Money, Money, Money

by Ed McBain

  “Who’s gonna be on the other end of this?” Tigo asked.

  “Nobody,” Ollie said. “It ain’t a transmitter, it’s a recorder.”

  “Then who’s gonna come save my ass if Wiggy tips?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Meyer said.

  “I worry,” Tigo said.

  On the telephone, Angela was asking Carella if he could come to Mama’s house tonight after work.

  “Why?” Carella said.

  “We want to talk to you.”

  “We’re talking right now,” Carella said.

  “You’re at work and so am I.”

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  “We’ll tell you when you get here.”

  “I’m working a homicide, I may not get out of here till late,” he said.

  “That’s okay, we’ll wait.”

  “What is it, Angela?”

  “A surprise,” she said.

  “I’m a cop,” he said. “I hate surprises.”

  “I’m leaving early today. Can you get to Riverhead by five?”

  “Only if I’m out of here by four.”

  “Whenever,” she said. “I’ll see you later.”

  He put the receiver back on its base and walked across the room to where Tigo was complaining that the tapes were too tight.

  “You don’t want the gadget rattling around, do you?” Ollie asked.

  “I don’t want the gadget, period,” Tigo said.

  “It’ll save you a lot of time upstate,” Meyer said.

  “Ifhe says anything.”

  “That’s your job,” Carella said. “To get him talking.”

  “He’s not so fuckin dumb, you know. I start talkin about that night, he’s gonna wonder why.”

  “Make it sound casual,” Meyer suggested.

  “Sure. Hey, Wiggy, remember the night you shot that dude in the back of his head and dropped him in a garbage can? Boy, that was fun, wasn’t it?”

  “Do it over a few drinks,” Carella suggested.

  “Sure. Have another beer, Wiggy. Remember the night you shot that dude in the back of …”

  “Just play it cool,” Meyer said. “Don’t even think about the wire. Make believe you’re two guys shootin the breeze.”

  “Sure.”

  “The mike’s right here,” Ollie said. “It looks like a button on your shirt.”

  “Suppose hespots the fuckin thing?”

  “He won’t.”

  “Butifhe does.”

  “Don’t worry, he won’t be thinking about a wire.”

  “What if hestarts thinking about a wire? This man can become very violent. He is not called Wiggy the Lid for no reason.”

  “Just tell him you work for a record company,” Meyer said.

  “Tell him you’re a talent scout for Motown,” Ollie said. “Tuck your shirt in your pants.”

  Tigo tucked in his shirt.

  He turned to face the cops.

  “How do I look?” he asked.

  He looked extremely worried.

  “You look great,” Meyer said.

  Kling came over from across the room.

  “You’re wearing a wire, right?” he said.

  “Yeah,” Tigo said. “Why?”

  “I never would’ve guessed,” Kling said.

  HALLOWAY TOLD THEM he would have to call their treasurer. Wiggy asked what his name was.

  “Her,” Halloway said. “Her name is Susan.”

  Susan was a code word. The moment whoever answered the phone heard the name “Susan,” he or she would know there was trouble.

  “Make sure you talk to her and her alone,” Wiggy said. “Give me the number. I’ll dial it.”

  The clock on the wall read ten minutes past ten.

  Halloway wrote the number on a slip of paper. Wiggy looked at it as he dialed. The instant he heard it ringing on the other end, he handed the receiver to Halloway and picked up an extension phone. The phone rang once, twice …

  “Hello?”

  A woman’s voice.

  “Susan?” Halloway said.

  “Yes?”

  “This is Dick Halloway. Happy New Year.”

  “Thank you, Dick,” she said. “Same to you.”

  His use of the familiar diminutive told her he was not alone. If Karen Andersen had announced herself as Karey, or David Good as Davey, it would have meant the same thing. By repeating the diminutive, the woman on the other end of the line was telling Halloway she understood he had company.

  “Did you try to reach me yesterday?” she asked.

  “Yes, I called around three,” he said.

  He was telling her there were three people there with him.

  “Sorry I missed you. How can I help?”

  “We need some cash,” he said.

  “How much?” she asked.

  To Wiggy, listening on the extension, this all sounded legitimate so far.

  “Are you sitting down?” Halloway asked, and smiled.

  Wiggy smiled, too.

  So did the Mexicans.

  Everyone was smiling at Halloway’s witticism.

  “That much, huh?” Susan said.

  Her name wasn’t Susan, but that’s who Wiggy thought she was. He also thought this was going along splendidly so far. He didn’t have the slightest notion that he and his two pals were being set up.

