The Heist

by Michael A. Black

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  Fox hung up, and looked at the other man.

  “Once I get you the tape. I’m out of it, right?” he asked.

  The southerner set his phone down and smiled pleasantly.

  “That’s our deal, Reggie,” he said. “Is that what that black gal wants to give you?”

  “It has to be,” Fox said. “Orlando is the name Johnny used for the safety-deposit box. Although how she got it, I can’t imagine.”

  “Well, we’ll just have to play this little ol’ game out then,” the southerner said. “Maybe we got more rabbits in the briar patch than we thought. We’ll explore that a little bit later, but right now, you got another call to make.” He nodded and Gumbo handed Fox the receiver again. He could feel the presence of the big man looming just behind him.

  CHAPTER 9

  Wednesday, April 15, 1992

  11:45 A.M.

  Diane had been insistent with the bitch on the telephone, saying that if Mr. Fox was so interested in talking to her, he could leave a number for her to call him back, not the other way around.

  “I’m afraid that we aren’t allowed to give out associates’ personal phone numbers, ma’am,” the secretary had said sarcastically.

  “Well, can’t you call him on another line, then?” Diane asked, just as sarcastically.

  “Just a moment.”

  She heard the sound of music in the receiver and knew she’d been put on hold. Exhaling slowly, she ran over the plan again in her mind. Be firm, be plain, don’t let yourself get bullied or trapped. The secretary came back on after a few moments.

  “Hello, Ms. Jones?”

  “Yes,” Diane said.

  “Mr. Fox says you can reach him at the following number.” She read it off. Diane didn’t even say thank you before she hung up. She reached into her purse for some more change, but bowed her head slightly as she deposited it. The number rang twice before someone answered.

  “Mr. Fox?” she asked.

  “Yes,” a voice said. “Who is this please?”

  “Jones,” Diane said, trying her best to sound as cool and calm as she could. “Cleopatra Jones. You got my message earlier?”

  “I did,” said Fox slowly. “You have the item that you mentioned?”

  “I do.”

  “How did you get it?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Well,” Fox said, “I do have to be sure you really have it, don’t I?”

  “It’s a VHS tape in a plain white box,” Diane said with precision. “The picture is in black and white and it shows a party, a man with a baseball bat, and Mr. Osmand. You want me to go on?”

  She heard Fox clear his throat.

  “I think that will suffice,” he said. “What exactly do you want?”

  “My offer is simple. I want a million dollars or the tape will go to the police. Hundreds in unmarked bills will be fine,” she said like she’d heard them say on TV.

  “A million dollars,” Fox snorted “Ah. . .where are you?”

  “Never mind where I am,” Diane snapped. “Do you want to deal or not?”

  “Well, a million dollars is a lot.”

  “Oh, come on. What’s a million to you people?”

  “I mean, it’s going to take some time to raise that kind of money.” He was pausing between his words. “Do you have a number where I can call you back?”

  “No, Mr. Fox,” Diane said. “I’ll call you back. Now do we have a deal, or not?”

  “I’m sure we will.” His voice sounded hesitant. “But I’ll need to run this by a few people.”

  “No,” she said. “I won’t deal with anyone but you. I have to see you make the drop, then I call you and tell you where the tape is.”

  “Okay.” He paused again and she began to wonder if someone else was there, advising him how to answer. “Why don’t you call me back in forty minutes or so. I have to make a couple of calls.”

  “All right,” Diane said. As she hung up, she breathed a sigh of relief. Everything was going according to her plan. The phone rang as she turned away and she picked it up without thinking. Probably the operator wanting more money.

  “Hello,” she said. There was no response, so she hung up. Going back over to the counter she sat on the stool again. The waitress came and refilled her coffee cup. Diane smiled a thank-you and glanced at her watch. She had forty minutes to go over the plan again in her mind before calling them back.

  Germaine, who had been listening in on the extension right across from Fox, scribbling and passing handwritten notes across the table top, smiled and asked, “So did you figure out just who this little gal is, Reggie?” He collected the notes he’d passed, arranged them in a neat little stack, and unwrapped another one of those thin cigars that were making Fox feel even sicker.

