Operation Underworld

by Paddy Kelly

  “They’re the ones kicking me out. Let them pay for the ticket!” Lucky looked out the window at the world he hadn’t seen for six years. Smiling, he added, “I’ll take a plane when I come back.”

  The parade route was scheduled to start south of the American Museum of Natural History, a structure which dwarfed the adjacent Hayden Planetarium situated next door to the museum. The early afternoon crowd were dressed in heavy, winter clothing, and snow continued to lightly coat the pavement as wind sporadically made its way up the avenue.

  McKeowen cautiously approached from the 78th Street side and slowly walked up Columbus Avenue, to the back of the museum complex. At 81st Street, across from the park, he took full advantage of the steady stream of spectators making their way down Central Park West by peering around the corner. He noticed that there were an inordinate number of police in the area, but put it down to crowd control. To play it safe, he decided to enter the Hayden through the museum, via the annex hallway.

  “Excuse me, miss?” Doc was at the coat check just inside the door, and a young girl came to the counter.

  “Yes, sir?” Over her shoulder Doc could see the nearly full Lost and Found bin. He shifted to a thick Jersey dialect.

  “Miss, I was here last month, on a field trip with some of my students, and… well, I’m embarrassed to say it, but I was so tired, I think I left my overcoat here.”

  A few minutes later, Doc strolled through the museum annex wearing a grey tweed overcoat on top of his leather jacket, and approached the lobby of the planetarium. He stood there for a few minutes, glancing around the room as he pretended to read the programme until he picked out two of Johnson’s stooges. One he recognised and the other was new. Johnson had brought reinforcements. It was five minutes to one, and after assessing his situation, he proceeded directly into the planetarium theatre where the crowd were taking their seats.

  Doc took a seat in the front row and removed the overcoat, letting it fall back onto his seat. No sooner did he have his arms free when two men sat down, one on either side of him. The one on his right was Johnson, the other was another new face.

  Doc looked at all four of the exits of the circular room and saw that each was manned by an agent accompanied by a policeman. “Jeez, Bob, how many assholes does one guy need?”

  “Hi McKeowen, how’s the bedroom peepin’ business? I hear Sammon is doin’ real well uptown. Even lives in a penthouse now.”

  “I really want you to know how flattered I am that you take such an interest in my personal life. But let me ask you something. How does it feel to murder a defenceless mail clerk in his eighties?”

  “I don’t know, Mac. You tell me.”

  Johnson reached into his breast pocket and dropped a piece of paper into Doc’s lap. As he read it, Doc realised what Sullivan was too cowardly to tell him. It was an arrest warrant with Doc’s name on it, for the murder of Ira Birnbaum. It was hard to contain himself, but Doc focused on knocking Johnson off balance as soon as possible.

  “And just in case you’re thinkin’ about any local connections, you’ll notice it’s a Federal warrant.”

  A middle-aged couple holding tickets approached the seats where Doc and the two agents were sitting. The man double-checked the ticket numbers and then looked to Johnson. The tourist adjusted his glasses as he spoke in a mid-western dialect.

  “Excuse me, I believe you’re in our seats.”

  Johnson looked up at the man and smiled. “Hit the bricks, Mortimer. These seats are taken.” The couple exchanged glances.

  “Excuse me, sir but we paid for those seats!” the man insisted. Johnson flashed his badge.

  “Tough shit, Henry! Looks like you either stand or go look at the dinosaurs! Now, get the hell outta here before I run you and the misses in for loitering!”

  The wife tugged at her husband’s arm and they walked away. Doc called after them, smiled and waved. “Welcome to New York!”

  The house lights began to dim and an older man stood at the podium which was off-centre of the amphitheatre.

  “Guess this means the deal is off?” Doc held up the warrant.

  “Oh no, we still got a deal. You give me my book and I’ll think about speakin’ to the judge so you don’t get the chair. But I can’t make any promises. That young DAover in Brooklyn is makin’ a pretty big deal over this murder.” Johnson leaned in to Doc in mock emphasis of his point. “Rumour has it he’s talkin’ about goin’ for governor.”

