Big Stick-Up at Brink's!

by Behn, Noel;

  “I tell you something, Specky used to act like he was in love or something when he was around Gus. He giggled like a goddamn girl around Gus. He was always buying Gus’ cigarettes for him or lighting them. A couple of the guys came back one night and said they saw Gus and Specky in Jimmy O’Keefe’s restaurant and that Specky was cutting Gus’ steak for him. Can you imagine?

  “Anyway, Tony and Specky were fighting over Gus like he was some kind of dame. If you ask me, Gus loved it. If you ask me, he was playing one off against the other.”

  Grinning, easygoing, six-foot-tall Stanley Gusciora did display a previously unnoticed ability if not to play one gang member off against the other, to get he wanted from the crew. He had waited patiently while Costa, Banfield and McGinnis all had been promoted by Pino and discussed by the others. He had patiently and pleasantly gone along with whatever the boys wanted and cast his vote of approval for each of the three. He let it be known that if the others wanted Henry Baker in on the job, that was okay with him. And when it was learned that Henry wouldn’t be paroled as soon as previously anticipated, he made his move. “Why don’t you bring in my partner, he’s as good a sneak as is around,” And Gus definitely said “my partner,” and everybody there definitely knew that his partner was Specs O’Keefe and that Specs O’Keefe wasn’t all that bad a sneak thief compared to what was around.

  When Pino said there had to be a full discussion and full vote on the matter, Gus said, “Sure, whatever you fellows want, but I want O’Keefe in on it—and if he can’t come along, neither will I.” That was the hold card. Everybody wanted Gus along.

  So the regular crew and Costa and Banfield suffered Joe McGinnis’ one-hour-and-forty-five minute harangue against O’Keefe and absentmindedly listened to Pino’s half hearted ten-minute warning about Specky’s propensity for getting arrested and SP’d and then all voted as they knew they were going to vote even before they showed up; Richardson, Maffie, Geagan, Faherty and Costa for acceptance, McGinnis against, Banfield and Pino abstaining and Gus not present but counted as the sixth aye ballot just the same.

  Specs O’Keefe was the tenth man officially to come in, and if Joe McGinnis’ thunderous prediction that the crew was courting disaster wasn’t heeded, it should have been.

  The grain of the wood was beginning to rub through, exposing the improbable, nearly inconceivable, yet pervasive texture of the robbers and their intended enterprise. Within the course of five days, often with amusement and often with indifference, the regular crew added one full-fledged alcoholic to their roster of one nearly full-fledged alcoholic and two excessively heavy drinkers, not far from the border line of alcoholism. They had also knowingly reunited two old friends, Specky and Tony, who hadn’t been getting on well for some time. More than that, they had brought together two men they weren’t wholly sure of: one whom they suspected of being a police informant and they didn’t personally like; the other who they more or less agreed couldn’t do prison time well—two men who loathed each other.

  Joe McGinnis rode the T&T; so did Barney Banfield. Pino was at his effusive best as he led the ninth and eighth gang members, respectively, through the premises. Joe, who had been uncharacteristically garrulous at the meet concerning Specs O’Keefe, was his usual quiet self, but was not in his usual outfit. His trousers were still the same old dark ones, the sweater was the same dark turtleneck, but over the sweater was a dark suit jacket Tony had never seen before. Over the bald-head was a dark wool pulldown seaman’s watch cap. Tall, gaunt Barney was in a soft hat, neat two-button suit and armless gray V-neck sweater. All three conspirators were wearing what Pino had only recently ordered to be standard footwear—soft-soled shoes that wouldn’t squeak. As was always the case when Barney and Joe were together, Barney stayed in the background—a foot or two to the rear of Joe.

  Joe wasn’t all that impressed by how smoothly the graphite made the twin fire doors slide open. Joe didn’t smile or frown or show any reaction when Pino made him push the graphite-processed money box. He grunted indifferently as he read the clipboard which showed that some $5,000,000 was due for delivery the next day, was probably in the vault at this very moment. He did, however, seem more interested with the names of individual customers and the amounts they were slated to receive than the overall total.

  “Joe said we oughta copy those names so we could rob them later,” Pino related. “I didn’t tell him that’s what we’d been doing for two years ’cause that’s none of his goddamn business. So what I told him was no, no one copies down names ’cause those names belong to the fellas, the regular crew. That’s their property unless they say no, they don’t want it.

