by Grey, Harry
“I'll step into anything you will,” I snapped at him.
Patsy gave me an approving wink.
“Okay, okay,” Max waved his hand, “I just thought you were getting a little careful. That payroll job came off okay, only there was 130 gees in it, not 200, like we figured.”
“Good for you, Max. I'm glad it came off okay.”
“I got your cut just the same, Noodles,” Max grunted.
“Forget it. I don't want it.”
He looked at me. He saw I meant it.
He said, “Okay. Are you interested in this Federal job?”
I thought it ridiculous, but out of curiosity I said, “Let's hear about it.”
“We use ten more men besides us four.”
“Who?”
“Jake, Goo-Goo, Pip, and the Chicken Flicker will get his crew. That will make enough.”
“Did you tell them who we're going to heist?”
Max shook his head.
“All I told them that it was a big and tough job, and we all carry lead sprayers.”
“Where are we going to get ten tommy guns?”
“Where? Out of the warehouse, where did you think?”
“Frank wouldn't like it, using all that Combine equipment on a private job.”
“I'll be the judge of that,” Max was curt. “Since when do you question my decisions?”
We glared at each other for a moment.
“I just thought you were supposed to get the okay first.”
“I don't need an okay from anybody,” he barked.
I didn't like it. What the hell's come over the guy? He was getting worse and worse. It was a sure sign. He was due for a crash, a terrific crash. He would pull us all down with him. I didn't like the whole thing. Just the same I better look into it for their sakes.
Aloud I said, “How you going to get into the joint?”
“Now you're asking a sensible question.” Max had a satisfied smile on his face. “There's a big wholesale grocery truck that makes a delivery into the building every other day. I have made connections to take it over. All of us hide in the body of the truck until it goes through the gate and backs up to the platform, where the armored trucks are unloading their dough. We step out and take over. Outside I'll have three cars waiting for the getaway. This is the route we take to the river.” Max showed me the diagram. “There I'll have a speed boat waiting for us: the fastest boat in the Combination fleet, maybe the big one, the 'California.' We shoot over to Long Island Sound.” Max traced the route on the sketch with his finger. “Here's where we hole up.” Maxie stopped his finger at this point.
I leaned over, “Where is that?” I asked.
“Connecticut.” He laughed at me as he watched my astonishment at the details. On paper it looked good. Goddamn good, but I didn't like it. I had an uneasy feeling. There were too many holes in it, and too many people were involved. We never pulled a job with so many before. I paced up and down the room. His eyes followed me. Cockeye continued playing softly on his harmonica. I could see that the entire job stank. It definitely was impossible. But I didn't have the balls to say so.
Instead I said falteringly, “You fixing an alibi in case we get questioned about it? Afterwards?”
“To hell with alibis,” Maxie said disdainfully.
I stopped pacing and stood in front of him. Big Max eyed me coldly. He sat regally back in the large chair. Both his hands rested on the side arms. It gave him an air, some kind of psychological advantage over me. He was sitting so high up, as if he really was royalty on a throne, listening to some peasant petitioner. I felt small and insignificant.
Lamely I said, “You remember our formula for a successful heist? An alibi to cover up?”
He repeated, “The hell with an alibi. The thing is perfect. I have rehearsed the getaway, and timed everything perfectly. Anything else you have in mind?”
Max was sneering at me.
“I don't know, Max,” I said doubtfully.
I walked up and down, stalling for time. I thought, maybe it's possible, and the job can be pulled off with the proper breaks and proper timing? I'd like to see the inside of the building. Suddenly I got an idea, how to stall it off indefinitely.
I stopped pacing and said, “How about me 'casing' the joint? Can you arrange it?”
Before he could answer, Patsy cut it, “Yeh, that's a good idea, Max, let Noodles give the joint the elzoo.”
“Okay, okay,” Max said impatiently. “I'll call up the union and get you on as a helper on the truck.”
