The prowl car was a Ford, two years old, painted light green and white, with Policewritten in large letters on the doors and hood and trunk. The dashboard lights were green, and there was a small red dot of light, like a ruby, on the radio. Officer Mason wanted a cigarette but couldn’t have one, because Officer Felder, who was driving, was allergic to cigarette smoke. Officer Mason said, “What say we take a break? I could use a smoke.”
“Let me swing down around by the west gate. George is on there tonight.”
“Fine by me.”
They were on Blake Street, east of Raymond Avenue. Officer Felder drove over to Raymond Avenue and turned right, and the west gate to the refinery was six blocks dead ahead.
A few cars were parked along Raymond Avenue, as usual. Between Loomis and Orange Streets,” against the right-hand curb, there was a huge tractor trailer parked. It was brown, all over brown. Officer Mason looked at it and thought to himself, Funny color for a truck.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He got one out, then got his lighter out. He was ready.
They were almost to the gate when the hissing radio suddenly spoke. “Officer Felder, Officer Mason. Officer Felder, Officer Mason.”
Officer Mason looked at it in surprise. What the hell kind of way to talk was that? They were on first-name basis, always. What the hell was this all about?
He grinned and said to Officer Felder, “Old Fred’s gettin’ highfalutin.”
“He’s just kidding around.”
Officer Mason picked up the microphone and said, “Yes, sir, Officer Nieman, what can I do for you, sir?”
“Come on in to the station. Something’s come up.”
“What’s come up?”
“Just get in here. Make it fast.”
There was something funny in Officer Nieman’s voice, some sort of agitation. Officer Mason said, “Okay, Fred, here we come.” He hung up the microphone again and said to Officer Felder, “Something’s sure got him upset. You hear his voice?”
“I heard it.” Officer Felder had already made the turn into Caulkins Street, and was driving toward police headquarters.
“That’s a funny thing,” said Officer Mason.
“What is?”
“Kidding around one minute, then all upset the next.”
“Maybe he wasn’t kidding around. Maybe he got all formal and everything because he was upset already. Got rattled or something.”
“Well, let’s see what it is.”
The police station was a modern building. It, and the fire department building across the street, had both been built five years ago, both with the same architect. They were built of tan brick, broad low buildings one storey high, very similar in appearance except for the wide garage-type doors across half of the fire department building façade. Flanking the police station entrance were large modernistic faceted green lights, and across the street the fire department entrance was flanked by similar lights in red.
Officer Felder pulled to the curb in front of the building, in the No Parking zone, one of the few in town. They both got out of the car and went up the cement walk past the well-tended lawn into the building. They entered upon a hallway, and the Command Room as the architect had called it where Fred Nieman would be, was to the left. It was a large room, with desks along one wall, and a counter in front of the area where the radio and booking desk were located.
They went into the Command Room, and Fred Nieman looked at them from over by the radio. He didn’t stand up or say anything or do anything. He offered them a weak and sheepish smile, and just sat there.
A voice behind them said, quietly, “There’s seven guns on you. Either of you make a single solitary move, you’re dead seven times.”
The two officers froze. Both of them thought immediately that it was some sort of gag, and both looked at Officer Nieman to find a clue in his face. But Nieman’s face was pale and frightened and sheepish, slit by a nervous, ashamed smile.
Footsteps sounded on the black composition flooring, coming from behind them, going to right and to left. Two men came around in front of them, both in dark work clothing, both wearing black hoods, slit three times for eyes and mouth. One of the two was carrying a Thompson submachine gun and had what looked like a walkie-talkie strapped to his back. The other one had a walkie-talkie, too, and carried a rifle.
Mason thought, A war attack. Commies! But even while he was thinking it, he knew that wasn’t it. This was something else. It might even be something worse.
Another black-hooded man, this one with a rifle but no walkie-talkie, stood up from where he’d been crouched beside the radio, out of sight from the door, and said, “Okay, Fred boy, git on over there by your pals.”
Officer Nieman got shakily to his feet and went around the end of the counter and came across the floor toward Mason and Felder. His face was pale, and shone with sweat under the fluorescent lights. A look of apology and shame was all over his face. Mason, watching him, thought Fred might even faint.
A hand came from behind Mason and took the revolver out of his holster. Another hand unarmed Felder.
The one with the machine gun said, “Listen close. For the next few hours, you got nothing to do but sit. You just sit, and don’t get cute ideas, and you’ll be all right. You.” He pointed the machine gun at Mason. “What’s your name?”
“Officer Mason.”
“First name.”
“Jim. James.”
“All right, Jim. You, what’s your name? First name.”
“Albert.”
“They call you Al, or Bert?”
“Al.”
“Okay, Jim, Al, turn around, and do it slow.”
They turned around. There were four more of them back there, hooded, in work clothes, one with another Thompson submachine gun, one with another rifle, and two with revolvers. They were just standing there, pointing all that death at Mason and Felder.
The spokesman said, “All right, Jim, Al, you’ve seen enough. Turn around again.”
They turned around. Mason was trying to think, trying to figure out their game. What the hell was all this?
The spokesman was saying, “Who’s got the prowl car key?”