  “She has to be the girl from the bank,” he said. “That’s the only thing I can think of. She sounds black, and that chick who was working the safe deposit boxes the day Osmand took me down there was black too. She must have remembered my name. Though how she got the tape, I still can’t figure.”

  “Does what she said about the tape sound accurate?” Germaine asked.

  “I guess so,” Fox said. “I’ve never seen it. I just saw the box that day he showed it to me and told me what it was.”

  Germaine considered this as he wrinkled the cellophane and dropped it on the tabletop. He looked up as Bobby Mallory came in carrying a heavy twenty-inch by twelve-inch paper-bound book with a blue cover. Mallory grinned as he set the book on the table top in front of Germaine.

  “Okay,” Mallory said. “The automatic-call-back number that printed out on the LDS screen comes back to a pay phone at this address here.” He traced his thumb-nail across the fine print on the multi-columned page. “Wagner’s Restaurant on a Hundred-and-Eleventh and Michigan.”

  Germaine looked at the address on the page and then back up to Mallory.

  “Is that far from here?” he asked.

  “It’s in Roseland,” Mallory said. He shrugged. “About twenty or thirty minutes.”

  “Good, then if we leave now—”

  Mallory cut him off with a laugh.

  “Hold on. It ain’t that easy. That’s a shine neighborhood.” He glanced warily at Gumbo, who was still standing behind Fox, his arms crossed, his face impassive. “What I mean is, us white guys would kinda stick out, if you know what I’m saying.”

  Germaine smiled as he blew a puff of smoke out from between his teeth.

  “I appreciate your candor, Bobby.” He took a long draw on the cigar, then said, “I guess you and that other boy, what’s his name? Del Bianco? will have to take my associate, Mr. Queen over there and kind of show him a little bit of Chi-town.”

  Mallory looked at Gumbo, who hadn’t moved at all since the last time, and smiled.

  “Be glad to,” he said.

  12:30 A.M.

  The restaurant was starting to fill up with the lunchtime crowd, but they were mostly on the other side where the tables were. Diane kept her seat at the counter, near the pay phones. She drank another cup of coffee, ordered some soup, and went to the ladies’ room. So far, so good, she thought.

  When she came back to her seat the waitress was setting the soup down. As Diane sat down she noticed that she still had this section practically to herself, except for this huge guy with an immense Afro sitting two stools down from her. Diane smiled to herself. Didn’t he know those hairstyles weren’t even in style anymore?

  She paid the girl for the cream of broccoli soup and took a sip. After a few more spoonfuls she glanced at her watch. It was almost time. She took a deep breath, going over the plan once more on just how she wanted Fox to take a taxi to Water Tower Place to meet her. She’d take the money, which would be in a small handbag, and then give him a key to the locker where she’d put the tape. They would make this last exchange once she was in her own cab and he was standing outside on foot. It felt like a good plan. Like on
e she’d seen on a TV movie-of-the-week. She’d even taken the name Cleopatra Jones from one of those black heroines in an old ‘70s movie. She could change cabs a couple of times to make sure she wasn’t followed, then just head on out to the airport and fly away to someplace warm. Maybe she’d take Linc along, but maybe not. After the way he’d talked to her, calling her a ‘hoe, and all.

  Diane got up and went to the phone, sorting out her change. She dropped the coins into the slot and dialed. The phone rang twice before Fox answered it. He sounded nervous.

  “Mr. Fox, this is Cleopatra Jones,” Diane said.

  “Okay, I’ve talked to my people and they’re interested,” he said. “But we have to be very sure that we get the tape if we’re going to pay out all that money.”

  “I’ve got that all figured out, Mr. Fox,” Diane said. She heard a beeper going off behind her, and glanced around. The big brother’s shoulders were rolling as he looked at the pager on his belt. He got up and moved toward the phone next to her. Diane turned her back and lowered her voice, so she could have more privacy.

