The Heist

by Michael A. Black

  “I reckon not,” Faulkner said.

  Tony gave him an affectionate slap/squeeze on the shoulder and winked at Arlene. Then he and Ray left.

  As they rode the elevator down, Tony asked Ray why he’d done that.

  “Done what?” Ray asked.

  “Acted so rude to Kent,” Tony said. “The poor guy was only trying to help.”

  “Kent?” Ray said, raising his eyebrows in exaggeration. “Since when did you start calling that shitbird Kent?”

  “Come on. He ain’t so bad.”

  The elevator doors opened at the main level of the Federal Building just as Ray loudly blurted out, “Fuck him. He’s a fucking Fed, ain’t he?”

  They curtailed their conversation until they got to the underground garage, then after getting in the car, Tony resumed.

  “You know,” he said, “maybe you should take a couple of days off or something.”

  “Huh? Why?”

  “You’re sounding pretty stressed out.”

  “Me?” Ray said. “How do you figure?”

  “Just the way you’re acting toward Kent. You really ought to try to get along, you know.”

  “There you go with that ‘Kent’ bullshit again,” Ray said. He wheeled the car out of the underground parking garage and headed west on Adams toward the expressway. “That guy’s a dickhead-and-a-half. Where’s he from? Virginia, or someplace?”

  “You could do worse for a partner once I leave,” Tony said.

  “I already told you. I’m transferring back to Gang Crimes once you retire.”

  “Like hell,” Tony said. “You’re gonna stay in Organized Crime till you make sergeant.”

  “Horseshit,” said Ray. “What’s got you so wound up about this Faulkner guy, anyway? I thought you hated the fucker?”

  Tony just stared impassively out the window. They were heading down Halsted toward the Ryan entrance ramps.

  “Come on, Tony. Don’t try to bullshit me. Something’s bugging you and I bet I know what, too.” Ray glanced at him with a sly smile. “I bet you’re kicking yourself in the ass ‘cause I gave you the perfect opportunity to be alone with Arlene and you didn’t ask her out, right?”

  “Wrong,” said Tony. “She asked me over to dinner.”

  “No shit,” Ray said. He grinned again and gave Tony a quick punch on the arm. “See? What did I tell you?”

  “I just don’t know,” Tony said, shaking his head. “We’re not even in the same generation.”

  “So what? Look at Clint Eastwood. He’s no spring chicken anymore either, and the girls are always going ga-ga over him.”

  Tony sighed. The car phone rang saving him further comment. It was O’Neil. Tony put it on speaker so they both could hear.

  “Yeah, Tony, I talked to the patrolman who took the report,” O’Neil said. “He remembered that this Linc guy called his uncle to come house-sit with him while they waited for the girlfriend to return home. The uncle’s name is Henry Bartwell.” He spelled it. “Checked him out and he shows a couple of arrests for minor shit way back in the late sixties. Back when Jeff Fort was just forming the Blackstone Rangers, for Christsakes.”

  “Anything recent?” Tony asked.

  “Huh-uh,” O’Neil said. “I made a quick call over to five. It seems the uncle’s gone legit, at least as far as anyone can tell. Had some kind of construction business over on State in Roseland for quite a few years.”

  “Give me the address,” Tony said. “We’ll check that out too.”

  As soon as O’Neil had hung up, Kent Faulkner called. Tony winked at Ray as he spoke.

  “Yeah, Kent. That was quick.”

  “Well, you know us federalies,” Kent said. “We can move pretty fast when we have to.”

  Ray rolled his eyes, but said nothing.

  “First of all, there’s no arrest record for Lincoln Jackson,” Faulkner said. “But I did find something else. He’s an ex-marine. Was in for seven-and-a-half years, and was in the invasion of Panama and the Gulf War. His MOS was advanced recon. Won a bronze star in Panama and a silver star in the Gulf for calling in an artillery strike on his own position when the Iraqis stormed into Khafji.”

  “Sounds like a real American hero,” Tony said. “Any word on why he got out of the Marines?”

  “He got riffed,” Faulkner said. “Reduction in force. Guess they decided they had enough guys in his MOS and that was that.”

  Tony thanked Faulkner and told him to keep him posted on any new developments with Fox or the Mink. When he pressed the button to terminate the call he noticed a worried look on Ray’s face.

  “Now what’s wrong?” he asked.

