by Grey, Harry
“Yep. I don't see why not,” Max snapped at me. “All in the same warehouse is okay, but a private storage room for each trunk, how about it, okay with you, Noodles?”
Max was just a shade sarcastic. He looked arrogantly at me.
I said, “We each have a different safe combination, and a different key to our own storage room?”
“Yep, don't worry, Noodles,” Maxie said drily.
“Hey, Noodles,” Maxie scoffed, “ain't you ever been in a Warehouse where they store valuable paintings, silver and stuff?”
I shook my head.
“Tish, tish.” Maxie made chiding noises with his tongue. “A smart guy like you. Let me describe it. In the first place, the buildings are made out of concrete and steel. They're fireproof. They have watchmen day and night. Besides, electric alarms are connected to the outside, like the Holmes protective service. Each room is a vault in itself. Solid concrete, with a heavy steel door and burglarproof lock that I think even Jake couldn't open.”
I smiled weakly. “It sounds okay.”
“Yeah, it is okay,” Max said with finality.
“Can't the Feds check the warehouse and uncover our hidden dough?” Patsy asked.
“I guess the general idea is to put the trunk in storage under assumed names, right?” I asked.
“Yep, you're right, Noodles,” Max said with a condescending air, “that's the general idea, and the sooner we get our dough stashed away, the better.”
“It's that urgent?” I inquired.
“Yep, the quicker the better. The Feds are checking.”
“Yeh, a pretty good setup, this trunk and safe combination,” Cockeye said.
He had opened a safe and was fiddling with the combination.
Max said, “You look like a helper on a truck all right.” He slowly lit a cigar and spit on the floor. “Well, what did you find out?”
I said, “The heist is no good, Max. You got to get the Federal Reserve Bank out of your head. It's a job for lunatics, not us.”
The minute I said it, I knew I had made a mistake. It was the wrong approach. It sounded as if I was calling Max crazy.
“Who's a lunatic, you bastard?” he blurted out angrily.
“Take it easy, Max.” Patsy was holding his right arm. “Noodles didn't mean it that way, did you, Noodles?”
“Yeh, he did, Max. He always thought he was the smartest guy in the world.” That Cockeye bastard was trying to steam Max up more.
I said, “No offense, Max, all I meant that it was too tough a job for us or any other mob to undertake.”
“I'll be the judge of that, and I don't need your goddamn advice on anything,” he shouted angrily, “and its going through as planned.” He was working himself into a maniacal rage.
Soothingly I said, “Okay, okay, Max, you're the doctor.”
He sat there red-faced and white-lipped, muttering to himself.
Moe came in with a tray of doubles.
Max barked at him. “Goddamn you, don't come in here unless you're told.”
Moe put the tray on the table with a look of hurt surprise. He went out quickly. Pat and I sat down at the table.
He whispered, and it was barely audible, “That Maxie, he's cracking up.”
I nodded over my drink.
Cockeye played a couple of tunes on his harmonica. Max sat quietly smoking for awhile. Then he got up and walked over to the trunks. He opened one and twirled the combination. He sat down at the table with a sigh and reached for a drink.
After he drank it down, he smiled at me. “I'm sorry I flew off the handle, Noodles.”
I nodded and said, “That's okay, Max.”
He rubbed his head.
“I don't know what the hell's the matter with me,” he smiled weakly. “I guess I need a vacation. I'm a little on edge.”
“I think we can all do with a vacation,” Patsy said.
“Yeh, after this job, we'll let up a bit.”
Pat and I looked at each other significantly.
“Hey, Cockeye,” Max called out, “come here and have your drink.”
Cockeye obediently stopped playing and went over. He sat down and sipped his whiskey slowly.
“Well, we may as well get through with stashing our dough away, like the office advised us to,” Max said.
“You picked out a storagehouse, Max?” I asked.
