Operation Whiplash

by Dan J. Marlowe

  Close to the door, the bottom half of a man stuck out from under the differential housing of a double-wheel drive tractor. Another man was up on its running board next to the forward-tilted cab, peering down at its massive diesel engine. A third man with a welding mask was at a workbench along the wall where he was using an acetylene torch to cut through a piece of metal. Golden sparks flowed away from the blue-hot cutting point as the flame burned through sheet steel. I realized now that the outer door had probably been raised to provide additional circulation of air.

  With the working trio inside, the garage didn’t look promising as an entranceway. The alley hadn’t looked any better. Four rungs of a straight ladder extended down from the fire escape platform I’d noticed previously, stopping at the second floor level. I’d need as much spring as an Olympic high-jumper to reach the lowest rung that was easily six feet above my extended reach. The way it sagged away from the building, the whole fire escape structure didn’t seem too safe, anyway.

  Swirling blobs of heavier fog were blowing along the street. There was no foot traffic at all, and the occasional passing car or truck was merely a misty-looking set of headlights going by. Inside the garage, there was the hiss and sizzle of the cutting torch, the clanking of tools on concrete, and a background sound of raucously-pitched radio music. Everyone seemed busy.

  I crouched low and sprinted past the door opening to the other side where I could survey the working area in more detail. The music came from a grease-smeared, once-white plastic radio perched on a shelf above the workbench where the welder was at work. The volume was turned up so high that, combined with the other maintenance shop noise, a metal-tracked M-551 tank could have been driven into the garage unheard.

  I moved along the building wall to the outer door of the dispatcher’s office. It had a simple lock that yielded to a few seconds’ persuasion from my little mother’s helper. I closed the door from the inside. Six steps led upward to the warehouse first floor level. I was standing in a wide corridor, flanked on the right by a wall containing a row of waist-high windows that looked down upon the lighted maintenance shop. On the left was a row of offices, also with glass-topped partitions. All were dark, but enough light streamed inward from the shop so I could see the interiors.

  The office nearest to me had an opening where a serving counter projected. It looked like the place where freight bills and load manifests were prepared. The next office in line displayed manually-operated desk-top adding machines and comptometers. The type of machines made it plain that, despite its size, the Deakin Trucking Company was a long way from computer automation.

  The last office in the row was fitted out with much less furniture that was of much higher quality. It looked like the executive office for the head honcho who ran the operation. I picked the door-lock. On the desk was a framed picture of Mario Rubelli and a pretty girl in wedding dress.

  Anything about Rubelli’s business interested me. The quality of the office furniture didn’t extend to the plunger locks on the pair of four drawer files that stood against the far wall. Office furniture manufacturers will use heavy steel construction, fire-resistant insulation, silent-running nylon rollers, and expensive wood-grain or decorator-color finishes on their products, yet use the cheapest locks to safeguard a file’s contents.

  I tilted back a file cabinet and propped up a front corner with a heavy glass ashtray I took from Rubelli’s desk. I applied pull-pressure on the top drawer next to the plunger lock with one hand, then drove the butt of my fist against the file about two inches below the point where the plunger rested flush against the outer file frame. The drawer popped out with just a slight click when the thud of my fist jarred the file.

  A quick search revealed nothing except ordinary-looking business papers. I did no better with the other drawers in the file. I turned to the second one and opened it with the same simple pull-pressure-and-impact technique. In the third drawer I found a lockbox, and I went for it like a homing pigeon heading for the roost.

  It took me three tries to pick the strongbox lock which was almost secure enough to justify its salesmen’s claims. Inside were bundles of canceled checks and a dozen file folders. I wished I had a Minox as I eyed the checks, but even if I had one I didn’t have the time. I riffled through the file folders. I pulled two of them, one that had a tab-heading saying espada and another with a bright-red tab saying Andrews. I moved to a corner of the office where I was least likely to be visible to anyone outside, yet an area where there was still light enough for me to read.