  “I was just thinking,” Ray said. “I sure hope this ain’t a case of a gyrene gone bad.”

  “Oh yeah, that’s right,” said Tony. “You’re an ex-marine yourself.”

  “There’s no such thing as an ex-marine,” Ray said.

  “Once a jarhead, always a jarhead, eh?”

  “Fuckin’ A,” said Ray. “Semper Fi.”

  “Ray Lovisi, USMC,” said Tony. “That does have a ring to it. Reminds me of that other famous marine. In fact, you look a little like him.”

  “Who? Chesty Puller?”

  “No, Gomer Pyle.”

  9:05 A.M.

  Henry Bartwell had been out to the construction site at seven, and not seeing either Linc or Rick, left the job in the charge of Dock, his sometimes foreman. He then went back to his office under the guise of doing some paperwork but really just wanted to try and sort things out. After grabbing a cup of coffee and a couple of cinnamon donuts from the neighborhood shop, he went back to the trailer. He’d only been there mulling things over for about ten minutes when the phone rang. Thinking it might be Linc, Henry grabbed it just after the first ring.

  “Is Linc there?” a woman’s voice asked. It was imbued with desperation.

  “Who is this?” Henry demanded. Then it came to him. “Diane?”

  “Henry, I need to get a hold of Linc,” she said. “Do you know where he is?”

  “Diane, are you all right?” he asked. “Where is you at, girl? We been worried sick about you.”

  “I can’t go into that now,” she said. He could tell by the strained tone that something wasn’t right. “I need to get a hold of Linc right away.”

  “He ain’t here,” Henry said, wondering now whether someone was listening in on the conversation. “He didn’t show up for work this morning, and I ain’t heard from him.”

  He heard her rapid breathing coming over the line. Then she said, “When you do, tell him to call me at this number.”

  “Wait a minute. Let me get a pencil.”

  His big hands rifled through the mess of papers on his cluttered desk until he found a blank four-by-five tablet. He gripped the pencil hard and told her, “Okay, go ahead.”

  She read off a phone number and asked him if he had it.

  “Yeah, I got it,” Henry said. “Now, tell me, are you all right?”

  “I can’t talk anymore. Good-bye.”

  The line went dead.

  Henry looked at the phone number that he’d written down on the tablet. Being in business as long as he had, he knew the number for Illinois Bell crisscross information by heart. He dialed it and read off the number that Diane had given him.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the operator said. “That’s a mobile number.”

  “Can you tell me who it comes back to?”

  “I’m sorry, that’s all the information we have,” the operator said.

  Henry let out a slow sigh and hung the phone back up. He set the tablet down on top of the clutter of papers and picked up his coffee, which had gotten cold and bitter-tasting. A sharp knock on the trailer door startled him, and he rose and opened it. Two white guys stood outside, one taller and older looking, the other short and young, but he knew immediately that they were cops.

  “Mr. Bartwell,” the older one said, holding up his Chicago Police star. “I’m Detective Cardoff an
d this is my partner, Detective Lovisi.” The short cop held up his badge. “Can we come in and talk to you, sir?”

  “Well, I was just getting ready to go out,” Henry said.

  “It’ll only take a couple of minutes,” Lovisi said. “It’s about your nephew, sir.”

  Henry felt a lump in his throat. Had something happened to Linc? Was that why he hadn’t heard from him? “Come in,” he said, stepping back from the door. Lovisi and Cardoff went up the cement block steps. Henry stood by the desk and nervously grabbed the cup of cold coffee, debating what and how much to say. He decided to let them make the first move.

  “Sorry I don’t have any coffee to offer you gentlemen,” he said. “But I runs things on kind of a shoe-string budget.”

  “That’s all right,” Cardoff said.

  They continued standing in the narrow confines of the trailer’s office. Henry, not wanting to sit and have them towering over him, leaned on the edge of the desk. Remembering Diane’s call and the phone number, he quickly shot a glance at the tablet before looking at both of them and smiling pleasantly.

  “You know a Lincoln Jackson, Mr. Bartwell?” Cardoff asked.

  “Yeah, he’s my sister Emma’s boy,” Henry said. “Why? Is he all right?”

  “Why would you think he wasn’t?” Lovisi asked.

  “Well,” Henry said, quickly searching for words, “when the polices comes around, usually there’s something wrong. He ain’t been in no accident or nothing, has he?”