“Yes and no,” he answered listlessly. “We'll decide tomorrow. There are quite a few good places I had in mind. Well, anyway, the quicker we get the dough out of the banks, the less we got to worry about the income tax people. You guys bring your dough down tomorrow morning and we get it over with, okay?” Max sounded a little like his old pleasant self. We nodded in agreement. “The dough will be in a safe place. At least we'll have that out of our minds,” Max puffed thoughtfully on his cigar. “That'll give me a clear head to concentrate on the Reserve job. We only got a couple of days to smooth a few angles out.”
“We going to heist the joint so soon?” I made a last try. “Listen, Max, it's foolish for guys in our position to go out on a heist.”
“Why? What makes you think it's foolish? Originally we were heist men, weren't we?” He looked at me coldly. “We were the best in the business, no?”
“Yeh, but now it's different,” I pleaded. “We're making a good buck, aren't we? For years we've been on the payroll of the Combine for five hundred bucks a week apiece.” I took my little notebook out and counted up, “And between the 'speaks,' slots, the funeral parlor and a few odds and ends we net close to a hundred grand a year apiece. That ain't tin, you know. Why take chances? That ain't being a good businessman, Max.”
“Who the hell said I was a businessman? If I wanted to play it safe all the time, where the hell would I be? And the rest of you guys? Helpers on laundry trucks,” he snapped angrily at me.
He stood up and paced up and down the room. Then he sat down on his thronelike chair. Immediately, it gave him a feeling of confidence and superiority. He expanded in the big chair. He leaned back and crossed his legs. He looked up at the ceiling, blowing smoke into the air. He looked down on us.
“As far as I'm concerned, the two hundred grand I'm going to stash away in my trunk tomorrow is horseshit, and besides, it took us too many years to get.” He leaned forward and pointed a finger at me. “And we took chances, don't forget that.” He pounded his chest, “And don't forget that I, and nobody else, planned everything successfully, just as I'm planning this. Goddamn it, since when the hell do I have to explain or apologize to you for anything I want to undertake?”
He glared wildly at me. I swear, or did I imagine it, that he snapped his fingers at Cockeye as a signal to begin playing? Anyway Cockeye took his harmonica out and began playing crazily.
He fidgeted furiously in his chair, then he pointed at me. “You— you, Noodles—are getting too damn cocky with me. You take orders from me—”
I stood up; I was uncertain how to act. I felt small in my shabby truck driver's clothing. The goddamndest idea came over me, as if Maxie expected me to kneel in front of the chair and apologize. What gave me that idea I wondered? Was it the effect of the chair? Or was it Maxie's imperial air? I shrugged off that ridiculous idea, but I caught myself standing before him with bowed head and apologetically mumbling, “Okay, okay, you're the doctor, Max. I'd like to go up to my place and change out of these dirty work clothes.”
He waved me away with a princely air. “Okay, but I expect you here before eleven tomorrow morning. I want to get these damn trunks shipped out of here; they louse the room up.”
I murmured, “Okay, Max,” and left, feeling all screwed up inside.
CHAPTER 45
After my shower I lay on the bed in my pajamas thinking about the heist. Maybe Max knows what he's doing? Maybe he knows of a gimmick, and it could be pulled off successfully? There's always a gimmick to everything. Why not the Federal Reserve Bank? Boy, oh boy, if we could pull that trick, it would really be something. It would be th
e record heist for all time. It would be at least a million bucks for my share. Boy, a million bucks for me. I'd quit and retire. What wouldn't I do with a million bucks? I'd travel all over the world. I'd lay all the beautiful women in every country. I'd do it systematically, so as not to miss any race or nationality. I'd sample every color and type of female on the face of the globe. I'd be truly unbigoted, give them all a break. I'd stop at all the best hotels. I'd stay a while in Turkey. I hear Turkish women are really something. I wonder if they can teach me anything new? I smiled to myself confidently; I doubted it. Yeh, they kick the gong around a great deal over there, too. I'd like that, plenty of good opium, that's for me. Jesus, I forgot all about Eve. When I got back from the trip, I'd settle down with her. We'd get married.