  The espada file I disposed of quickly. Nothing in it was dated more recently than three years ago. The Andrews file was considerably different. It seemed to prove that the Andrews Trading Company, Hazel Andrews, President, was actively engaged in shipping unregistered arms to Central and South America. It wasn’t hard to figure that this was the club Colisimo intended to use to whip Hazel into line until Rubelli’s goons overdid it by killing Nate Pepperman, whose signature was on many of the papers in the folder. Once again I had the feeling that Colisimo almost had to have developed a feeling of irritation lately toward Mario Rubelli.

  I wondered if there were any arms in the warehouse now. I had no doubt they were being shipped from this very location. I took the two folders and shoved them up under my sweater, tucking the bottom halves into the waistband of my pants to hold them securely while leaving my hands free.

  I left the office and moved across the corridor. I stood in shadow about five feet back from the windows on the shop side so I could look down into the work area. The torch man had finished his job and was entering a washroom near the rear of the maintenance area. It was located next to a heavy-duty freight elevator. The elevator’s picket-fencelike door was raised, exposing its wide, scarred platform. It was designed to accept loads either from inside or through a door that led out onto the alley over which the rotting fire escape hung. I saw now why the final descent ladder of the fire escape was so short; it had been cut off to allow present-day high trailer bodies to pass beneath it and reach the elevator in the rear.

  The other two mechanics were still busily engaged with the partially dismantled tractor rig. I felt sure I would have no interference from these three workmen while I inspected the rest of the warehouse. I moved beyond the row of offices, out onto the warehouse floor. The first thing I noticed was that the vast storage area was relatively neat compared to the building’s dingy exterior.

  Huge strapped crates, cartons, and boxes were arranged in painted, coded squares on this first floor, leaving wide aisles to permit pallets to be moved about. The open area between the rear of the offices and the first stacks of merchandise was as large as a tennis court. An array of fork-lifts and nested handtrucks were clustered around one of the large support columns that were regularly spaced about every twenty feet.

  There was nothing for me here. This was transient goods. I was looking for something stored more permanently, and certainly not as openly exposed as this material awaiting reshipment. I walked noiselessly on my crepe-soled shoes to the rear of the building where broad concrete stairs adjacent to the freight elevator led to the upper floors in switchback fashion. The concrete flooring on the second floor was gritty underfoot. Years of use had worn off its once-smooth surface.

  The second floor was darker, but I could see well enough. Paralleling the back wall stood three long rows of metal lockers of the type normally found in school gymnasium dressing-rooms. Each had a padlock affixed to it. Nearby lay a large quantity of four-inch, black plastic pipe, each section at least sixteen feet long. Isolated in an area I judged to be right over the maintenance shop was a considerable quantity of used restaurant equipment.

  I climbed another flight of steel-capped concrete stairs to the third floor. It smelled musty and unused, despite the damp, chill breeze with wisps of fog seeping in through the ill-fitting windows. This floor was wooden, and it felt warped and splintered under my feet. The ceiling was no more than ten feet high, so the sills of th
e still-intact windows along the front of the building were at chest level. I started toward them, and then my toe kicked something on the floor that skittered away with a metallic clatter.

  I froze, then stood still for a full thirty seconds, listening. All I could hear were the woeful strains of a Smoky Mountain ballad floating up the elevator shaft. I crouched and felt around for the object I had kicked. It was rectangular, made of sheet metal, and my questing fingers found on its outside a thick-feeling, oxidation-resistant paint. For anyone who had fired as many guns as I have, the shape, size, and construction of the metal box were a dead giveaway: it was the protective liner from a small-caliber ammunition container. Scattered around it on the floor were the cigarette butts, burned matches, and crushed paper cups it had contained before I kicked it over.

  Where there’s ammo there’s bound to be guns. I hadn’t found them because Colisimo was too clever to keep them in an unlicensed, unbonded warehouse in their original, easily-identifiable packaging. The second and third floors contained little that was large enough for the purpose, except the gymnasium lockers on the second floor. The rows of innocent-looking lockers could very well fill Colisimo’s need for concealment.