The rest of the day was spent uncomfortably. The old time comradeship was gone. Max sat most of the time in that big chair, brooding and drinking. That homey, relaxed feeling was gone. We were tense. The room was charged with friction. We were sullen and resentful of one another.
Max called the union and made arrangements for me to go out as a helper on the truck.
He barked over the phone, “I want this guy on that truck. Yep, he wants to go sightseeing downtown, or he needs the day's pay. Don't ask so goddamn many questions. Just do it.”
He gave me the address where I was to meet the truck the next day at 8 a.m. The next day, dammit. I thought it would take weeks to arrange. I left early to get ready. I went down to Bayard Street and bought some used work clothes and a cap to use in my masquerade as a truck driver's helper.
I set the alarm for six. I spent a lousy restless night, and I was up before the alarm rang. I put on the shabby work clothes, pulled the sloppy cap over my eyes, and looked at myself in the mirror. I laughed ruefully. This is the way I dressed and looked years ago as a kid, when we roamed the streets of the East Side and attended soup school.
I looked shabby and I felt shabby. I thought, clothes certainly change a person's entire outlook. I walked to the back of the hall and took the self-service freight car, through to the freight exit. I walked over to a Tenth Avenue diner and had a ham and egg sandwich and coffee. Then I took a cab to the garage where I was to meet the truck.
I gave the garage supervisor the number of the truck I was assigned to. He told me the driver had not shown up yet, but he was due in a few minutes. I got up on the seat and waited. When the driver arrived I introduced myself. “I'm Jack, your new helper.”
He seemed displeased with me. He looked at me sideways and muttered, “The goddamn union has got some nerve putting you on. Where's my regular man?”
“I got to eat, too, pal,” I answered. “I didn't get a day's work in years.”
“You look like you eat regular,” he grunted.
“I got friends that feed me once in a while,” I said jauntily. “What's your name, pal?”
“What's my name, pal?” he mimicked. “Listen, feller,” he jabbed a finger in my chest, “let's keep the social formalities out of this. You and I ain't going steady; we got a day's work to do and let's go and do it.”
He stepped on the starter and pulled the truck out of the garage. He rolled the truck at a fast pace down West Street. He backed the big truck dexterously up to the loading platform of the wholesale grocery house. A checker came out of his office and began checking the cases of canned goods, bags of flour, sugar and rice the warehousemen were wheeling out to the truck. The driver and I started loading. I was pretty clumsy handling the packages.
The driver kept muttering at me, “You're some cluck; you don't even know how to stack a truck. The goddamn union sending me a shmuck like you as a helper.”
I was peeved and in a sweat from my unaccustomed exertion, but I kept my temper. I thought to myself, boy, oh boy, would it be a pleasure to give this guy a going-over. It took us an hour and a half to load about ten tons of assorted groceries. He drew the canvas curtain and tied up. He left the tailboard of the truck down.
Maliciously he said, “By me, you're going to ride the tail all day.”
I stood in the back holding on to the ropes as he purposely shot over holes and bumps and swung recklessly around corners. Finally he stopped at a Market Diner. He
jumped off his seat and walked to the back of the truck. There was a big grin on his face.
“You still there? I thought I knocked you off. This is a sample of what you're going to get the rest of the day. Maybe you want to quit now?”
Shakily, I climbed off the truck. I sized him up. He was a big heavy guy. I better be sure. It don't pay to take a chance. I bent down and adjusted my pants' cuff. I came up with a left hook on the point of his chin. He staggered back. I kicked him with the point of my right shoe in the belly. He lay writhing in pain in the gutter. A group of longshoremen came over.
One of them asked, “What happened?”
I said, “My friend here is got a bellyache or something.”
I solicitously bent over and asked, “How're you feeling, pal? A little better, I hope?”
He was dazed as I helped him to his feet.
I whispered, “Did you have enough, bastard? Or do I dump you in the river?”
He looked at me and nodded. I smiled at him. I took him under the arm and walked him into the diner.