  “First, I want you to put it in a blue handbag,” Diane said. “Then—” She felt a big hand crowd over her mouth and something nudge against her, and, with a shudder, her whole body went numb. Her lungs expelled almost all their air, then she tried desperately to inhale, but she couldn’t. The hand was gripping her mouth so hard. She felt another shock and then black dots swarmed in front of her eyes.

  “Hey, baby what’s wrong?” Gumbo said as he caught her limp form slinking to the floor. He snatched the receiver and said, “Hey.”

  “You got her?” Germaine’s voice asked.

  “Yeah,” Gumbo said.

  He hung up the phone and squatted slightly to swing his arm under Diane’s legs. Then, lifting her like she weighed next to nothing, he carried her toward the front doors.

  “Hey, what’s goin’ on?” the waitress said.

  “Nothing,” Gumbo answered. “She need her medicine, is all.”

  “Well, you want me to call the ambulance or something?”

  “Naw, she’s my lady,” he said, pulling the door open. “I’ll take her.”

  Diane was vaguely conscious of being carried, then placed inside a van. The slamming of the door seemed to rouse her slightly, but by that time, she felt the cold hard metal of the vehicle’s floor under her. Blinking several times, she tried to move, but couldn’t. Her eyes focused on the massive black figure that was sitting on the fender well, hovering over her. But the Afro was gone. His scalp looked slick now. Craning her head, she saw there was another guy sitting across from him. Slowly, he started to come into focus. He was a white guy, young and skinny, wearing glasses and a hat. His eyes were glued on her.

  “Funny,” the honkey said with a grin. “She don’t look like Tamara Dobson, does she?”

  2:26 P.M.

  With another day of no court because the Federal Building was still closed, like most of the other buildings in that ten square-block area, Tony and Ray decided to take off early and hit the Armory for a workout. On the way the car phone rang and Ray, even though he was driving, snatched it up.

  “Lovisi,” he said. “Yeah, he’s here. Just a minute.”

  He handed the phone to Tony, who answered, “Cardoff.”

  “Tony?” the familiar voice asked. “This is Nate Wells.”

  “Yeah, how you doing?”

  “Not so good,” Nate said. “You guys busy?”

  “Not really,” Tony said. “Still waiting for our offices to open up. Why? You got something going?”

  “I need a favor, man. We over here at the projects sitting and waiting for some bad asses who done a drive-by, and one of my snitches beeps me. You remember that guy I was telling you about at the gym?”

  “Yeah, sort of,” Tony said.

  “Not a bad guy,” Nate continued. “Out on parole now for burglary. Got him a shoplifting beef he’s working off for me, and now he done got busted again.”

  “Where’s he at?”

  “He’s over in District Five. Sounds like just some nothing bust, but I was trying to squeeze him for a line on the dude that’s been supplying the GD’s with their firepower.”

  The GD’s, which stood for Gangster Disciples, were one of the major street gangs coming into prominence now that the El Rukins had been effectively shut down.

  “What do you want us to do, Nate?” Tony asked.

  “Just run over there and see what kind of shit he’s talkin’. If it looks good, maybe you can get him to make a buy from the gunrunner-dude, and we’ll have a reason to take him down.”

  “Sounds good,” said Tony. “What’s this snitch’s name?”

  “Cole,” Nate said. “Booker Cole. You might have to buy him a half-pint to keep him happy.”

  Ray kept driving south on the Dan Ryan until he got to the cut-off for the Calumet Expressway. They were at 111th Street inside of fifteen minutes and driving through the historic Pullman section of Chicago. The District Five station house, which also housed Area Two, was a brand new brick building laid out with the same sweeping architecture of the more recently constructed district stations. Its brick front had a large glass picture window by an expansive foyer. Directly inside the front doors, there were pictures of Mayor Daley, the brand new Police Superintendent, Matt Rodriguez, and the various other higher-ups in the Police Department, descending to the Fifth-District Commander. Tony and Ray passed by the front section and went immediately to the island-like counter where several uniformed coppers sat. A female was seated at a radio console, a heavyset sergeant was hunched over a typewriter, swearing as he lifted his glasses to inspect what he had typed. The third officer, a young guy with a crisp light-blue shirt on, stepped up to greet them. His name tag said O’Shay.

