“See me after work, motherfucker,” Linc said. “Then we see.”
Cole spat on the ground close to Linc’s boot, then backed up a step and smiled. He was missing a front tooth.
“After work you ain’t gonna have ol’ Uncle Henry to protect you,” he said, doing his best “sissy imitation.”
“Back off, man,” Rick said. “You’re outta line.”
“Don’t you even talk to me, you white motherfucker!” Cole said.
Rick started to move forward, but Linc put his hand on Rick’s chest. Cole’s lower lip thrust out as he drew back the hand with the bottle.
“Come on, nigger,” he growled.
Linc smiled disarmingly and shook his head. Then his left lashed out, smashing into Cole’s face. Linc stepped to the side and grabbed the bigger man’s right arm, pulling it up and back, twisting the brown bag out of his hand. Cole stumbled backward, lurching to try and maintain his footing. He managed a roundhouse swing at Linc, who only had to move his head slightly to avoid the blow. Linc slapped Cole’s face with a flicking left jab, then snapped a right hand over the top that sent him onto the seat of his pants.
“You want some more?” Linc asked.
Cole licked his lips with a bloody tongue, then shook his head.
“Good,” Linc said.
“What the fuck’s going on here?” Henry said, walking briskly over to the men. “Whose is this?” he asked, kicking the bottle in the bag lightly with his toe. Nobody spoke as Henry looked at each man in the group. His gaze centered on Cole, who was getting to his feet dusting himself off.
“I tripped,” Cole said.
“Like hell,” Henry said. He looked at Cole, then back to Linc. “That right?”
Linc nodded.
“Then all you motherfuckers can get back to work,” Henry boomed, walking back toward the trailer. “Lunchtime’s over, as of now.”
The men started gathering up their stuff. Rick pulled close to Linc and said, “I think that was a mistake. I don’t trust that guy.” He nodded at Cole. “He might make trouble for us later.”
“Booker knows better now,” Linc said, slipping on his helmet.
Henry bellowed out to him, “Phone call,” and looked at his watch.
Linc bumped his shoulder into Cole’s, but the larger man did nothing. Running to the trailer. Linc grabbed the cellular phone that his uncle had left sitting on the steps.
“Linc, it’s me,” Diane said.
“Yeah, baby, what’s up?”
“We are,” she said, her voice vibrant with excitement. “Have you heard what’s happening downtown?”
“Yeah, we got caught up in the traffic.”
“And they sent all of us home early. There’s no power or alarms or phones or anything,” she said, stressing the last few words.
“Nothing?” he said. “Because of the flood?”
“Yeah,” she said. “The lower basement in the bank’s filled with water. And you know what else?”
“What?”
“If there’s no power, then there’s no time lock. It won’t re-set. And the battery back-up system’s only good for twelve hours.” The rapture in her tone was almost palpable. “It’s just like a miracle for us, baby.”
Oh Lord, he thought. Oh, Lord.
After talking with Linc on the phone, Diane took the bus down to the Sportmart way down on Ninety-fifth Street. She had the list that Linc and Rick had drawn up weeks ago when they first started planning it. All fun and games, like they never expected to actually get the chance to really do it. Like the punks who talk shit that they’ve had so many women, then, when they get their drawers off they’re really cherries.
The bus lurched as the driver slowed so he could pick up another chump. Diane watched him get on, fishing the exact change out of his pocket. Who did they think they were, demanding that you had to get exact change before they’d let you ride on their stinking bus? She held onto the metal pole, still standing because there were no seats, and none of those assholes sitting down could even spell “gentlemen,” much less stand up and give her their seat.