The counterman said to the driver, “What'sa matter, Butch? You don' looka so good?”
I said, “Butch, he don't feela so good.”
The counterman said, “That'sa too bad, what's you gents have?”
I ordered, “Bacon, eggs, toast and coffee for me and Butch.”
“Okay.” He smiled.
We ate in silence. I took a handful of cigars off the counter and paid the bill. We walked out.
As the driver climbed into his seat he turned and rubbed his chin. There was a silly grin on his face.
“I guess I acted like a shmuck,” he said. “Sit in the front with me. What did you say your name was?”
“Jack,” I answered shortly.
“Mine is Butch.”
I nodded.
“You sure can handle yourself, Jack.”
I smiled modestly, and handed him a cigar. He lit mine first.
He took his delivery tickets out. “Our first stop is the Beekman Hospital. Do you know how to make up grocery orders?”
“No.”
“Nothin to it. I'll show you when we get there.”
I said, “Fine, I'd like to learn the business.”
He stepped on the starter, and drove to the hospital. He untied the rope, took his hand truck and piled it full of canned goods.
“You stay by the truck, Jack, while I cart the stuff in.”
Ten minutes later he came out, threw the hand truck in the back and tied up.
He looked at his tickets and said, “The next stop is the Seaman's Bank.”
He drove there, went through the same routine as at the Beekman Hospital. I accompanied him into the building. We took the elevator upstairs and delivered the groceries into the bank cafeteria.
“All these joints have their own cafeterias for their employees,” Butch observed. “First time you worked on a grocery truck?”
I nodded.
“How you like it?”
“A pretty tough racket, handling cases and bags all day.”
“Not bad after you get used to it.”
“I guess I could get used to it after awhile,” I agreed. “Pretty large tins, these number tens, these the largest in the trade?”
“Yeh, these are what they call the institutional size, these number tens. Our house is one of the largest institutional grocery supply houses in the east.” He seemed proud of his firm's distinction. “You notice we don't handle much of the number ones or number two tins. They're for the small-time retail grocery trade.”
Butch seemed to think very little of the retail grocery trade.
We made a delivery to the swank Railroad Machinery Club.
“This stop is a real ball breaker,” Butch commented. “But the next one is a push-over, a platform delivery.”
“Oh yeh?” I asked disinterestedly.
“Yeh, on the next one you'll see bags of money and gold bullion being unloaded and lying around like horseshit. More dough than you've ever seen in all your life.”
“Yeh? Where's that?”
My heart started pounding. I tried to curb the excitement in my voice.
“The next delivery is the Federal Reserve Bank,” Butch said importantly.
We stopped at its heavy steel door. From the outside the building looked like an inviolable fortress. There was an armed guard on the street.
He waved, “Hiyah, Butch? You got yourself a new helper, I see.”
I made a mental note that this guard was plenty alert.
Butch returned the greeting, “How're yah, Mack? Yeh, I got a new man today.”
I didn't notice, but evidently the outside guard gave some sort of signal to the men inside. The steel doors slowly opened. There were four guards with .45s strapped around their waists, standing right inside the door. Their close scrutiny gave me an uneasy feeling. They gave Butch the go-ahead signal. He drove in. The heavy doors closed behind us. We were in a ceilinged enclosure half the size of a city block. A guard gave Butch the signal to park his truck out of the way. There was no room to back into the unloading platform at the other end. I got out and stood by the side of the truck. There were about fifteen guards strolling around. They all had big .45s in holsters strapped onto their Sam Brown belts.
Backed up to the platform were many armored trucks unloading money bags on little wooden platforms. One armored truck was unloading bars of dull yellow gold on wooden skids. By the effort they put into lifting a bar of gold, I estimated the weight of a bar to be about fifty pounds. About three skids were full, waiting to be pulled away to the vaults downstairs. I walked a few steps closer to the platform to get a better view. A guard was beside me immediately. He tapped me on the shoulder.