Felder said, “Me. I have.” Mason was gratified to hear a quaver in Felder’s voice; he didn’t want either of his brother officers to be less frightened than he was, and he was terrified.
“Bring it over here, Al. Hand it to me.”
Felder did as he was told.
“Now go back where you were, Al. The two of you, Al, Jim, get your handcuffs out. Reach them behind you. Don’t turn around, Jim, just reach back. Now put your hands together behind you.”
Mason put his hands behind his back, and felt the cold metal of the cuffs close around his wrists. He looked at Nieman’s face and suddenly realized why Nieman had been so formal when he’d called in; he was trying to warn them.
Mason said, softly, “I’m sorry, Fred, I didn’t get it.”
“Didn’t get what?” It was the one who’d been hidden behind the radio, stepping forward.
Mason closed his mouth. Now he’d done it!
The one with the rifle and the walkie-talkie said, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. Fred’s seen too many movies. He tried to signal these two by calling them by their last names.”
“Son of a bitch!” The one who’d been hidden behind the radio came closer and raised the rifle and slashed at Fred Nieman’s head with the butt. Nieman ducked away, raising his arms, and the rifle butt thudded into his shoulder, knocking him down.
The spokesman said sharply, “Cut that out! We need him.”
“You hear what he tried to pull?”
“It didn’t work. It never does. Fred, how’s your shoulder?”
Nieman sat on the floor, holding his shoulder, and didn’t speak.
The one who’d hit him said, “You better answer, boy, double quick.”
“It’s all right.”
“Good,” said the spokesman. “All right, Al, Jim, come on over this way. Al, lie down between these two desks here. Face down, that’ll be more comfortable, with your hands behind you that way. Jim, you over here between these two desks.”
It was tough to get down without his hands to help him. He dropped to his knees and was stuck, until hands came along to lower him more or less gently the rest of the way. He felt his ankles being tied, and then a new voice said, “Open your mouth, Jim.”
He opened his mouth. A piece of sponge was stuck into it and then a cloth tied around his head, covering his mouth, to keep the sponge in.
He couldn’t see anyone now. All he could see was desk legs and chair legs and the wall. But his ear was pressed against the floor, and he could loudly hear them walking around.
A new voice said, “All right, Fred, get back to the radio. You just sit there, and if a call comes in from anywhere, you handle it like it was a normal night. And don’t try anything else cute. I’ll know if you do.”
It was a familiar voice to Mason, the first familiar voice to come out from one of those black hoods. It was an arrogant voice, and an angry voice, and a familiar voice. Who? Who the hell was it?
All at once he knew, and his terror doubled. He heard the footsteps receding and then the familiar voice saying, “Now we’re alone, boys. Just you three and me. And this Tommy gun.
Edgars! It was Edgars!
2
Chambers felt all right now, all the nervousness gone, all the jumpiness out of his system. All he’d needed was to get started, get intothis thing. From the second he’d clubbed that smart-ass cop, every bit of jitters just washed right on out of him.
They’d left Edgars in there with the cops, and the other six went outside to stand on the lawn. Parker came over and said, “You got that out of your system now?”
“I guess I do. I feel a lot better.”
“Don’t do it any more.”
“Not if I don’t have to.”
“You don’t have to club anybody. Watch them if they behave, kill them if they cause trouble. Nothing in between.”
“All right by me.”
“Good. Everybody set?”
Everybody said they were set. Chambers felt a small irritation, at being chewed out by Parker right there where everybody could hear, but he shrugged it off. Minor irritations couldn’t bother him now. He felt good.
Parker had propped the Tommy against the outer wall of the police station, and had unlimbered the walkie-talkie. Chambers looked across the street at the fire department building, waiting, and behind him Parker said, “Salsa. You set up?” His voice had an echo, tinny and small, coming out of the walkie-talkie on Grofield’s back.
Then it was Salsa’s voice, coming over both of them: “Set. I’m in a car on Raymond Avenue, facing out, right side as you are going out of town, one block in from that welcome sign.”
“Anybody come in since us?”
“Not in or out.”
“All right. Wycza?”
“Here.”
“We got police headquarters. Going after the firehouse now. If you see the prowl car, don’t worry. I’ll be driving it.”
Wycza laughed, and said, “Want us to start now?”
“Wait till we’ve got the firehouse and the telephone company. I’ll let you know.”
“Right.”
Chambers had been fidgeting back and forth, standing in the darkness on the police station lawn. Now he said, “Come on, Parker, let’s roll it. We don’t got all night.”
“Don’t be so nervous.”
“Then let’s just roll, what do you say?”
“All right.”
The six of them walked over the lawn and the sidewalk and crossed the street, Chambers in the lead, the rifle held at a loose approximation of port arms. His face was sweating, making the hood stick to his flesh, but he didn’t really mind that. Just so they were moving.
Too bad Ernie wasn’t here.
Four big garage doors, painted red, across the front of the building in a row. To the right of them was the regular entrance, flanked by red lights. Like a cat house; Chambers grinned under the hood, feeling his skin stretch.