Well, fuck this, she thought. Once they got the money, she’d never have to ride on the motherfucking bus again. Just settle on some island in the Caribbean and play the rich bitch. Everybody’d be calling her Lady Di then. The thought brought a smile to her face that lingered as she got off, and went into the store. After grabbing a cart, she collared one of those walking salespeople and made him help her find everything on the list. Not that he seemed to mind. He was a young white guy, barely out of his teens, and kind of cute. He seemed kind of taken with her, too. She’d never been with a white boy, unless you counted that fat, middle-aged motherfucker Fielding at the bank. But even that had been worth it to get her promotion to assistant of the vault department. Amazing what a couple blowjobs could do. But she was through with all that too, now. It was time to think of other things, like what she was going to do once she had all that money. If she got tired of Linc, there’d be time for lots of men. Whatever kind she wanted. But one thing she knew for sure. Once this thing was over, she’d never want for another thing in her life. Not ever.
“How many feet of this nylon rope you want, ma’am?” the sales kid asked her.
“Whatever it says on the list,” Diane answered.
“It says three-thousand feet. You sure you want that much?”
“If that’s what it says,” she said, thinking she’d probably have to take a cab home with this load of shit.
The kid scratched his head and began measuring it off.
“I’ll see how much I got here. Might have to go in back. This for rappelling or something?” he asked.
“What?”
“I was just wondering what all this stuff was for,” he said. “You got D-rings, lanterns, flashlights, and batteries on this list. You going mountain climbing or something?”
Diane smiled her prettiest smile before she answered. “Treasure hunting,” she said. “We’re going treasure hunting.”
CHAPTER 5
Tuesday, April 14, 1992
12:35 A.M.
Linc lay naked on top of the covers next to Diane, who was curled against him, her fingers gently rubbing his chest. He reached up to the headboard and grabbed the remote, bringing the volume up slightly as Arsenio Hall made his last-minute quips about who’d be on tomorrow night’s show. The re-broadcast of the ten o’clock news would be next and Linc wanted to be sure he caught it all.
He and Rick had driven downtown in Uncle Henry’s pumper-truck, sort of half-assed hoping that something would happen to spoil things so they wouldn’t really have to go all the way and break into the fucking place. Something happened, all right. There were motherfucking cops on every corner, walking big-ass police dogs around. They hadn’t even gotten up to the place when one of the honkey cops directing traffic at a roadblock flagged them down and gave them the third degree.
“What you guys doing down here?” the cop had asked, shining his flashlight into Linc’s face.
“We’re supposed to be doing some pumpin’," Linc said, pointing his thumb back toward the generator and pumping machinery in the back of Uncle Henry’s truck.
“You got your work permit?” the cop asked.
“Didn’t know we needed one,” Linc said.
“Yeah. You gotta get that before I can let you through here.”
A big Commonwealth Edison truck rumbled up to the roadblock and the cop waved it through. Linc and Rick looked at each other.
“Okay, officer,” Linc said. “We’ll go back to the boss and tell him he got to get his shit straight.”
The cop grinned and stepped back.
“You do that,” he said.
That was when they realized that they needed to fine-tune their plan.
The credits faded and they announced that the following was a re-broadcast of The Ten O’clock News. Linc and Diane both sat up as Bill Kurtis and Linda MacClennan came on and began talking about the flood. Aft
er a quick explanation of what seemed to have caused it: some pylons were driven into the wrong place near the Kinzie Street Bridge, flooding the old freight tunnels under the city, the picture shifted to one of their reporters in the street. Against the backdrop of scenes that showed the chronology of the disaster, the reporter described how the Loop was virtually shut down by mid-morning.
“That ain’t no lie,” Linc said.
Diane shushed him, shooting an angry glance his way before looking back at the TV. Linc frowned in silence as she perked up and fixed her eyes on the screen. She sure was acting strange since this flood thing. Like breaking into this fucking bank was the only thing that mattered anymore, badgering him every second about doing it. Christ, he wished she’d leave it alone for a while. He stared at her a moment more, before he, too, turned his attention back to the newscast.
“So can we expect things to return to normal anytime soon?” he heard Bill Kurtis ask the on-scene reporter.
“It looks really doubtful, Bill,” the other guy said. The camera focused on the Kinzie Street Bridge area, still all lit up with people swarming around it like busy hornets.
“There. See?” Linc said. “I told you they wasn’t gonna get things straightened out anytime soon. Now will you just be cool.”
