by R. Narvaez
* * *
Days later Baraba waited until the last of Trace’s clients were gone. He noticed Lolli in the distance as Trace came towards him. A dozen pouches in his hand.
Trace held them out to him. “We good for a while?”
“Don’t need them anymore. We’re good forever.”
“You’re off smack? That’s good.”
“I was never on it.”
“If you don’t want it anymore what do you want?”
“Only information when I need it.”
A shot was fired. Baraba felt the hot bullet pierce his back and tear its way through his lung. He fell to the ground as Trace cursed Lolli.
“That’s for taking away my daughter you bastard.”
Another shot. Trace fell with a bullet in his head. Blood and brain matter oozed onto the floor.
“That’s for bringing the detective to me.”
Baraba stayed still. He dared not move in case Lolli was ready with another bullet. He took shallow breaths. As the air entered his lungs, some of it escaped with blood through the bullet hole.
Lolli made a shuffling noise as she walked away.
He waited for an eternity before standing. Weak and losing consciousness, he reached the elevator.
He entered and pushed the button for street level. The marble was cool as he dug his fingers into the walls to remain erect. When the doors opened he fell onto the floor of the main concourse. The screams from commuters were the last thing he heard.
Without a Hitch
- by R.J. Westerhoff
MIKE CALLAHAN HAD A BIG PROBLEM. Point of fact, he had several.
* * *
For starters, the robbery of the Alderstein Gallery didn’t quite go as planned.
One of those upper Madison places catering to the idle rich, Alderstein employed uniformed guards and used the best security money could buy. However, the guy who installed the system was also the best money could buy, so Mike was able to get the plans and figure out how to get in and get out.
Piece of cake.
And the icing on that cake was the de Wilbur coin collection, which had recently been consigned to the gallery by its owner, Charles de Wilbur, who was referred to, in current parlance, as a financier. Plus, there were a few other choice items that Mike could easily move off the premises and fence for a nice piece of change.
Mike had been fascinated by art and its special world since he was a kid. He’d taught himself about the subject from the art books and magazines he devoured. In the end, he’d come to prefer stealing art and collectibles over anything else. Its value held up over the long-term, even with all that inflation left over from the ’70s.
Besides, Mike felt you met a better class of vicious, double-dealing people in the world of art. There was always someone who could be turned; and the part that made Mike shake his head in amazement was that these were just the people that the rich and privileged of this world relied on for their wall hangings and knick-knacks.
When Mike cased a location, he changed his appearance ever so slightly, never relying on elaborate disguises. He had the plain good looks that women liked in a bar, but most people never remembered as the day progressed.
For the Alderstein job, the inside technical dope came from the security guy, who had spent time in stir with Mike’s long-time associate and pal, Stiggy. Loyal and knowledgeable, Stiggy was handy when it came to applying that tiny bit of muscle, which, in the end, every job seemed to require.
Everything was coming together like clockwork. It looked as if this job could go off without a hitch.
* * *
When Stiggy hit the guard on the back of the head, Mike figured from the way the guard’s head snapped back that the rap was too hard. Given how the guard slumped slowly onto the thick carpet and lay there with his eyes wide open, Mike’s theory was confirmed.
A brief, meaningful look at one another meant there was nothing to do but keep going. As they slipped through the subdued burgundy atmosphere of the galleries, Mike couldn’t bring himself to admire the works on the walls, instead he focused on the current state of the work at hand. Not that he hadn’t been on jobs where someone ended up dead, this just wasn’t supposed be one of those jobs.
He started to sweat inside his balaclava.
The two thieves were just turning the corner into the consignment room where the de Wilbur coins were supposed to be stored when they heard grunting coming from a nearby office. Mike peeked around the doorframe and was a little bit surprised to see a lovely left breast swaying forward and backwards as its owner, a sweet-looking blonde, was white-knuckling the front edge of a worn Louis XV desk. The top of her shapely ass was thrust up from underneath her cobalt-blue Chanel dress. Slamming into her was some skinny-assed guy. With his pants around his ankles and his Windsor knot intact, he could only be British, Mike thought to himself.