  “Three-million-six,” Halloway said.

  “Oh dear,” Susan said.

  “Indeed,” Halloway said, and rolled his eyes heavenward.

  Wiggy nodded encouragement. You’re doing fine so far, his nod said.

  “Where do you want it?” Susan asked.

  Wiggy motioned for Halloway to cover the mouthpiece with his hand.

  “Tell her you’ll come there for it,” he whispered.

  “I’ll come there for it, Sue.”

  Warning her again that he had company, three in number, remember? Trouble, Sue. Or Suzie. Big trouble here. Come help us, Suze.

  “How soon can you get it together?” he asked.

  “How soon will you need it?”

  “As soon as possible, Sue.”

  “How does one o’clock sound?”

  Halloway looked at Wiggy. Wiggy nodded.

  “One o’clock sounds fine,” Halloway said.

  “Allow yourself a half-hour to get here,” Susan said.

  This meant he could expect help at twelve-thirty.

  “I’ll have to make three or four calls, Dick.”

  She was telling him she’d be sending three or four people.

  “And, Dick …?”

  “Yes, Sue?”

  “They’re doing some work out front, lots of heavy machinery all over the place. Come in the back way, will you?”

  “See you in a bit,” he said.

  She had told him they’d be heavily armed. She had told him they’d come up the emergency staircase at the rear of the Headley Building. She had so much as told him that Walter Wiggins and his Mexican associates were already as good as dead.

  The hands on the wall clock now read a quarter past ten.

  “Charmaine?” Wiggy said. “Why don’t you make us all some coffee?”

  WILL STRUTHERS didn’t call the bank until ten-twenty that morning. As a former bank employee himself, he knew there was always an early-morning rush of customers, and he suspected Antonia Belandres would have been particularly busy until now, it being the start of the big New Year’s Eve weekend and all.

  “Miss Belandres,” she said.

  The “Miss” pleased Will. It meant a) she was single, and b) she wasn’t one of these damn feminists who called themselves “Ms.” and aspired to pee in men’s rooms.

  “Hello, Miss Belandres,” he said, “this is Will Struthers.”

  “Lieutenant Struthers!” she said, sounding enormously surprised. “Howare you?”

  “Fine, thank you,” Will said, not bothering to correct her. “And you?”

  “Busy, busy, busy,” she said. �
�We close at noon today, and it’s been bedlam.”

  “I know just how it is,” Will said.

  “I know you do,” she said. “So tell me, are you looking forward to the new year?”

  “Actually, I never have liked New Year’s Eve,” he said. “It always seems like a big disappointment to me. I don’t know why.”

  “I feel exactly the same way.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. I’ve been to small parties and big ones, I’ve stayed home and I’ve gone to night clubs, and it’s always the same thing. A big buildup to an even bigger letdown.”

  “Gee,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said.

  There was a short silence.

  “Miss Belandres …” he said.

  “Antonia,” she said.

  “Antonia,” he said. “I know this is short notice …”

  Silence again. He could hear her breathing on the other end of the line.

  “But I was …ah … wondering …”

  “Yes, Lieutenant?”

  “If you don’t … ah … have any other plans …”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you think you might care to have dinner with me tonight?”

  “Why, I think that would be lovely,” she said.

  “Good,” he said at once. “Good. Does seven o’clock sound convenient to you?”

  “Seven o’clock sounds lovely.”

  “Do you like Italian food?”

  “I love Italian food.”

  “Seven o’clock then, good,” he said. “Good. Where shall I pick you up?”

  “It’s 347 South Shelby, apartment 12C.”

  “I’ll be there at seven on the dorothy,” he said.

  “I’ll be waiting,” she said.

  He was thinking, Antonia, you and me are going to be millionaires.

  “THIS IS CLARENDON HALL,” Mahmoud said.

  Nikmaddu wished the man’s little mustache didn’t make him look as if he were constantly smiling. This was a serious matter here.

  “Jassim will be sitting here, in row F in the center section.”

  Jassim of the dirty fingernails and no smile nodded. He was familiar with the seating plan, knew exactly what he was to do tomorrow night.

  “Seat number 101 on the aisle,” Mahmoud said.

  Nikmaddu looked at the plan more closely.

  “If we’re lucky,” Mahmoud said, “the explosion will carry to the stage. If not, we will have made our point, anyway.”

