to the floor of the loading dock. Condon had told me that the platform would be clear. He wanted us to walk through the open doorway into the back. That way Morasso wouldn’t be able to see us when we were taken, which lessened the risk of a shoot-out.
“Anybody here?” Eddie called. He actually managed to sound friendly. “Yoo-hoo.”
We stepped through the doorway, from daylight into shadow. It took a few seconds before my eyes adjusted. It would have been a perfect time for Condon and Rico to strike, but all I saw was a young black man sporting a t-shirt imprinted with the map of Africa.
“Sure,” Eddie said, “right here.” He hauled out his automatic and put it under the man’s chin. “You wanna live?”
“Don’t kill me, man. Please, don’t kill me.”
“How many other workers you got on the platform?”
“One.”
“Get him out here. Anything goes wrong, you’re dead.”
“Sure, man, whatever you say. Just don’t kill me. Elroy, come on out here.”
I was in a state of shock. Eddie had his piece in his hand. If Condon and Rico showed up now, there’d be blood on the concrete. My blood, most likely. I remembered the 9mm and drew it out.
“Wha’chu want, Sam? Ah’m takin’ a goddamn shit.”
Sam looked up at Eddie. He shrugged his shoulders helplessly. “What you want me to do?”
Eddie responded by walking over to a door. “This the crapper?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
Eddie kicked out and the door flew open. The boy sitting on the toilet was reading a newspaper. He hadn’t even bothered to take his pants down.
“Oh, that’s bad,” Eddie said. “You’re fuckin’ off. You could lose ya job for that. Right, nigger?”
Elroy was a little slow on the uptake. “Who the fuck are you?” he asked.
Eddie answered by ramming the gun barrel into the Elroy’s face. It missed Elroy’s mouth, catching him on the cheekbone just below the left eye. The blood began to flow before Eddie pulled the gun back.
I kept my own piece trained on Sam, but my eyes were wandering through the work area, searching for the cops. I kept running over answers to the obvious question. Maybe Condon and Rico would be in the armored car when it pulled up. Maybe they’d be wearing the guards’ uniforms. Maybe they’d decided to take us in the Bronx when we made the split. None of the answers made sense, and I might have gone on trying to find a reasonable explanation if Eddie hadn’t yanked me back to reality.
“Get the other nigger in here, cuz. Let’s go.”
I put my hand on Elroy’s back and pushed him into the tiny room. Whatever game Condon and Rico were playing, I couldn’t afford to waste my energy thinking about it. Sam was moaning and cursing; Elroy was shaking and crying. Eddie shoved them both onto the floor and cuffed their hands around a water pipe running from the floor to the sink.
Keeplock: A Novel of Crime Page 24