  “So Joe bellyaches about that. He says everything we find in the joint oughta belong to everyone. I say what belongs to Julius Caesar belongs to Julius Caesar, and that’s how it’s gonna be—fair or unfair.

  “Joe grunted, but there was nothing he could do about it, see?”

  Before departing, Joe stole two pads of paper and a box of paper clips.

  Costa scurried over the rooftop along Prince Street opposite the North Terminal Garage building. It was 5:30 A.M. The lights in the fifth window on the second floor over the playground came on approximately fifteen minutes later. He moved farther along the rooftop and raised his binoculars. The angle still wasn’t right.

  The next morning at around the same time he tried the door at 109 Prince Street, the first building beyond the playground on the same side of the street as North Terminal Garage. It was open, and he entered. The stairs creaked. He slowed his climb, carefully stepped on the outer edges of the boards. He reached the first landing. A radio or television set was heard playing behind a door. A woman’s voice called out to lower the volume. The steps creaked on the way to the next landing. Someone could be heard gargling behind a door. The steps continued to creak, and a dog started barking and growling. He continued up. The door at the top of the staircase was unlocked. He pushed it open and walked onto the roof. He ducked under a clothesline and crawled up to the edge. The lights in the second, third, fourth, and fifth windows of the second level across the playground were on. He raised the binoculars and focused in on the fifth window. His angle was perfect. Two men in shirt sleeves and wearing glasses were pulling open the heavy door on the vault.

  “Okay, now I’m up on the roof [109 Prince Street],” Pino said. “We ain’t gonna find no wires that do us any good inside, see what I mean? That whole idea fell through. We ain’t gonna kill the bug by cutting no wires ’cause we can’t find no wires to cut that go to the box. That’s why I come up with this new plan. That’s why I’m up on the roof over the park.

  “It’s maybe six o’clock in the morning and still dark out. Okay. I got my German naval glasses with me. The ones that was on submarines. Now I pick ’em up and look in that fifth window of theirs. That’s the one where they got their vault. Behind the fifth window. Okay, I’m gonna get her numbers, see? I’m gonna watch what numbers they turn on the [vault] dial and get the combination. When I got the combination, I got the pete. All I need’s the goddamn combination, and Brink’s is as good as gone.”

  How can possessing the combination be of value if the alarm system to the vault isn’t neutralized?

  “Mother of God, you got that combination, you drive everybody hi-sterical, see what I mean? You take that combination in your hand and you sneak into Brink’s, go right up to the safe. Now you look at the number [where the vault dial is set], and now you look at the combination you’re holding. You use the combination, and pfft, open the safe and close it right up again. Close it tight and spin the combination back to the number where it was set, and then you tear the hell outta there. You go up the block and sit down someplace they can’t see you. What happens? Everything happens is what happens. Once that door pulls open, alarms go off all over the world, and everyone comes running. Cop cars come running. Detectives come running. The marines land and come running, rushing right up into Brink’s, and whatta they find? See what I mean? The s
afe is locked. No one broke the safe. There it is shut, with tumblers set just like they left it. They open the safe. Every last goddamn penny is where it’s supposed to be. So everyone goes home, and ADT figures something went wrong with their wiring or something and then checks it all out. Nothing’s wrong, so ADT goes home, too, and then you sneak right back in, open up the safe, shut it and set the number right, and tear out all over again. Pfft, what happens? The alarms go off and the whole goddamn world comes racing back in again, only nothing’s been touched. Now’s the time someone starts in getting hi-sterical.

  “Now we get ’em—’cause either ADT puts in an alarm we can beat or we keep up with the tripping. Keep opening and shutting the door. Even if we can’t beat the alarm, it don’t make a difference. We get them to such a state that everybody’s ignoring the alarm. The guy at ADT’s board hears the alarm go off and says, ‘Oh, Jesus, there’s Brink’s going crazy one more time—the hell with them. I’ll send someone over in the morning.’ He ain’t gonna call the marines ’cause they died of mortal weariness weeks ago. All they gotta hear is that Brink’s went off again and they’re under the covers.

  “So there it is. We just walk in one night, trip the alarm, close the door and go back out on the street and watch. When nobody shows, we go back upstairs, open the safe for good and clean her out. Don’t even leave that one penny behind. Close the safe back shut and put the dial in place. The next morning the repairman [from ADT] shows up and experiences a surprise: a very empty feeling.”