As “Nigel” reared his head in ecstasy, he saw Mike and Stiggy; they, in turn, were transfixed by the blonde in motion. This is all wonderful, thought Mike. Why did he have the feeling that Stiggy and he were the ones getting fucked?
Stiggy advanced and roughly pulled the guy off the blonde, the Brit’s now limp dick waggling in the wind.
“What the fu –,” the gallerist sputtered.
“Exactly,” replied Stiggy, slamming the guy in the side of head, knocking him out.
“What about her?” Stiggy asked Mike, jerking his head toward the blonde.
“What about her?” mumbled Mike as he looked around and saw a purse on the floor by the door. Reaching inside, he found a wallet and, even more interesting, a couple of antique coins, most likely from the de Wilbur collection. The blonde was blubbering, trying to smooth her dress and cover herself with quaking hands.
“Let me guess, ah . . . ,” Mike said, looking through the wallet, “ . . . Harriet? . . . You and ‘Nigel’ here were sending this little guy out for a private appraisal?”
Shaking like she was out in February, Harriet quietly said, “That was Cliff’s idea ... his name is Cliff. . . . The collection is so huge. . . . He knows this forger who could copy the coins. . . We could sell them separately later and make a –”
“Got it,” said Mike. “Now get yourself together. Here’s what’s going to happen. When your friend wakes up, you and him are keeping these coins. And you’re going to blame us. Only thing is you didn’t really see us. And right now you’re taking us to the rest of the collection and making sure we walk out with them without a hitch. You understand?”
Still shaking, Harriet nodded.
“And you’ll make sure limp dick here agrees with this plan?” Mike said, trying to keep a straight face.
“A word?” asked Stiggy. Mike and he went out into the hallway, leaving Harriet alone to clean herself up.
“Are you sure you want to play it this way?” whispered Stiggy. “You can’t trust these people. We can’t leave loose ends.”
“We’re wearing masks,” hissed Mike. “They haven’t seen us.”
“Bullshit! I don’t like this one fucking bit.”
“Yeah, well how many bodies do you want to leave around tonight?”
“As many as we have to! One down means this is first-degree murder already. Another stiff ain’t going to make a fucking difference.”
“No way! We’re not doing anyone else. Let’s get the goods and go!”
Stiggy sighed into his mask. “I do not like this, I do not like this one fucking bit.” He paused, then said, “All right, all right, we’ll play this out your way. But if one more thing goes haywire, I’m doing what I gotta, do, I don’t give a shit what you say.”
“Deal,” said Mike.
* * *
Harriet led the boys to the coin room, then unlocked the door and the secure case containing the coins. Mike picked the cases up, gave the coins a quick once-over and dumped the cases into his swag bag. He turned to Harriet and gave her the hairy eyeball.
“We’re clear, right?” Mike said to her,
glaring hard.
“Y-yes . . . . Promise, we won’t do a thing.”
Just then, the alarm went off. Cursing hard, Stiggy started toward the office where Cliff obviously had set off something, then, hesitating, looked at Mike with pleading eyes, grabbed him by the arm, and dragged him toward the door.
Just as they hit the street, a squad car careened around the corner onto East 71st and headed their way. Running and looking behind him, Stiggy tripped over a wrought-iron fence support and landed flat on the pavement. By the time Stiggy made contact with the concrete, Mike was well down the block, ripping off his mask. He made it around the corner onto Madison, and headed south, slowing his pace to what he hoped looked normal.
Mike got to the East 68th Street Lex station, straining to make sure the sirens stayed in the distance and faded away toward the park. He hurried down into the station, dropped a token in the box, and moved onto the platform. Mike concentrated on the sweat beading on his back and neck, the enormity of events mushrooming inside his head.