  In the centre of the room, two trap doors opened up and a large, black object began to rise above floor level. It gave the appearance of a six foot metal ant, freckled all over with white dots as it slowly came to life. It was the Zeiss projector. Doc saw his cue.

  “This little black book must be pretty important, huh?”

  “Where is it?” Johnson didn’t want to play any more.

  “You get the book, you leave everyone alone!”

  “Otherwise what? You’re gonna give it to the press? The papers have been notified that a top secret document has been stolen by a murder suspect, and if anything surfaces, they’re to notify me personally. Any other clever moves, rookie?”

  “Always one step ahead, huh, Bob?”

  “I get my book, and you don’t face espionage

  “I get my book, and you don’t face espionage charges along with premeditated murder. Last chance, hero, where is it?”

  The smile Doc had been wearing evaporated from his face as he hung his head. Putting his hand over his mouth, he nodded at the projector, just as the show’s presenter began his lecture about the wonders of the nighttime winter sky.

  “Taped underneath,” he said to Johnson. Johnson looked at McKeowen and then at the projector.

  “C’mon, I’ll show you,” Doc offered. Johnson slapped his hand on Doc’s chest and pushed him back into the seat.

  “No! You sit there, and don’t even think about moving!” He turned to the other agent. “He’s under arrest. If he moves, shoot him!”

  Brandishing his badge, Johnson walked over to the astronomer presenting the lecture and ordered him to stop the show, while the back-up cops and agents closed ranks in front of the exits. By now, it was obvious to everyone in the house that there was some kind of disturbance down front and Johnson was being showered with assorted cat-calls and abuse which temporarily distracted him, until he yelled back at the crowd to be quiet, this was a police matter.

  At the same time, the other agent produced a pair of handcuffs and ordered McKeowen to put his hands behind his back. Doc complied while judging the distance to the Zeiss projector to be about ten yards. The presenter’s podium looked to be about twice that, and when Johnson momentarily turned his back while giving orders to the speaker, Doc stood, hands still behind his back, gripping the overcoat off the seat back.

  One moment the agent was looking at his handcuffs, opening them, the next moment everything was black. Doc had him covered in the heavy garment, punching furiously until the agent offered no more resistance, and fell to the floor. The crowd whistled and began to clap. This caught the attention of Johnson who was so affronted by McKeowen’s audacity that he saw red.

  Charging at Doc, who was scanning the room after finishing punch-bag practise on the agent, he ran at full speed, his hat flying off and his open coat flapping behind him. Johnson couldn’t have done Doc a bigger favour.

  Doc stood perfectly motionless, poised as if to catch Johnson as he attacked. Instead, at the last second, Doc side-stepped the charging bull and grabbed hold of him as he flew past, pushing Johnson as hard as he could, headfirst into the steps leading up the aisle.

  The crowd let out a tremendous cheer, and Doc made his break for the base of the projector, between the trap doors. As the cops and agents scurried down the aisles to converge on the centre of the theatre, Johnson rolled over, rubbing his head to tumultuous applause, while looking around, trying to focus on the room.

  Running at full speed, Doc dived to the marble floor and slid through t
he open trap doors into the darkness below. After getting to his feet, Johnson regained his focus and started shouting orders.

  “You two, down the hole, now! Berryman! Take a cop and search the projector!” Then he turned to the presenter. “You, perfessor! Where does that hole lead to?”

  Doc was learning the answer to that question as they spoke. The hall beneath the lifting device for the projector was barely wide enough for one man to walk through, bent over. Originally designed for repair access only, it was unlit and showed no signs of ending. Doc could hear the two men following him stumbling around in the dark, trying to light a cigarette lighter.

  He guessed he was under the annex passageway and assumed there must be an access panel somewhere. Suddenly, Doc felt a wall in front of him with his foot. He systematically felt right and left. More walls. It was a dead end. The sounds behind him grew louder as he quickly ran his hands up and down all three walls, while above he could hear the other agents and policemen running through the annex.

  Finally, he felt an iron latch. Lifting it as slowly as he could to avoid unnecessary noise, he pushed open the narrow steel hatch and peered through to the other side. A short iron ladder, embedded in the wall, led up to a grating in the museum floor.