Chambers and Parker were in the lead when they went in. A hall went ahead and then turned right. After the turn, it ran straight and long, but only the nearest fluorescent light was lit, leaving the rest of the hall in darkness. The first door at the right was open, spilling more light into the hall.
Two men in dark blue uniforms had been sitting on opposite sides of a desk, playing cards. They stared, dropped their cards, and jumped clumsily to their feet. One of them kicked his chair over, getting up.
It was a room very similar to the Command Room in police headquarters, but a little smaller, with fewer desks, fewer pieces of electronic equipment, and less open floor space. Lined around the walls were framed photographs of groups of men standing in front of fire engines, some horse-drawn.
Chambers moved to the left of the door and sensed Parker moving to the right. This was the part he liked, moving fast and moving sure, moving like the pieces of a clock. Let somebody else make the plans; all Chambers wanted was to know his own part in it.
Parker was saying, “You don’t have to raise your hands, you aren’t armed. You, what’s your name?”
“Dee Deegan.”
“First name.”
“George.”
“And you?”
“Johanson, William Johanson.”
“They call you Bill or Will?”
“Uh, Bill.”
“All right, Bill, George, just pay attention.”
While Parker gave them the spiel, using their first names a lot, telling them how nothing would happen to them if they didn’t try nothing stupid, Chambers moved around and pulled a chair out from a desk with his foot and sat down. He kept the rifle level, hoping one of these bastards would make a run for it or something; he’d do just like Parker said, he’d gun him down in a second. But he knew neither of them would try anything; both paunchy geeks in their fifties, scared so bad they had to change their drawers.
Chambers wasn’t so sure about Parker. He was supposed to be sharp and cool and efficient and all that, but Chambers wasn’t so sure. What was all this crap about the first names? Who cared what kind of first names these stupes had? It was a waste of time.
When Parker was done, Grofield and Phillips came up and hogtied the one named Johanson William Johanson, tieing wrists and ankles and gagging him. Then Parker said to the other one, “How many men on tonight?”
“Fuh four.”
“Including you two?”
“Oh, no. I’m sorry. S-s-six.”
“All right, George, just relax. Nobody’s going to hurt you. Where are the other four?”
“Down the hall. They’re asleep, mister.”
“We’ll wake them easy. Which room?”
“Last two on the left.”
“Thanks, George.” Parker turned his head and spoke to Chambers. “We’ll let you know when it’s clear.”
“Sure thing.”
Parker and the others went out to tie and gag the other four sleeping beauties, and Chambers said, sarcastically, “Okay, now, George, just sit right down there. Right there where you were.”
George sat down.
“What kind of card game was that, George?”
“Gin.”
“Gin. Is that right? You got any of that other kind of gin here, George? You know the kind I mean?”
“No, we don’t. I’m sorry, we don’t have anything like that.”
“That’s a real pity, George.” Chambers grabbed the bottom of his hood, just under his chin, and flapped it, to get some air inside. “This is a real nice firehouse you got here, George,” he said.
“What are you people going to do?”
“Oh, now, don’t go asking questions. Remember what happened to that curious cat.”
Chambers stretched, and then set the rifle down on the
desktop beside him, where it was handy. He said, “You know what you’re supposed to do, you get any kind of call, right?”
“Yes. I know.”
“Good boy, George. I sure do wish you had some of that other kind of gin.”
“I’m sorry. How how long is this going to be? I mean, before you let us go.”
“Curiosity, George.”
“But what if there’s a fire?”
“Why, we’ll just toast marshmallows, George.” Chambers laughed, and stuck a hand up under his hood to wipe the sweat from his face.
Parker stuck his head in and said, “Clear. We’re moving on now.”
“Have a good time, y’all.”
“We’ll keep you posted. By phone.”
Parker went out again.
This was the dull part. From now on, just sitting and waiting, this was going to be the dull part. If Ernie was here, they could Indian wrestle or something. He should of asked to be put on the truck detail, instead of Wycza. Let Wycza sit here all night.
He looked at George, speculatively, trying to find a sign in George’s face to indicate he might maybe try something pretty soon, make life interesting somehow. But there was no sense even hoping; George just wasn’t the heroic type, that’s all there was to it.
He stretched again. He wished he could take the hood off, but he couldn’t. He’d taken one fall, and his picture was on file. A dumb fall. Him and Ernie, seventeen years of age for him and nineteen for Ernie, they were just razzing this clown with the tape recorder, down having old rumpots sing folk songs into it, and someway or other it all got out of hand, and when they were done they hadn’t just beat the tape recorder in with lumber chunks like they’d intended, they’d beat the clown in, too. Then they had no more sense but to go right straight on home, and get picked up by the sheriff the next morning. Nobody much believed their story about stopping the clown from trying to rape some little girl that run away and likely too mortified to come forward and testify, but they stuck to the story anyway and got smaller sentences than they might of otherwise. Eight years apiece, for manslaughter. Out in less than three years.
There was a time, once, when three years in a state pen couldn’t hurt anybody, but that time’s long gone. Go look for a job, and the paperwork starts. When was you in the army? Why not? Where were you instead? What were you in the pen for? We’ll call you if there’s an opening.
The Score p-5 Page 8