  “Whatever it is, we don’t want any,” he said with a grin.

  “Cardoff, Organized Crime Division,” Tony said, flipping open his badge case, thinking that O’Shay looked more Hispanic than Irish. He nodded at Ray. “My partner Ray Lovisi.”

  “Glad to meet you,” O’Shay said, shaking each of their hands. “What can I do you out of?” The grin returned.

  “An officer from Gang Crimes called us,” Tony said. “Apparently you’re holding one of his snitches and we’re here to play let’s-make-a-deal.”

  O’Shay pursed his lips as he considered this, then went for a clipboard on the sergeant’s desk. The Sarge only glanced at him peripherally and went back to his typewriter. O’Shay returned to the counter and asked Tony what the guy’s name was.

  “Booker Cole,” Tony replied.

  After running his finger down the list of names, O’Shay stopped and nodded.

  “Yeah, we picked him up from a liquor store in Roseland,” O’Shay said. “There’s a note to flag him from a Detective Wells. That your buddy in Gang Crimes?”

  “That’s him,” Ray said. “Can you bring the asshole into one of the interview rooms?”

  “Coming right up, Sarge.” O’Shay said.

  They started down the hallway, but Ray suddenly stopped.

  “You got a cigarette machine here?” he yelled to O’Shay.

  “Down in the break room,” O’Shay called back.

  When Tony looked at him quizzically, Ray said, “You ever seen one of these dogs give up anything without getting a couple of Kools?”

  After getting the cigarettes, they went back to the interview room. Booker Cole sat hunched over a simulated-wood table, his head in his hands. He looked up at them as they entered.

  “How you doin’, Booker,” Ray said, moving over and kicking out the chair opposite the black man. “I’m Detective Lovisi, and this is my partner Detective Cardoff.”

  “We’re friends of Nate Wells,” Tony added.

  This introduction seemed to satisfy Booker, who nodded, straightened up, and asked if either one of them had a cigarette.

  “Sure,” Ray said, taking out the pack of Kools and shaking one out for him. He snapped the safety matc
h on the striking pad and lit it for Booker, who leaned forward, canting his head. After he drew in on the cigarette, he slumped back, ready to talk.

  “So how ol’ Nate doin’?” he asked.

  “He’s a little busy right now,” Ray said. “So he sent us instead. Nate told us you might be able to help us out a little bit.”

  “With what?”

  “With the guy who’s been supplying guns to the GD’s,” Tony said.

  Booker contemplated this for a moment, taking a long hit on the cigarette. Then he leaned forward and blew the smoke out of his nose.

  “Lookie here,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “You get me outta here on an I-Bond, and I’ll see what I can dig up, okay?”

  An I-Bond was short for Individual Recognizance Bond, which meant that Booker would be free on his signature until his court date instead of posting the specified amount of money required by statute.

  “Yeah, right,” Ray said. “Don’t try to run a game on us, man. We been doing this shit too long.”

  “You want that I-Bond you’re gonna have to do more than that,” Tony said.

  “What I gots to do?”

  “Make an introduction for us,” Ray said.

  “To two white guys?” Booker said, smiling incredulously. “You outta your minds? This dude ain’t about to sell to no white boys, and you guys got cop written all over you.”

  “Who does he sell to, Booker?” Ray asked.

  “He sell the D’s mostly,” Booker said finishing up his cigarette and stubbing it out in the ashtray. “Sometimes people from the neighborhood.”

  “What kind of shit he sell?” Ray asked.

  “What kind you want?” Booker shot back. He held his fingers to his lips, mimicking a request for another cigarette. Ray gave him one.

  “Automatic weapons?” Tony asked.

  Booker nodded.

  “Where’s he deal out of?” Tony asked.

  “Outta his car mostly,” Booker said, the embers of the cigarette glowing brightly between his fingers. “A dark blue Malibu.”