  “I see light!” The voice behind him signalled he was spotted. Slamming the door hard, he braced his foot against the adjoining wall and pulled out as hard as he could on the latch of the handle. The latch bent, not much, but enough to keep the handle from being able to slide open. The men behind the door rattled it furiously but couldn’t open it.

  Back inside the planetarium, a very annoyed crowd were being told that the show had been cancelled, and refunds would be afforded. The Zeiss projector revealed no little black book, and so was lowered and the trap doors were closed and locked.

  Up on the lobby level, the men’s toilet door slowly opened and Doc stuck his head out, looking up and down the hall. He saw a welcome sight – a bank of phone booths just outside the ladies’ toilets only yards from the main exit. Time to call for back-up.

  Once inside a booth, he unscrewed the overhead light and dialled the office. He could get out and lie low until Louie showed up with a cab. The phone continued to ring. And ring, and ring.

  “God-damn it, Mancino! You better be dead or dying!”

  “He’s in here!” Through the glass of the double folding doors, Doc could see a cop’s uniform, and an arm pointing into the phone booth.

  The cop grabbed at the door handles and Doc followed suit. He resisted letting the officer open the doors just long enough to establish a rhythm, and as the cop gave one determined mighty pull, Doc released the handles, trapping the officer’s right hand between the doors as they folded open. The cop yelled. Doc punched him twice in the stomach, and closed the doors so he could collapse onto the floor, gasping for breath.

  With no hope of back-up, and the lobby crowd now swollen with the ranks of the planetarium people, Doc reckoned the main exit was a good bet. The parade was due to start in less than half an hour, so the streets should be equally as mobbed.

  Once again, Doc donned his Negro League baseball cap and tried to blend in. The crowd ebbed and flowed around the twin Brontosaurii mounted on their bronze replicated landscape, displayed in the center of the massive lobby. Doc could see the sunlight peering through the large brass doors as he approached them. He cautiously looked around; no cops, no agents.

  Then Doc hit the floor, hands sprawled in front of him. Shit! He’d been tackled from behind. He was able to roll over and see the cop who tackled him removing his billy club from its holster. Things switched to fast-forward.

  The cop swung and Doc rolled left and the hardwood club struck the marble floor. Doc pinned the arm holding the club to the floor and climbed onto the cop’s back. Holding the officer by the hair, Doc slammed his face into the floor and the fight was over. Out of breath, soaked in sweat, he looked up. The exit was only ten feet away.

  As he rose to his feet and looked around, he was struck in the back of the head and fell to the floor. Doc kept waiting for unconsciousness to overtake him, but it didn’t. Instead, he rolled over onto his back and looked up. He recognised the agent who was swinging down hard with the cop’s billy club towards his face. Doc instinctively moved to block the blow, and the full force was taken by his right forearm. He knew instantly that his arm was broken.

  Strange how you notice insignificant details of your surroundings when you’re scared, thought Doc. He focused on the polished marble floor. Then turned to the walls and ceiling. He thought about the great times he’d spent here as a kid and how for the longest time he’d vowed to be an archaeologist in a far away place, and dig for dinosaur bones. Then things slammed into focus.

  Amazingly, the agent wasn’t swinging any more. He was standing upright calling to other police and agents. Doc seized the moment. Kicking the agent’s feet out from under him, he watched as feet flew in one direction and the Billy club in another. The bone-crunching thud when his head hit the floor, and the agent writhing in agony holding his lower back, told Doc he had bought more time.

  Doc struggled to his feet, one knee at a time, cradling his arm, and continued to make his way to the door. The pain surged up his back and into his head as he made his way through the crowd. His brain on high alert, he pushed the door open with his left shoulder and stepped out into the sunlight. The cold, fresh air helped to clear his head and he was compelled to take the stairs one at a time, holding his broken arm close to his chest.

  Leaving the danger of the museum and entering the carnival atmosphere of the street was surrealistic. In contrast to the relative dark and quiet of the museum, everything outside was colourful and busy, like a Dali painting. A clown across the street stood against the Central Park wall selling balloons, dozens of men in kilts made their way south to the parade route, and women in varied costumes accompanied them as kids scurried in all directions. Doc tried to focus on making it into the park to hail a cab.

