Dog Day Afternoon

by Patrick Mann

  “I’m going across the street and get a closer look. The girls are all kind of huddled in one place way in the back where I can’t see them. It’s just not the way things go after closing over there.”

  “Lou, I think it’s too bad the insurance business is so lousy you have the time to watch all these things. We’ll check it out.”

  “Why do all you guys have to be so smart-ass? I’m only doing what every citizen is supposed to do. What if it was my place being held up? I’d want somebody to call the cops. Why should they if all they get is cheap humor?”

  Moretti stifled the urge to tell his caller that the way he ran his agency there wouldn’t be much cash around to tempt a heist guy. He glanced over at Jerry. “Anything?”

  Jerry looked up from the phone. “No alarms.”

  “Okay, Lou,” Moretti said into the telephone. “I’m going to check it out. Is that action or is that action? I mean, when we get an honest citizen we know how to take care of him.”

  “Very funny. Good-bye.”

  “Lou!”

  “What?”

  “Don’t make a scene at the bank. If something’s going on, you’ll only stir up the animals and get yourself shot. Just, you know, take a look and move along back to your office. Promise me that?”

  “Okay.”

  Moretti hung up. “You want to take a ride in a genuine air-conditioned Rambler?”

  Jerry shook his head. “I got two reports to finish.”

  “Guaranteed fifty degrees cooler inside.”

  “Don’t tempt me. What’s the rumble at Chase?”

  “No rumble. Just a nervous bystander with time on his hands. See you.”

  Once outside the precinct house, the full blast of sun and heat hammered on Moretti’s head as though it were an anvil. He put on a narrow-brim cocoa-straw hat, knowing as he did so that it would make him feel even hotter, but Moretti always wore a hat, always.

  He got into the baking Rambler and used the air conditioner to flush out all the heat before he closed his door and started off. The Chase branch was a mile away. He reached in his glove compartment for a small pair of binoculars, which he tucked into the side pocket of his jacket. He hoped Bagradian’s office was air conditioned. This kind of August was murder, almost literally. By tonight at least a handful of old-timers would be in the hospital, maybe in the morgue.

  He passed the Chase branch doing about twenty-five miles an hour and gave it the once-over without seeming to. A chubby guy in a white short-sleeved shirt was standing in the doorway talking to Boyle, whom Moretti knew by sight, as he knew all the branch bank managers in the precinct. The sun was too glaring for Moretti to make out anything happening inside the bank. He circled around behind the Aetna agency and parked in the rear. He knocked on the back door, got no response, tried the lock and found it shut.

  Moretti took out his wallet, from which he extracted a sheet of stiff celluloid about the size of a charge card. He worked the celluloid between the door and the frame so that it pushed back the catch. Chances were Bagradian hadn’t bolted it. Why would he? The catch slipped back and Moretti was inside the rear of the insurance office.

  He moved to the front and sat down in a chair behind a loose-weave curtain that had been half pulled against the outside glare. He could see through the curtain but it hid him. He watched Bagradian make his way back across the street, dodging traffic. The terrible outside heat slowed his progress down to a near crawl. Inside the office, Moretti was pleased to note, the temperature was comfortable.

  Bagradian unlocked his front door and let himself in. Moretti waited until he had walked back to the rear of the office, passing a few yards from Moretti without noticing him. “Lou,” the detective called. “Don’t panic. I’m inside. Don’t come rushing back here. Just move around naturally.”

  “How the hell you get in?”

  “Police secrets. What’d you find?”

  “Not a damned thing. Boyle’s as cool as a cucumber. The guy who had the flower box is working on some books with Marge. I can’t see the rest of the people or the other guy, the hotshot pimp.”

  “You realize how pissed off Boyle will be if there’s nothing going on over there and I start making cop noises.”

  Bagradian loomed up behind the counter. “Tony, I swear to God, it don’t feel right. Boyle’s too cool. He’s too calm. And no chitchat. Usually the guy is good for a laugh or two. He’s a regular guy, Boyle. But today it’s all business.”