When the train finally arrived, Mike stepped into the car, with a firm idea of where to go and what to do.
* * *
Mike moved with the small group of passengers off the subway and through the crowd of homeless people trying to sleep and rest in the old downstairs waiting area. The whole terminal smelled of piss and old sweat; Mike wanted to gag.
He walked up the stairs at the western end of the terminal, coming up just below the grand staircase leading out to Vanderbilt Avenue. Just at the head of the stairs was Mike’s destination, the Grand Central Bar. He had tended bar there off and on through the years, helping out his old friend Pete, who owned the place. It was the kind of bar where commuters could start their serious after-work drinking, continue the process on the bar car home, then pass out. In enough time to get up and suffer through another day of indentured servitude.
Mike approached the locked door, looked around quickly, and tried his old key. It turned easily and he silently entered the joint. As he stepped toward the bar, his foot stubbed something soft. Mike flicked on his flashlight and saw a homeless man sprawled on the floor, passed out. The guy had groaned softly when Mike booted him but was still now.
Mike looked at the rank-smelling mound for a moment and wondered if he should do something about this new situation, then decided, enough bodies for one night’s work. I’ll probably regret this, but, what the hell.
Mike went to the back of the bar where a moveable decorative panel was installed; Pete had shown it to him years ago, and no one else knew about it. Mike jotted a note to Pete, slid open the panel, stashed the coins with the note inside under some rags, and closed the panel. He figured he’d get back in a couple of months or so, and, if Pete found the booty, he’d know what to do.
As he left, Mike turned back one more time and looked at the homeless guy stretched out on the floor. Brother, he thought, if you only knew.
* * *
Mike made his way to the back of the train. As he stared out the door’s window, watching the platforms and tracks recede, Mike raised his hand to his mouth, and blew a goodbye kiss to the guts of the city.
* * *
Mike Callahan stepped off the train in Grand Central about eleven in the morning. His leg was bothering him today, a reminder of a shanking in Sing Sing twenty years ago. As he looked around the Main Concourse, Mike was stunned. The place was spotless. Where were all the bums?
Food was being sold everywhere, all kinds of food. Mike remembered when you’d be lucky to get a hot dog and a candy bar in the terminal. Looking up, he saw the green constellation ceiling. So that’s what was under there? Jeez, it had been black as night for as long as he could remember.
And the tourists! Where the hell did they come from? From the sounds of things, Europe.
Worst of all, the cops. There were cops everywhere. And soldiers! What the hell was going on here. Yeah, he’d heard about 9/11. Guess that’s what it is.
Mike made his way up the stairs to Vanderbilt Avenue, figuring he’d have a cold one at the Grand Central Bar. As he got upstairs, he saw no door, just a big open bar, surrounded by elegant tables. Michael Jordan? Who the fuck is Michael Jordan? Well, Mike knew who he was, he just didn’t know he’d gone into the restaurant business.
But where was the bar? And the panel? There was nothing left of the old hiding place and its surroundings. There was no point in even trying to hang around and look for the coins. They just weren’t there.
And Pete? He had to find Pete.
Mike remembered that Pete lived in Bay Ridge on 76th Street. He found a pay phone. Great, no phone book. Where the fuck are all the phone books?
He called information and got the exact address.
* * *
On the R train out to the far southern reaches of Brooklyn, Mike thought about the last 25 years. The most horrendous job he’d ever been part of, he gets away, only to get nabbed in some cheesy B & E upstate. With his record, it was twenty years in maximum.
The whole time, he was afraid to contact Pete or anybody so as not to bring attention from the Alderstein job unto his head. Stiggy was nabbed, got the max, and, God bless him, kept his mouth shut and took what they gave him. Which ended with Stiggy getting shivved in Attica some years back.
As far as anyone was concerned, Mike had never been there.
And the nice part is that, it’s been so long, Mike can fence the coins and get pretty near whole value for them. Piece of cake.