  Crossing Central Park West was easy as traffic was blocked off further north to accommodate the parade. Weaving between a marching band who were just forming ranks and some shivering baton twirlers, Doc heard a voice from behind.

  “Hey, asshole!”

  As he stood in the middle of the sidewalk, across the street, Doc slowly turned and saw a treasury agent standing on the sidewalk behind him. Something was wrong. This fat, slobby guy didn’t look like Johnson or any of the other agents. As the agent slowly removed his top coat, Doc stared in disbelief.

  The guy’s chest rose to touch his jaw, and he had no discernible neck. His biceps nearly exploded out of his sleeves and Doc thought that he looked like an Aryan genetic experiment gone amok. It was one of the few times McKeowen regretted not carrying a gun.

  Doc decided that, under the circumstances, there was only one reasonable course of action. He took a deep breath, held his broken arm, looked around… and ran like hell.

  Through the crowd and up the sidewalk, trying desperately to make it to the park wall, he scurried on the icy walk. Maybe I could lose him in the undergrowth. Yeah, the bare, winter, defoliated undergrowth! Shit! As he reached the wall, Doc heard a sound like raw meat slapping the pavement.

  Just as he got one leg over the low granite wall, a woman screamed and he looked to his left in time to see a couple of dozen balloons floating into the air and the balloon-selling clown frantically administering non-stop punches to no-neck. The agent was on his knees, but the clown, now with a stranglehold on the agent’s necktie, kept punching. Blood spurted from his face, and on the fifth or sixth punch, the unconscious agent fell face first onto the pavement with a sickening thwack. Blood pooled around his face.

  The clown was out of breath, propped against the park wall for support when a panicky woman made her way through the onlookers and ushered her kid away from the scene.

  “It‘s okay, lady. He just tried to steal the kid’s balloon.” Doc squinted, stared and made his way over to the
clown. In between gasps, he spoke to Doc. “I have got to get another set of these!” He held up his right hand covered in blood and brass knuckles. “Hey Doc! How’s it hangin’?”

  “Louie! What the…?” Louie’s big clown feet flopped over to Doc.

  “I tailed you all the way from downtown! Never even seen me, didja?” Doc smiled and fell back against a soot-stained bench, holding his arm. “Doc! You okay?”

  “I think I got a busted arm, Louie.” Doc looked very pale. “We gotta get outta here before the rest of the goons show up.”

  Louie helped his friend over the short perimeter wall into the park and they kept to the narrow footpaths snaking through the shrubs and trees. By the time they reached Belvedere Lake ten minutes later, Louie noticed Doc was slowing down.

  “Here, Doc, sit here.” Louie brushed the light, powdery snow from a bench and sat Doc down facing the frozen lake. He walked over to a garbage basket and removed the rest of his clown outfit, stuffing it in the receptacle. He put the collar up on his coat and returned to Doc.

  “Louie…” Doc inquired in between pants, “why’d ya keep hittin’ that guy so many times?”

  “He wouldn’t go down!” Louie put Doc’s collar up as well, then adjusted his ball cap. “Besides, it’s jocks like him that are always yacking about how bowling ain’t a real sport. They piss me off.” Louie rubbed his hands together. It was getting colder, with a slight wind and the snow was now falling in big, wet flakes and starting to stick.

  “Hey, Doc, you want some coffee, or you want to push on to the hospital? Lenox Hill is only about six or eight blocks away.”

  “Sure thing, Kato,” came Doc’s weak reply. Louie smiled and looked over at his friend. He did his best to conceal his horror as he saw the back of the bomber jacket was covered in blood that was oozing from the back of Doc’s head. Doc slowly closed his eyes and slipped into unconsciousness.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Treasury agent Berryman dashed out of the taxi even before it came to a full stop in front of number 90 Church Street. Flashing the night sentry his credentials, he went directly upstairs to the Department of the Treasury office, where Johnson and two other agents were packing up.