What the hell am I doing? Lying here dreaming about spending a million bucks that I'll never get. That Federal Reserve Bank heist is suicide. That Maxie is bugs. We ain't got a chance in ten million to get out of there alive. Them twenty machine guns in them walls will cut us up into cold hamburgers before we can even pick up one bag. But that goddamn Maxie. Nothing can change his mind. That Federal heist has been an obsession with him ever since he was a kid. The idea entered his head so many years ago, I thought he forgot it. It s just like some incurable disease with him, like a cancer, that grows and grows and it'll finally kill him, and us with him.
He won't listen to anybody. Anybody? Goddamn it, why didn't I think of it before? That son of a bitch will listen to Frank. He'll take orders from him, all right. There's no question about that. I'll take it to Frank; hell straighten him out. That man can straighten out anybody. Why the hell didn't I think of it before? I gave a sigh of relief. I went to the phone: I called the main office. My heart sank. Damn the lousy luck. Frank was out of town. They didn't know where. Phil was away also. Anything anyone else could do? No, no-one else could do a damn thing. I sat there undecided, down in the dumps, thinking what to do next? Should I pull out? Skip town; go to Eve? No good. They'd think I was yellow. Besides, if I ran away, I'd be through for good. No more of the big, quick dough; I'd have to disappear. Where? No, it's no good, I'm too accustomed to this easy life and New York and the good old East Side.
Maybe Frank's down in New Orleans? He must be around somewhere. I'd stay by the phone all night if necessary until I reached him. I put my call in to New Orleans. I paced the floor nervously waiting for the operator to call me back. It was an uneasy ten minutes. In New Orleans Dudley said, “He isn't here; try Hot Springs.”
I called Arkansas. I was unjustly angry with the operator for the few minutes delay that seemed so much longer. He wasn't there. They said, “Try Chicago.”
Try Chicago? I was getting panicky. It was a matter of life and death to me, and these people talked in an ordinary tone of voice. They took it slow, as if it had no importance whether I reached the guy or not. Where the hell was that guy? He was the only solution. I got to get through to him. I jiggled the hook frantically and with senseless bitterness I browbeat the long distance operator to connect me faster with Chicago.
I winced when Fischetti in Chicago told me, “He isn't here. Try Detroit.”
I was drenched with sweat before that damned operator got me Detroit. An agonizing twinge shot through me as the report came over, “He isn't in Detroit.”
I shrieked over the wire, “Where the hell is he? It's urgent; it's important. I got to get to him.”
The calm Detroit voice answered, “Who knows where 'that man' is? He's got business all over the country. Did you try Chicago?”
I furiously enumerated the cities I had called, “New Orleans, Chicago, Hot Springs and Detroit.”
The calm voice said, “Why don't you call Jersey?”
Yeh, why didn't I think of Jersey? Boy, am I dumb! He could be right across the river.
With uncontrolled violence I jiggled the operator and shouted the Jersey phone number into the mouthpiece. Solly reported he wasn't there. What was this, a conspiracy? Nobody wanted to let me know where Frank was. He was somewhere within reach of a phone, somebody knew where he was. Miami? One chance in a thousand for him to be there this time of year. I called Miami.
A laughing voice answered, “What would that man be doing here? The track is closed.”
My desperation kept me on the phone all night. I called up and down the West coast. I called Mexico. I called Canada.
No use. It was daylight, and I had no more numbers to call. I was exhausted. My throat was sore; my voice was hoarse, yeh, just like Frank's. Bells were ringing in my ears. I felt sick when I had to reach for the phone again to tell the switchboard to call me at 8 a.m.
The hotel operator said, “Did you know you made $400 worth of calls during the night?”
“Who asked you?” I growled impatiently. “Put it on the bill.”
I slammed down the receiver. I drank a third of a quart of whiskey and fell into an exhausted and uneasy sleep.
The telephone woke me. The girl at the switchboard announced, “Good morning, it's 8 o'clock.” I hung up after I grumbled, “Yeh, thanks.”
I felt jittery, and I had an awful headache. I took a long swallow from the bottle on the table. It took me a few minutes to collect my thoughts. What was on the schedule for today? Yeh, I got to go to the bank, close out my savings account, and take the dough out of the vaults.