  “Right.” Moretti took out the binoculars and tried focusing them through the loose-weave drapery. It didn’t work too well. The image was interrupted by fuzz. He moved cautiously sideways until one lens of the binoculars was clear of the curtain. “Okay,” he said, “this may take a while.”

  “What’s happening?”

  “You want a blow-by-blow?” Moretti asked. “None of them are in the lobby area now. Now here comes a lady with a gorgeous pair.”

  “Marge.”

  “My little Margie, I love you,” Moretti said. “She’s going to a cabinet. She’s giving some stuff to the garage-attendant guy. He’s been talking to a guy in an ice-cream suit. That’s your pimp, Lou. And your pimp is excited. Yes, he’s getting more excited,” Moretti went on, imitating a racetrack announcer. “He’s getting very excited and he’s waving his hand. Yes, and in his hand is—oi, weh ist mir. In his hand is a gun.” Moretti glanced back at the insurance agent. “You win, Louie. Congratulations.”

  “What? What? What?”

  “Hold it.” Moretti hunched forward, watching closely through the single barrel of the binoculars that cleared the edge of the curtain. “Now the garage guy and Boyle have disappeared. Sam, get me the telephone number of that branch, will you? Now the garage guy is back. He’s moving everybody out of sight. He’s talking to Marge. Got the number? Start dialing.”

  “It’s ringing,” Bagradian reported a moment later.

  “It’s ringing and nobody’s paying any attention to it. The garage guy and Marge have disappeared. Bring the phone over to me, Sam. Is there another phone on a different line?”

  “In the back.”

  “Call the precinct house, ask for Jerry Munoz in the detective room. Tell him what’s happening. Move.”

  Moretti watched the man who wore chino pants. He was leading everyone back into sight now. He seemed to have a gun butt sticking out of the waistband of his trousers. The pimp in the ice-cream suit looked very nervous, even at this distance. Probably the insistent ringing of the telephone had all their nerves on edge. All Moretti wanted to do at this point was to ask Boyle for a clue. In the few seconds after Boyle answered the phone, he would have t—

  Boyle was moving across the lobby toward the phone. He picked it up. “Boyle speaking.”

  “Sergeant Moretti. I’m watching from across the street. Are they going to leave or will there be trouble? If they’re leaving, just hang up on me. We’ll get them later. Otherwise, let me talk to the head guy. Your decision.”

  Boyle said nothing for a long moment. Then: “Hold on.”

  11

  “Hello?” a man’s voice asked. Moretti classified it as local: a Queens boy.

  “What are you doing in there?” he demanded.

  “Who is this?”

  “This,” the detective said, “is Detective Sergeant Moretti. We got you completely by the balls. You don’t believe me, I’m staring you right in the eye. Right now. Just look across the street at the insurance office, asshole.”

  He watched the man in the chinos put down the phone and go to the window. Moretti got out of the chair and stepped from behind the drapery. He realized what a touchy spot he was in, but Boyle’s decision had put him there, and all he could do was play it light, keep the guy in the chinos from panicking. Moretti lifted his cocoa-straw hat and tipped it to the man. Then he held up the binoculars. He watched the man go back to the phone.

  As he picked it up, Moretti began talking fast to gain the initiative. “Listen,” he said, “it’s
not as bad as you think. We got you, but we’re not animals, understand. If nobody’s hurt in there, the rest is easy. Is anybody hurt?”

  He could see the man listening to him. He could even hear his breathing over the telephone line. “Let’s be reasonable people,” Moretti went on. “Let’s not be stupid. Let’s take care of each other, get me? You fold your hands over your head and come out the door. Nobody’s going to shoot y—”

  The line went dead as the man hung up. Son of a bitch. Moretti was cursing himself more than the man. Why had the goddamned manager put him on the line? What was going on over there that made Boyle decide to do it this way? “Lou,” he called back to the insurance man. “Did you get Jerry?”

  The chubby man returned from the rear of the office. “What’s happening?”

  “Nothing, the guy hung up on me.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t have called,” Bagradian suggested. “You could’ve nabbed them when they left the bank.”

  “I gave Boyle that option. He turned it down. What did Jerry tell you?”

  “Said he would—” The insurance man stopped. Sirens sounded in the distance. “I guess that’s them.”