  “Killing the Jew is not the point, you understand,” Akbar said. The desert camel driver, deep creases on his brown face, thick veins on the backs of his strong hands. Their demolitions expert. “We are teaching them that we can strike anywhere, anytime. We are telling them that they are completely vulnerable. Unless they wish to strip-search every American entering a theater, a movie house, a concert hall, a restaurant, a coffee shop, a supermarket, anywhere. They are at our mercy, is what we will be proving to them tomorrow night.”

  “Still, getting the Jew would be a bonus,” Jassim said.

  “But not apriority,” Akbar insisted. “If we get the Jew, fine. If not, many others will die. Our point will be made.”

  “To die for Allah would be an honor,” Jassim said. He was the one going in with the bomb. By rights, he should have the last word. But Akbar had fashioned the bomb and the timing device.

  “Akbar is right,” Nikmaddu said. “It will be better if no sacrifice were involved this time.” He was referring to the suicide bombing of the United States destroyer in Yemen. “We must let them know we are professionals, not fanatics.”

  Jassim took this as a personal affront. He gave Nikmaddu what he hoped was a disdainful look, and then lighted a cigarette.

  “When will this happen?” Nikmaddu asked.

  “After the intermission,” Akbar said.

  “Preciselywhen?” Nikmaddu asked.

  “The Jew is the guest artist in the second half of the evening. We now know he will be playing Mendelssohn’s violin concerto in E Minor. The bomb will be set to go off sometime during the first movement.”

  “When, precisely, during the first movement?”

  “It is difficult to time the music precisely,” Akbar said. “The first movement is about twelve and a half minutes long, depending.”

  “Depending on what?”

  “The performer, the conductor—artistic license. But it will rarely run much longer than that. In any event, the bomb will be set to go off at nine-thirty.”

  “Atpreciselynine-thirty?”

  “Precisely, yes. It will explode toward the end of the first movement, trust me.”

  Nikmaddu was beginning to realize that although this man looked as if he belonged in a tent on the desert, he was perhaps more intelligent than any of the others.

  “What do you mean by movement?” Jassim asked. The stupidest of the lot. And the one with the most responsibility. The one who would go in with the bomb. “What does movement mean?”

  “The Mendelssohn concerto has three movements,” Akbar explained.

  “But what is a movement?”

  “It’s not important that you know,” Akbar said. “You will place the bomb and leave the hall. The rest is up to Allah.”

  “Will Jassim have enough time to get back to his seat, leave the bomb, and make his departure?” Nikmaddu asked.

  “A good point,” Mahmoud said. “Have you timed all this?”

  “I have been to six concerts this season,” Akbar said. “And hated them all. I know exactly how long it takes to get from the street to the lobby, and from there back to the seat in row F. Without rushing, Jassim should be out of there before the bomb explodes.”

  “At nine-thirty precisely,” Nikmaddu said, seeking confirmation yet another time.

  “Yes, at nine-thirty precisely,” Akbar said. “A fitting climax to the first movement.”

  The men laughed. All but Jassim, who found nothing humorous in any of this.

  “What kind of bomb are you using?” Nikmaddu asked.

  “A simple pipe bomb. Two of them actually. Taped together and packed with black powder, nails, and screws. Similar to the one in Atlanta four years ago.”

  “And the timer?”

  “A battery-powered clock.”

  “How will he carry it in?” Nikmaddu asked.

  “In a handbag,” Akbar said.

  “I’ll be carrying ahandbag?” Jassim said.

  “Aman’shandbag. Europeans carry them all the time. Besides, I’ve taken one into the hall on six different occasions now. There is no security check. Women go in with handbags, even shopping bags, men carry briefcases. They are very sure of themselves, these Americans.”

  “That will all change tomorrow night,” Nikmaddu said.

  “Yes, it will,” Akbar said.

  “Inshallah,”Mahmoud said.

  “Inshallah,”the others said in unison.

  MAN SEEMED TO HAVE disappeared from the face of the earth.

  First place Tigo tried was the crib on Decatur. Thomas—who on the night of the murder had been chatting with Mr. Jerry Hoskins, alias Frank Holt, while Tigo and Wiggy tested the dope in the other room—was watching television when Tigo waltzed in.

  “Hey, man,” he said.

  “Whut’choo watchin?” Tigo asked.

  This was ten to eleven in the morning, man was sittin here watching television.

  “I don’t even know,” Thomas said. “Suppin with Sylvester Stallone.”

  Tigo watched the screen for a moment.

  Sylvester Stallone was dangling from a rope.

  “Where’s Wiggy?” he asked.