He said politely, “You have to stand by your truck, mister. No walking around permitted.”
Butch laughed.
He called out to the guard, “He's a new helper, Mack; let him go over and take a few samples for himself.”
The guard smiled drily, “Today ain't sample day.”
Butch got off his seat and sat down on his running board. I joined him.
“I'll bet there's about ten million bucks on that platform today,” he said.
I whistled my amazement.
Butch whispered importantly, “That's nothing. The other day a guard told me they had handled fifty million bucks.”
“That's a lot of cabbage,” I agreed.
“Yeh, and they got that cabbage well guarded.” Butch nodded toward the walls. “You notice all them peepholes?”
I looked around the walls of the indoor yard. There were about fifty peepholes all around.
“There are twenty guards with machine guns on a platform up there. Besides, there's a guy up there taking moving pictures all day.”
“Moving pictures?” I said in dismay.
“Yeh, yours and mine, right now, and everybody else's in the joint.”
“Boy,” I exclaimed as I tried to hide my face.
An armored car had finished unloading. The driver slammed the doors of his truck and pulled away.
“Okay, Butch, back in,” a guard called out.
He backed in. We unloaded the grocery order of ten bags of flour and about twenty cases of assorted groceries.
I stood on the platform watching the money trucks unloading as an employee of the downstairs cafeteria checked and signed our delivery receipt. We drove slowly outside. Right then I knew it would be absolute suicide to attempt to heist this place.
I made one more delivery with Butch. Then I said, “I got an awful headache. You'll have to go it alone, pal.”
I jumped off.
“You got four hours pay coming to you, Jack,” he called after me.
“You collect it and keep it,” I said.
“Thanks, Jack,” he waved.
I took a cab to Fat Moe's.
As I walked in, two expressmen were walking out, carrying little flat-wheel trucks. They had just delivered four safes and four big trunk
s which were standing right in the middle of the room. Pat and Cockeye were examining them.
Maxie saw me. He pointed to the safes.
“Fine, this is just fine, Noodles.”
“What's it for?” I asked.
“To put our dough in,” Max said. “We got to hide it.”
“Hide it? Why?” I asked.
“Yes, yes,” Max said impatiently. “We got to hide it. Frank got it direct from his source in the Bureau of Internal Revenue. There's going to be a thorough national income tax investigation.” He threw his chewed-up stub on the floor, lit a fresh Corona and continued. “They already got the case prepared against Capone. It looks like the bastard may have to ride.”
Capone's trouble seemed to give Max satisfaction.
“You think the income tax people will bother with us?” I asked.
“I'm no fortuneteller. I don't know. And the main office don't know for sure. The instructions are to get our dough out of our bank accounts and safety deposit boxes, and be on the safe side.”
“And put them in trunks?” I asked.
“What the hell, we can't carry our dough around all day in valises,” Cockeye said sharply.
“You need a big trunk for your bundle, Cockeye,” Patsy jibed.
“Talk for yourself, Patsy, you ain't exactly broke either,” Cockeye answered.
“Yeh, I made all you guys paupers with a lousy two hundred grand or better salted away,” Maxie said boastfully.
Patsy and I exchanged glances. So Maxie took personal credit for our success in the rackets. This was a new quirk.
I said, “Kind of risky leaving so much dough in a trunk, up in a hotel room or anywhere else.”
“Yep, you're right, Noodles,” Maxie agreed.
Then he continued in a churlish, superior manner.
“This is the general idea, the way the big guy sent the word around to do it. And that's the way it's going to be done. We each got a small safe. Then we put our dough in the safe.”
He stopped. Slowly, and with an air, he flipped his ashes to the floor.
He went on, “Then we put the safe in a trunk.” Maxie took a sip of his hooker. I waited. “Then we put the trunk in a vault in one of the big fireproof and burglarproof storage warehouses. The four trunks all in one warehouse?” I asked.