  I eased down the stairs and approached the louver-doored lockers. I opened the first padlock with Ruby Hernandez’ pick and torque wrench in shorter time than a high-school student could have done it with the proper key. Standing up on end inside the locker was a long, narrow wooden box that barely fitted inside the tall, narrow locker. I wrestled it out onto the cement floor, then attacked the wing nuts clamping the lid to the body of the box. Again the overall shape and weight was a giveaway: even before I had the cover off I knew the box was fitted with a built-in rack containing arms ready for shipment. When I removed the lid, the light filtering upward from the ground floor disclosed an even dozen M-16 U.S. Army rifles, each in its own individual airtight plastic bag.

  I opened three more randomly-selected lockers and inspected the boxes each contained. The arsenal appeared to be evenly divided between the M-16s and Browning.50 caliber machine-guns. I found no ammunition. It was even money the ammo was already wending its way southward in the hold of a tramp steamer or an innocuous-looking shrimp boat, and that the weapons were next.

  It was time to leave.

  I moved to the front of the building and went from window to window until I found one where the missile-shielding slats nailed to the outer frame had a gap between them wide enough for me to reconnoiter the street. The fog had become even more dense, obscuring visibility for any distance. An approaching pair of automobile headlights burned a path through the mist on my right, and for a moment I thought it might be the police cruiser I’d seen previously, making another loop on its appointed rounds.

  But it wasn’t the cruiser. The car, a dark sedan, passed underneath my window, slowed abruptly, and swung into the alleyway between the warehouse and the wrecking yard fence. The turn was made with a dexterity and speed indicating the driver had made it many times before.

  I left the window and ran to the alley side of the building. It was a solid brick wall interrupted only by the necessary thick metal fire door that slid sideways on tracks and provided access to the fire escape. It was secured from the inside by an ordinary drop-lock sliding bolt.

  Pushing aside the heavy door took nearly all my strength. It was purposely weighted and mounted on an inclined track to keep it closed. I forced it open far enough to insert a shoulder and my head through the opening. When I looked downward through the intervening bars of the fire escape’s two iron platforms between me and the alley-bed, I saw four men get out of the car I’d seen. It was now parked near the end of the alley.

  “I don’t know why Bolts wants the stuff checked out right now, but get with it,” the first man out of the car rasped. “I got other fish to fry tonight.”

  The speaker was Mario Rubelli.

  Two of the other three were the goon-pair who had guarded the rear exit of the Barbarossa Restaurant the night before.

  And once again I had become the meat in a sandwich.

  nine

  The foursome stood bunched together at the front of the car as though waiting for something. “Wasn’t that the damndest thing last night that Bolts thought you killed Robin, Mario?” a voice floated up from the alley. The query was punctuated by a nervous laugh.

  “What the hell, he’s so shit-scared the feds are onto the setup here he can’t think straight,” Rubelli growled. “He’s gettin’ old. Where the hell is the goddam man on the door?”

  “Prob’ly asleep,” someone said.

  “If he is, I’ll fricassee his ears with my cigarette lighter,” Rubelli threatened.

  Nobody replied. Rubelli sounded as though his nerves were giving him a bad time. “Maybe I should go around—ahhhhhh, there it is!” a different voice said.

  Just before the “abhhhh” sounded, a bright floodlight came on above my head at the building’s third-floor level. I hadn’t noticed it when I’d examined the fire escape. The sudden brilliance startled me. One of Rubelli’s men had already started to enter a door that opened in the side of the building when I instinctively jerked back inside. The smooth metal surface of the fire door slipped out of my grasp, and the heavy door slammed shut with a booming crash.

  “What the hell was that?” I could hear Rubelli demand although the closed door muffled his voice.

  “I thought I saw someone pull back inside the second-floor fire door, Mario,” someone answered him. “I anyways saw a shadow move.”

  “Leave the back buttoned up, Frank,” Rubelli directed excitedly. “There shouldn’t be no one on that second floor. Chris, you ride the elevator up to the third floor an’ head him off from above. Frank, you an’ I will go up the stairs inside. Tony, make sure he don’t get into the garage an’ grab a truck.”