She kept staring at the TV, shaking her head.
“I sure hope you’re right,” she said after awhile. “We ain’t never gonna get another chance like this. I mean, it’s all just so perfect.” She turned and looked into his face, studying his eyes before she spoke again. “You are sure you and Rick will be able to do it, aren’t you?”
“Quit worrying, baby,” Linc said. “You’re talking to the man who done whupped old Saddam Hussein’s ass.” He stretched his arms around her and rolled her on her back, then began kissing her neck. “The next time we make love,” he said, his hand reaching down to spread her dark thighs, “we’ll be doin’ it on top of a million bucks.”
Tuesday, April 14, 1992
11:46 A.M.
Tommy Del Bianco glanced up at the video flight monitor showing the arrival times of the various airlines into O’Hare. Delta 245 was due in from New Orleans at 11:40 at gate K-10 of Terminal three. The little blinking light next to the flight number showed that it had already landed. Tommy extinguished his cigarette and went down the corridor toward the gates. He had to remove all his keys and coins before going through the metal detectors, and the fact that he wasn’t packing his piece disturbed him. So did the fact that the boss had sent for this out-of-town asshole from Louisiana. What the hell, did the old man figure he couldn’t handle it? He made up his mind as he strode down the long corridor that he wasn’t going to take no shit off this guy, no matter if the boss had sent for him or not.
What the fuck, he thought. This cracker’s coming into my back yard to handle things, making it look like I don’t know what I’m doing.
Christ, that was enough to piss off the Pope.
At the gate, people were already starting to come through the doorway from the plane. Most of them stretching and looking around for someone to meet them. Tommy stepped up and leaned both elbows against the information desk, then decided that this pose didn’t look tough enough. Maybe he should be standing straight when this fucker walked off the plane. A tough Chicago guy. Yeah, that was it. He straightened up, slipped on his sunglasses, and pressed a cigarette between his lips.
“I’m sorry, sir, but there’s no smoking in this area,” some uniformed black broad said to him. Tommy turned and started to tell her that she could go fuck herself, then remembered that the boss had told him explicitly not to do anything that would call attention to himself or the visitors. Tommy just smiled and mumbled an apology, replacing the cigarette into his pack. Suddenly he heard a voice say: “At least y’all had the good manners not to say, ‘What are you gonna do, arrest me for smokin?’ like that gal did in that Basic Instinct movie where she forgot her panties.” The voice seemed to glide slowly over the vowels, like a man contemplating the weight of each syllable. Tommy glanced up and saw the owner of the voice moving toward him. The guy was about forty, but pretty fit-looking. He was somewhere around six feet, but his hair, which was completely white and slicked back into a pompadour, made him look taller. His suit was dark gray and he had on cowboy boots and one of those western-type string ties. The guy stuck out his right hand and Tommy shook it, suddenly aware of the power in the southerner’s grip.
“Am I correct in assuming that ya’ all must be Mr. Del Bianco?” the man said.
“Yeah,” Tommy said. “All of me is.”
If the guy was pissed that Tommy had just made fun of the southern accent he didn’t show it. He just said, “I’m Vincent Phillip Germaine.” After he finished shaking hands with Tommy, Germaine made this little half-step backwards and held out his other hand, palm-up. “And this is my good friend and associate, Mr. Queen.”
Tommy looked past him and saw an enormous black guy in a dark brown suit with close-cropped haircut and a chest about the size of a refrigerator.
“Pleased to meet ya,” Tommy said, extending his hand to show how he wasn’t intimidated by some big nigger-helper. The black man just glanced down at Tommy’s hand, then back up to his face, his eyes looking like two huge brown marbles in his dark face.
“Mr. Queen, or Gumbo as I like to call him, prefers to keep his hands free at all times,” Germaine said with a smile as Tommy slowly let his outstretched hand drop.
“Yeah, right,” Tommy answered. He turned and started walking back down the corridor. “You guys got luggage follow me,” he said over his shoulder.