I dressed quickly, took a large empty valise out of the closet and went out. I looked at my watch: it was twenty after eight, too early for the bank. I walked over to the Automat and sat there nervously drinking cup after cup of black coffee.
I jumped a cab and went down to the Public National. The bank wasn't open yet. I walked up and down the street for five minutes. What the hell was I so nervous about? I was the first customer of the day. I felt very conspicuous as I made out the withdrawal slip to close out my account.
I muttered inanely to the teller, “I'm leaving town on important business.”
He smiled. “What denominations?”
I answered, “Hundreds.”
I threw the bundles in my valise hurriedly, without counting. A customer beside me watched bug-eyed.
I snapped at him, “What the hell you staring at?”
He turned away, embarrassed.
I went downstairs to the vaults. The guard nodded a greeting and unlocked the gate. I went in swiftly, emptied the contents of my boxes into the valise and walked upstairs and out to the street.
I felt self-conscious as I walked with all that money through the streets. It seemed as if all the passers-by were staring at me, and they knew what I was carrying in the valise. It would be ironic if a couple of heist guys would take me over, now, with all this dough on me. Boy, it would be a good heist for anybody—two hundred grand.
Would I plead professional immunity, and say, “Lay off, pal, I'm in the same racket you are?”
Boy, am I getting silly. Nobody knows what I got in this valise. Or does someone?
A large man fell in step beside me. I shifted the heavy valise to my left hand away from him and put my right in my pants pocket. I clenched my knife. As I met his gaze, I watched his hands. A tremor went up my spine and froze the hair on the back of my head. He put his left hand in his coat pocket. He had a bulge there. It looked like the outline of a rod. We walked in step down the street. He began yanking the object out of his pocket. I took the offensive.
I pressed close to him and hissed in his ear, “One move out of you, bastard, and your head rolls in the gutter.”
With a startled expression he stopped in his tracks and murmured, “There's all kinds crazy lunatics on Delancey Street.”
I looked back at him, he was standing there munching a banana.
He waved his peeled banana and shouted after me in Yiddish, “Me-shuggeneh merder.”
The valise seemed to be getting heavier by the minute. I speculated on the weight I was carrying. It seemed to be a hundred pounds at least. It was silly of me not to have taken a cab, but it seemed to be such a short walk
.
I thought, why the hell should I put all my eggs in one basket? Yeh, that's right. I'll split it. I passed the Bank of the United States. Yeh, that's a good safe bank. I walked in. Yeh, best thing is to put it under an assumed name. Yeh, I'll make two accounts. I'll put fifty thousand under Eve McClain, fifty under John McClain, and one hundred grand I'll put in storage. Everybody from the bank president down shook hands with me before I left.
I was glad when I finally made Fat Moe's.
Patsy was sitting alone at the table drinking.
He waved his glass at me. “Have an eye opener, Noodles.”
He glanced at my valise. “I see you got all your gelt. There's mine.” He pointed to his valise under the table. I nodded and poured myself a drink.
Patsy said casually, “So you don't like that Federal Reserve heist, Noodles?”
I countered, “Do you?”
Patsy shrugged. “Maxie usually knows what he's doing. That last payroll job went off smooth as silk. You'll see this one will, too.”
I gestured hopelessly. “I hope so.”
Patsy rubbed his hands together, a happy smile on his face. “A million bucks is a million bucks, no matter what. That Maxie, he knows what he's doing. He's always got a gimmick up his sleeve.”
“I hope so,” I repeated. I felt justified in my pessimism. What kind of gimmick could Max have to trump those machine guns planted all around the walls? We will be like ducks in a barrel. The thought gave me the shakes. It reminded me of the time in Chicago, of how we poured bullets into those guys. I poured myself another double hooker. The side door opened. Max and Cockeye strode in carrying valises. Max was in a genial mood.
He greeted us. “How yuh douchin?” He reached for the bottle and poured for himself and Cockeye.
He saluted with his glass, “Le' chayim.”
“Le' chayim,” we answered.
He smacked his lips. “That hit the spot.”
He picked up the bottle and poured for all of us. He raised his glass in the air with a smug smile.
“Tomorrow is the big day, it will go down in history,” he said.