  I could hear the thud-thud of heels in the alley below as three men ran toward the front of the building. I was almost sure the mechanics were legitimate and I wouldn’t need to be concerned about them. That still left four-to-one odds.

  I didn’t want to be trapped between men above and below me, so I dashed to the stairwell and raced up the wide steps two at a time until I reached the third level. I could hear the whine of the rising elevator as I ran toward it. The elevator’s wheezing ascent would cover any noise I made. I stood to one side of the closed wooden gate and waited.

  The elevator stopped with a thud. The gate slid upward in comparative silence. Nothing happened for a moment, and then the wary Chris stepped forth onto the wooden floor, gun in hand. He peered into the darker corners of the largely barren area, the pale blur of his face the only movement.

  My automatic had been in my hand since my third two-steps-at-a-time stride up the stairwell. Chris had just taken a prudent few steps to the side to place the wall at his back from which position he undoubtedly intended to circle the warehouse floor. I pinched a quarter out of my pocket be tween thumb and forefinger, then flipped it out in front of the gunman.

  He fired three times at the sound, his over-anxious finger freezing to the trigger. Stabbing bursts of flame punctuated by the crack-crack-crack of his weapon placed him perfectly for me. The sound of my single shot blended with his third, and the reverberating echoes of the gunfire were still resounding in the vaulted space when Chris pitched forward heavily.

  There was dead silence for a moment.

  “Chris?” I heard Rubelli’s questioning voice carry then from the floor below. “Didja get him, Chris?”

  “Yuh,” I grunted. “Sure.”

  I tiptoed toward the stairwell soundlessly. I left the gate up on the elevator to immobilize it. I eased myself down to the second-floor landing but didn’t turn the corner for fear I’d be exposing myself to a second-floor crossfire. I reached my arm around the corner, automatic in hand, and exposed just enough of my head for a quick glimpse of the greater portion of the second-floor area.

  I couldn’t see anyone, but I could hear whispers. �
��That sure as hell didn’t sound like Chris,” the man Rubelli called Frank husked in a rasping whisper.

  “Don’t stay so close to me,” Rubelli returned in a less cautious voice. “Spread out.” He raised his voice. “Tony, y’hear me? Drive a truck around an’ plug the alley with it. Jesus, lookit the guns all over the floor! We can’t let this bastard get away.” He had lowered his voice as he apparently addressed this remark to Frank, but now he raised it again. “Chris! Answer me, Chris!”

  The better light on the second floor had enabled me to locate Rubelli even before his shout to Chris. His body was shielded behind a large crate except for the top slope of one shoulder. I had to hurry now. Unless I wanted to shoot my way out a flight of stairs at a time, the alley was my only exit. I didn’t want it plugged by a big jimmy-diesel.

  I lined my sights up on the exposed tip of Rubelli’s shoulder, then fired. He yelped loudly. “Sonofabitch!” he got out in a half-gasp. “He nailed me in the shoulder!”

  A fusillade of shots swarmed toward the stairwell, my position having been disclosed by my gun-flash. Richocheting bullets whined viciously and flying cement chips stung my face. I waited until the firing stopped, then inched my arm and head around the corner again.

  Rubelli was behind the crate again, but with his gun hand extended around it. I fired. Rubelli screamed as the slug ripped into his wrist and arm. He sounded half out of his mind with pain and rage. His gun clattered across the cement floor. “Goddamit, I’ll kill the mother! Throw me your gun, Frank! D’you hear me? THROW ME YOUR GODDAM GUN!”

  He was on his knees, leaning out incautiously from the crate. I could see a quarter of his body and all of his head. I leveled the automatic, and then I saw something I didn’t believe. A man appeared behind Rubelli with a gun aimed at Rubelli’s unknowing head. The gun fired, and Rubelli’s head seemed almost to jump off his shoulders. It must have been a magnum. Rubelli’s face was the first part of his body to touch the concrete.