* * *
Mike walked from the 77th Street station to Pete’s house, already feeling a bit better about things in general. Even after all these years, he remembered the neighborhood, having been out here a couple of times for parties at Pete’s place. The area was full of detached houses, some small, some grander, all with a patch of yard in front and back. The suburbs in the city, Pete had always called it.
Mike rang the doorbell and a brunette woman in her 40s answered the door. Mike thought she looked like Pete’s daughter. He introduced himself as an old friend of Pete’s and asked where he was. She said she was Moira and asked him into the house.
“You didn’t know?” she said. “My father died about ten years ago.”
“I’ve been away for a long time. I never heard,” said Mike, feeling a bit sick. “Listen, your father was holding something for me. A case. It held some coins. I asked him to hold it for me ’cause I moved around a bit. I’ve come to get it.”
“Mr. Callahan, is it? I’m sorry, but I have no idea what you’re talking about. When Dad died, we went through everything here, and there was no case, and no coins. In fact, I lived with my father for the last five years he was alive, and I never saw anything like that.”
“Look, they have to be here,” said Mike, starting to see red. “I left them with your father at the bar and I know he would have brought them here!”
“Don’t shout at me! I don’t know where your goddamn coins are. Now get out of here!” Moira shoved Mike. “I’m calling the cops!” She grabbed her cell phone and punched in 911 with her thumb.
Mike watched her, feeling his chest tighten in panic. “No, don’t do that! Just give me the fucking coins and I’m outta here.”
“I told you I don’t know where or what they are and I am calling the cops. You’re fuckin’ nuts!” Moira connected to the 911 dispatcher and started shrieking into the phone.
That’s when Mike grabbed the big glass ashtray from the end table and slammed it into Moira’s head. And by the way she slumped onto the carpet and lay there with her eyes wide open, Mike knew he hit her way too hard.
Mike was still staring at Moira’s head, watching her blood ooze into the pale pile carpeting when the door was kicked in and two cops grabbed him, cuffed him and took him away.
* * *
About five years later, Mike was lying on his mattress in Attica, with about nineteen years to go on a second-degree murder conviction. He has just gotten a way-out-of-date issue of the Post. Flipping through, he saw a
n item on Page 6, which made him stop turning pages.
It was about this rich guy who had just donated a large amount of money toward the continuing restoration of Grand Central Terminal. It seems that, about thirty years ago, this guy was truly down-and-out, so low he was homeless and sleeping in Grand Central. It turns out that, while earning some food money by cleaning the old Grand Central Bar, he found a stash of coins. It turns out they were stolen, and this guy turned them in and collected the reward. He then used the money to turn his life around. And he was always grateful to Grand Central for making it possible.
After that, everything went off for him without a hitch.
The Drop
- by J. Walt Layne
THE HARD WHEELS OF THE BICYCLE clattered and every bolt in the frame rattled over the rocky pathway behind the trench. The men heard the bike crossing no man’s land long before it came into view. The doughboys, save for the poor guys with the unlucky job of being snipers or spotters, stayed low in the trench to avoid being spotted by the Kaiser’s sharpshooters, whose rifles were equipped with very accurate telescopic sights.
Corporal Vincent Morgan lay in a notch atop the berm that ran along the forward zag at grid PF246105 on the Provence line, north of the Rhone River. Corporal Morgan was directing artillery fire on a German trench 1000 yards distant. It had been a quiet day, and despite the shelling, the German’s water-cooled machine guns had remained quiet. As he was calling in an effect fire order, Morgan heard the rattle of the bike and then the shrill trilling of the Communication Sergeant’s whistle.
He crawled back and then pulled his rifle to port before sliding down the embankment and running along the bottom of the trench toward the sound of voices. The grumbling of starving soldiers – whose hungry eyes measured the fat on the Communication Sergeant’s bones as he delivered the news of the armistice – was loud enough to wake the dead German soldiers, whose corpses were scattered across the valley.