  Moretti nodded. He dialed the precinct-house number. “Abie,” he told the desk sergeant, “it’s Moretti. Get this message on the air to the squad cars coming to the Chase. Tell them to surround the joint and get on my walkie-talkie frequency. Do nothing else. Just take a plant, sit tight, and wait to hear from me. And get some more cars from some other precinct. Okay?”

  Moretti hung up and handed some keys to Bagradian. “There’s a cream-colored Rambler parked behind your office. In the glove compartment pick up two things. A box of cartridges and a walkie-talkie. Understand?”

  The insurance man’s face went very solemn. “Got you, Tony.” He wheeled and made off. The thrill of a lifetime, Moretti thought, watching him march away. He’s going to tell this story for the rest of his life. People!

  “Lou,” he called. “What’s the bank phone number?”

  The chubby man gave it to him, and Moretti dialed again. This time it was answered on the second ring. “Boyle speaking.”

  “Why did you put him on the line?” Moretti demanded. “I’m sorry now I phoned.”

  “You don’t understand what’s—” Moretti saw the telephone being snatched away from the manager.

  “All right, prick,” the man in chinos shouted over the phone. “Keep away from the bank or we start throwing dead ones out the front door. You got that?”

  “Is anybody hurt in there?” Moretti asked calmly.

  “No, but you’re trying, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t want anybody hurt, starting with you,” Moretti assured him. He was keeping his voice level, almost hypnotic. “You’re in a spot, I don’t have to tell you that. But you can get out of it real easy. We’re here to help you. You—” Sirens howled close by, and the line went dead again.

  One squad car pulled up in front of the insurance office, blocking Moretti’s view. He waved the cop driver to move the car along a few yards, and it took several minutes for him to get the message. By then the insurance man was back with the walkie-talkie.

  Moretti switched it on. “This is Moretti. I see Car one oh eight. Where’s the other vehicle? Over.”

  The instrument crackled and hissed for a while. Then: “Car four one four behind the bank. Over.”

  “A robbery is in progress. Two suspects, male, Caucasian, mid-twenties, armed. Have ordered reinforcements. Maintain surveillance. Car four one four report any activity at rear door. Car one oh eight maintain position till further notice. Out.”

  He put the walkie-talkie down on the chair, picked up the phone, and dialed the precinct house. “Moretti. Let me talk to Jerry.” As he waited, he saw that some sort of argument was going on inside the bank. From the way people gestured, faced, and talked, it was clear that the man in the chinos was the leader. The pimp in the fancy suit was the enforcer. He hadn’t entered the argument at all, but Boyle and Marge had.

  “What’s up, Tony?” Jerry’s voice asked.

  “Standoff, for now. Do I get my other cars?”

  “You got four more coming. Plus a traffic detail to close off the street.”

  “I think it ought to be over quick, because they know we’re here and they know they haven’t got a chance. A few more cars ought to help them make up their minds.”

  “Any ID on them?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Tony,” Jerry started, then stopped. After a pause, “Tony, you know it’s the law. This is a national bank. So I had to notify the FBI.”

  “Jesus H. Christ!”

  “I got no choice, Tony,” Jerry whined. “It’s my ass if I don’t.”

  “You couldn’t delay it half an hour?” Moretti demanded. “Half an hour I could talk those two monkeys out of there.”

  “The last time we held up notification we got such a chewing—”

  “Ah, shit,” Moretti cut in. “The whole place will be swarming with Batman and his little Robins. All these Feebies know to do is chuck in tear-gas bombs and shoot whoever comes out.”

  “Tony, it ain’t that bad. It’ll probably be Baker who’s the agent in charge.”

  “Baker? Working with Baker is like working with five pounds of chilled liver.”

  “But at least you’ve worked with him before. It’s easier than some faceless John they send in out of the blue.”

  “Baker,” Moretti repeated. “What did I do to deserve this? The next time I take a personal, you answer the phone. You take the whole case. Okay?”

  “Right, Tony,” Jerry said, laughing. “Give me the number there.”