After claiming two black suitcases on the lower level, Tommy led them over to the escalators. In front of the terminal they walked past the porters who eyed them expectantly, and Tommy flagged down a taxi. Germaine and Gumbo got in back. Tommy opened the front passenger door and gave the driver his best sneer, just in case the fucker was thinking about saying something about him riding up front. The driver, some fat-faced white guy, kept his trap shut, except for asking them where they wanted to go. Tommy gave him the address. The cab eased into traffic and picked up speed as it crested the ramp leading to the expressway.
Germaine glanced out the window at the fading airport and the heavily industrialized scenery of the surrounding area.
“I always enjoy coming to your fair city, gentlemen,” he said. “In many ways it reminds me of my home.” His voice seemed to drip mint julep, and Tommy frowned to himself as he thought again how wrong the boss was for thinking that he needed these out-of-town clowns to handle things.
The cabbie took Irving Park Road to Harlem and fought traffic pretty well until arriving at their destination, a restaurant on Diversey. Tommy paid the fare and got out. He lit up a cigarette and looked around as the cabbie opened the trunk for the luggage. When the cab had taken off, Tommy pointed to a dark blue Lincoln Town Car with tinted windows in the rear, parked near the doors to the restaurant. The men moved toward it, and Tommy fished out the keys and hit the alarm-deactivation button. He went to the driver’s side and said, after taking a drag on his cigarette, “It’s open.”
Germaine slipped into the rear seat and Gumbo managed to squeeze his body into the back too. He put both suitcases on the front seat next to Tommy, then situated himself off to the right so the view in the rear-view mirror wouldn’t be blocked. Tommy went south on Harlem until he got to Grand Avenue, then turned west. Who did these fuckers think they were, sitting in back and treating him like some kind of flunky, he thought as he drove, periodically glancing in the mirrors to make sure no one was following them. Occasionally he would catch sight of the big man in the back seat. Germaine continued to rattle on.
“As I mentioned before, I always enjoy coming to this city,” he said. “There’s so much history here. The first atomic bomb, Al Capone, the Untouchables, the Democratic National Convention of ‘68... Of course you look a might young to remember that one.”
Tommy smirked. Maybe he’d ge
t a chance to show this shit-kicker some real moves before this whole thing was finished. He swung the Lincoln into the driveway of a factory and jerked to a stop. A uniformed security guard peered out the window of the gate shack as Tommy lowered the driver’s side window. The guard nodded and went out to open the gate, which was a cyclone-fence mounted on heavy metal hinges that swung inward. Three strands of barbed wire ran along the top of the fence all the way around. A brick building was set perhaps fifty feet away, across an asphalt parking lot. The building had windows along the front side, but they were covered with metal grates and their surfaces showed the reflective mirror-like finish of one-way glass. Tommy drove up to a foyer that had an expansive overhang. The sign on the front of the building said Franklin Meat Packing. Tommy got out and went to the front doors. Germaine and Gumbo trailed behind him.
Inside, the foyer section was set up like a waiting room. Several offices were visible beyond a long, cubicle-like station. A uniformed female security guard, a pretty redhead, sat behind the desk watching them come in. She smiled as they entered and said that Mr. Costelli was waiting for them. Tommy grinned and gave a little wave for Germaine to follow him. He started down the hallway to the left that led to the offices. At the end of the hall he stopped and knocked on the frosted glass of the door. A voice made a garbled sound from inside and Tommy twisted the knob and went in. Germaine and Gumbo followed. Salvatore “Vino” Costelli was inside leaning over in the middle of the room, a golf putter in his hands. Spread out before him were several white balls and one of those portable holes for putting practice. He tapped the ball by his feet and watched it roll across the green carpeting toward the hole, then twist off to the side at the last second. Vino straightened and looked over at the men who’d entered.
“Any problems?” he asked.
Tommy shook his head.
“You change cabs like I told ya?” Vino asked.
“No, but I checked, boss,” Tommy said quickly. “Nobody was behind us.”
The Heist Page 5