  McGinnis and O’Keefe met face to face at a full membership meet in Pino’s living room. If the five-foot-seven conspirator was aware of the harangue the large, burly, baldheaded six-footer had launched to keep him off the job, Specs didn’t show it. O’Keefe was docile and conciliatory—as sweet as cherry pie, you might say. McGinnis was also cordial, but one or two of the fellows noticed that he didn’t address Specky all that much, and when he did, he usually looked at Gus. Even McGinnis liked Gus.

  Pino tried to do most of the talking but got off the track a lot. Geagan often got him back on the track. Costa often interrupted to correct a fact or two. McGinnis often butted in.

  Among other things, McGinnis said he’d have those ADT alarms in both his stores shortly, and then he’d find a way to kill them. Joe told everyone he was very good mechanically, repaired his own clocks. But if he couldn’t figure out how to neutralize the devices, he knew a former MIT graduate who could—a guy named Sullivan. Pina announced that he was working on a revolutionary, surefire scheme to neutralize the alarms on the vault, something that had to do with getting the Brink’s people hysterical. Someone suggested that they forget the B&E and go in on the heavy. No one else agreed. Try the B&E first. Try everything to take it on the clout and, if everything failed, then bring out the pistols, seemed to be the consensus.

  Geagan managed to raise a few more issues on which everyone concurred: Tony Pino and only Tony Pino was the boss. No one gave orders except Tony. Tony’s official liaison was Jimmy Costa. Only Costa could pass on an order given by Tony. If Tony wasn’t available, all information any crew member obtained would be given to Costa.

  The one dictate twice repeated by Geagan and twice agreed to by the assemblage was this: Anyone letting out word of what they were up to, either by intent or by mistake, would be killed.

  The meet broke up without O’Keefe’s being given any particular assignment other than accompanying Gus to the joint in what was now becoming routine and general reconnaissance.

  When Specs finally did get a specific nod, it was for what might be called a shit detail.

  “Tony Pino wanted to know what went on in the joint late at night,” Jazz Maffie related. “He’d only burned the joint until ten or ten thirty [P.M.] He sent Specs O’Keefe and me over there first. We were supposed to stay there all night and see if any hack showed up. Stay there until three in the morning. We got in the back of a truck [Brink’s]—a truck over near the repair section. When we looked out the peephole they have in the back of the truck, we could see most of the garage. Well, we couldn’t see much because it was dark, but if somebody came in with a flashlight, we would have seen them.

  “So we were laying there, talking about this and that and taking turns looking out the peephole. I don’t know, maybe it was two or three o’clock and Specs was at the window. He gave me a poke, and I got up and looked out. So we see this shadow of someone sneaking in. You can only see a shadow, but the shadow’s so fat you know it could only be Tony Pino checking up on us. So I said to Specs, ‘That little son of a gun. We’re going to teach him a lesson for not trusting us. Come on, this is going to be good. We’re going to drive Tony Pino crazy.’

  “So Specs O’Keefe and me got out of the truck and sneaked along one wall while Tony Pino was sneaking along the other. He was going in one direction, and we’re going in the other on the other side. He couldn’t see us over there because it was dark and he was too busy trying to find what truck we’re in. We heard him going, ‘Psst, psst, hey, you guys. Hey, Jazz, Specs, where are you? This is Stretch. Where are you?’

  “We snuck out of there and went down a ways and waited on the street. We’re watching Brink’s from up Prince Street and after a while we see Tony Pino come running out that far door near the corner [of Commercial Street]. He’s coming our way, and you can’t see his face because it’s dark, but you could tell from the little hops he makes he’s madder than hell. He went hopping off down Lafayette Street, and Specs O’Keefe and me went right back into Brink’s and got back in the truck.

  “So maybe another hour after, Tony Pino come sneaking back in the garage looking for us. Specs O’Keefe and me knew he’d probably been to Jimmy O’Keefe’s and every other club he thinks we ran to. So this time we let him find us, and he said, ‘Where the hell you two been?’ We said, ‘Right here looking for hacks.’ Tony Pino started almost shouting and said, ‘Like hell you have. You been out drinking is where you been.’ We said, ‘We been right here all the time, and we found that hack you were worried about. A little round hack came through an hour ago with a cold. He musta had a cold,’ we said to Tony Pino, ‘because he was making a sneezing noise, a kinda psst, psst. But even if he gets better, don’t worry about him. He’s so dumb he looked right in where we was hiding and didn’t even see us.’