  Moretti gave him various telephone numbers. As he did, another squad car pulled up, blocking his view of the bank. He waved savagely at the driver and finally got him to back up.

  “Jerry, have somebody pick up a high-powered telescope or something. These binoculars aren’t worth shit. Get Krachmal. He’s supposed to be a lip-reader, right? Send him in here with the telescope. In uniform, Jerry. I want to show lots of blue around here.”

  He hung up and switched his walkie-talkie to “Send.” He was aware that the heavy breathing from behind him was Lou, the insurance man. Just a thrill a minute. “Car six one oh, I read you. The other car, come in for ID and placement. Over.”

  “Car two oh seven, behind the bank. Over.”

  “Okay,” Moretti told them. “Walkie-talkies on ‘Receive’ from here on. The layout is two cars behind, two in front. I want one officer from each to leave the vehicle and move around. Show yourselves. Show your walkie-talkies. Traffic detail will be closing the thoroughfare. At that point, remove riot guns from vehicles and show weapons. Not now. When instructed. Out.”

  “Car one oh eight. Show the weapon now, Sarge? Over.”

  “Negative. Show weapon when instructed. Out.”

  “Car six one oh. Which weapon is that, Sarge?”

  Moretti took a long, steadying breath. “The pump gun. Do not, repeat, do not show pump gun till instructed. Out.”

  Moretti waited for another idiot question, but got none. He opened the front door of the insurance office and stepped out on the street at about the time uniformed men in each car showed themselves. Moretti moved out onto the asphalt.

  The black surface radiated a furnace heat. The soles of his shoes stuck to the tarry stuff with each step. He glanced both ways along the street and saw that roadblocks had already been set up on either side. In the distance, fresh sirens wailed. He could hear a machine-gun sound from somewhere nearby and glanced up.

  Two helicopters hovered over the area, helping the traffic detail reroute cars and trucks. Moretti waved one of the choppers in. It wouldn’t hurt to show the man in the chino slacks what kind of backup forces were being assembled. The police helicopter bobbed lower over Moretti and hung there, sending a fierce downdraft that rattled the brim of Moretti’s hat. He waved the chopper away and it lifted suddenly, as if it were a balloon whose
string had just been cut.

  When he walked back inside the insurance office, the chubby man was on the telephone. “For you, Sarge,” he said.

  Moretti registered the fact that the gravity of the situation had somehow upgraded him from Tony to Sarge. He took the phone. “Detective Sergeant Moretti.”

  “I hear you got yourself a little fracas, kiddo?” The voice was rich, thick with good living, as if filtered past both an expensive cigar and a quality cognac. Moretti recognized the voice of his rabbi, a Tammany hack named Mulvey who still clung to his post as assistant commissioner, the man to whom Moretti owed everything and would like to owe more.

  “Good to hear your voice, Commissioner,” Moretti said. “How’d you get the news?”

  “Good news travels fast.”

  “Good?”

  “Good for you, kiddo,” the man assured him. “This is exactly what you’ve needed for the past few years, publicity. The rest will be a lead-pipe cinch.”

  “If I can get them without anybody being hurt,” Moretti added.

  “I’m counting on you, Tony. You’re my man.” The voice went deeper and richer with fat overtones of patronage. “Just one thing.”

  “I know.”

  “Right. Don’t let those bastards in gray steal the headlines.”

  “It’s Baker again,” Moretti said.

  “You can handle him. He’s not God.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “You have to do better than try, Tony,” the man corrected him. “This isn’t just your career. The honor of the force is riding with you. I don’t have to tell you that, do I?”

  “Commissioner,” Moretti said, “the only thing I can promise is the best goddamned try in the world.”

  There was silence at the other end. “Well, in a sense, I guess that’s all I can ask, Tony,” the man’s fat voice admitted. “But as a human being who has your good at heart, who wants to be able to send you right in there for your lieutenant’s bar, I can’t help but hope for more than a good try.”

  Moretti closed his eyes for a moment against the glare through the plate glass. Why was talking to this man so difficult? Was he saying something the guy didn’t understand, or was it the other way around? He wished they were face to face, but the commissioner had rarely appeared in public since the corruption scare had started.