  Jimmy Costa was sent into Brink’s. He remained inside an armored car until 4 A.M. without seeing a single hack.

  The dim streetlamp partially illuminated the man in the bulky overcoat standing at the door of 165 Prince Street. He searched in one pocket, then another. He stood for a moment scratching his head. He hiked the overcoat and reached down into his trousers. Something was found, thrust toward the door. No sooner had the man disappeared into the building than the light in the high, thin, narrow window closest to the Prince Street corner of the North Terminal Garage building went on. A moment later the one small window and two large windows on the second level in the back of the building were illuminated—the ones Pino had numbered one, two and three because at night, when he usually watched the offices, the narrow window was always dark; it was the staircase window. Several moments elapsed, then the fourth window was lit, spilling a degree of light behind the fifth window—enough to see a man crossing in front of the slanting grille screen wall fronting the chamber. He seemed to pass right through the barrier. The vault room was illuminated.

  Pino crept closer to the edge of the roof atop 109 Prince Street, lay prone, brought up the German naval binoculars, trained them down over the playground at the fifth window and began focusing in on the vault room. The double layers of wide-gauge wire mesh, the one grating the window itself and the grille wall some feet back inside, posed a problem. But after sliding over a bit, changing his angle slightly, he was able to get a fairly clear view of the vault door. He tried to focus tighter, to zero in on the combination; then he heard footsteps—loud footsteps coming up the stairs behind him.

  He jumped up, bounded across the roof, leaped up on
the adjoining roof at the corner of Prince and Snowhill streets and made his escape.

  “Hey, where were you?” Jimmy Costa asked, walking into the diner sometime later. “I went looking for you up on the roof but you weren’t there.”

  The stairway light went on first, then the ones in the first, second and third windows. Several minutes passed. The fourth window and fifth window remained dark. The light in a sixth window went on.

  “What the hell’s that?” Sandy Richardson asked.

  “Must belong to the place next door?” Pino explained.

  “They wear Brink’s uniforms in the place next door?” asked Sandy.

  Pino put down his sandwich, took the German naval binoculars from Richardson, lay prone at the roof’s edge and focused in on the sixth window. A small office could be seen behind the grating. A man in coveralls was standing over a desk, pointing down at something. The man standing beside him was definitely in a Brink’s uniform.

  “Jesus Christ, I musta missed a room,” Tony admitted aloud.

  Joe McGinnis hadn’t uttered a bad word about Joseph Specs O’Keefe since that nomination meet several weeks back. In fact, the bigger Joe had behaved rather well toward the smaller Joe right along, had even started looking at him when he talked. And McGinnis didn’t seem in the least bit angry or vindictive when he walked into Pino’s kitchen that morning and said he had just talked to Detective Crowley and Detective Crowley had said that another one of his “contacts,” Crowley’s contacts, had said he’d overheard a girl named Helen Whatchamacallit telling a girlfriend that her boyfriend had taken her into a joint, actually taken her into a physical premise, that he told her he and some pals were going to hit for seven million bucks. Seven million. Some pals.

  McGinnis told Pino that Crowley told him the “contact” didn’t have any idea where the score was. Crowley had said that Helen Whatchamacallit was a god-awful liar to begin with and hard nut to crack if you wore a shield, so he wasn’t all that concerned, but he wondered if Joe had heard anything about a big haul? Joe told Tony he told Crowley, no, he hadn’t heard anything. And then he told Pino that Crowley said the Whatchamacallit broad had a string of keepers a mile long and the one she’s been shacked with the most was Specs O’Keefe and that he, Crowley, knew that Specs O’Keefe was as god-awful a liar as Whatchamacallit and couldn’t be in on anything bigger than hubcap heists, but he wondered if Joe knew anyone else Whatchamacallit was seeing, maybe a big timer from out of town. Joe told Tony he told Crowley, no he didn’t even know Whatchamacallit, so no, he didn’t know anyone she was seeing from in town or out. Well, it’s probably nothing to worry about anyway, McGinnis said Crowley said. The only place you’ll find seven million dollars in this burg is over at the Federal Reserve, McGinnis said Crowley said. Joe told Tony that Crowley told him, “But if you hear anything, let me know, okay?”