  “Not that we know of,” Cardoff said. “When was the last time you saw him?”

  Henry considered this before answering. No telling what they knew, or didn’t know, but he decided to stick to the facts as much as possible.

  “Yesterday afternoon,” he said.

  “And about what time was that?”

  “Look, maybe you’d better tell me why you is asking me all these questions,” Henry said. “I gotta right to know if my nephew’s hurt or in some kind of. . . in something, don’t I?”

  “We’ll get to that, sir,” said Cardoff. “You were telling us about where and when you saw him yesterday.”

  Henry blew out a slow breath. Stick to the facts, he told himself.

  “It was about five-thirty or six,” he said. “He called me and told me his girlfriend’s place had got broken into. I went over and sat with him while we waited for the police. Brought some wood over to fix up the back door.”

  Lovisi read off Diane’s address and asked if that was the place. “Yeah, that’s it.”

  “What happened after that?”

  “Nothing, really,” Henry said. He took another sip of his coffee. “The polices came and went and I went home. I guess Linc did the same.”

  “Where does Linc live?” Cardoff asked.

  “He live in Beverly,” Henry said. “Over on Hale.”

  “He works for you?” Lovisi asked.

  “Yeah, when he come home from the Marines I give him and his friend jobs,” Henry said. “They was supposed to show up this morning, and didn’t even call in. Put me in a helluva bind. Got me a minority-business contract for part of the deep tunnel dig.” He offered up a proud smile.

  Cardoff took out one of his cards and handed it to Henry, who took it gingerly, holding it only by the lower right corner.

  “If Lincoln does get in touch with you, Mr. Bartwell, I’d appreciate it if you’d give this to him and tell him to give me a call.”

  “Sure will,” Henry said, placing the card down on the desk.

  “Here, let us give you our beeper numbers,” Lovisi said, reaching for the four-by-five tablet on the desktop. Henry’s hand shot out to quickly grab the tablet and he ended up knocking over the coffee cup. The brown liquid spilled all over the papers on his desk, including the cop’s card. “Shit,” Henry said, grabbing the tablet, ripping the page with the phone number on it, before handing the tablet to Lovisi. He took some of the paper napkins out of the Dunkin’ Donuts bag and began sopping up the spilled coffee.

  “Oops, that’s my home number,” Lovisi said, tearing off the sheet he’d been writing on. “Here’s our beeper numbers,” he said, and handed it over. Henry scratched the dark coils of hair around his ears as he looked at it, then ran his palm over the smooth expanse on top of his head.

  “What’s Linc’s friend’s name?” Cardoff asked matter-of-factly.

  Henry glanced up from the paper, then figuring that they probably knew already, said, “Weaver. Rick Weaver.”

  Cardoff wrote that down.

  “Where’s he live?” Lovisi asked.

  “Ah, he live with Linc,” Henry said slowly. “They shares the apartment on Hale.”

  Cardoff nodded absently, scribbling some more notes on his pad.

  “But they both young, good-looking studs,” Henry added quickly. “Probably cribbin’ with some chicks, or something.”

  Cardoff nodded again, still writing. Then he looked up.

  Damn, this dude’s eyes were piercing, Henry thought.

  “Mr. Bartwell, I’ve spent my whole career involved in the kind of shit that your nephew appears to be involved in.”

  “Look,” Henry said, cutting him off, “I don’t know nothing about that.”

  “Let him finish,” Lovisi said. “This is important.”

  Cardoff continued, “We’re not after him. If he does call, tell him that. This is a lot bigger than him, and if he doesn’t get our help, he’s gonna get swallowed up by it.”

  Henry stared back at Cardoff, and, saying nothing, nodded fractionally.

  The flimsy trailer door slammed shut behind them as they left, walking the thirty feet or so back to their car. Inside the vehicle, Ray immediately asked Tony if he had a pencil. Tony offered him his pen, but Ray just frowned.

  “No, I need a pencil,” he said, frantically opening the glove compartment and rummaging through it.

  “For what?”

  “God dammit, all the fucking bullshit in here but what you need,” Ray muttered. “Ha,” he said, holding up a yellow-colored pencil. He grabbed Tony’s notebook, flattened out the four-by-five sheet of paper he’d taken from Henry’s tablet, and began a light, zigzag-shading motion over the surface with the conical edge of the pencil.

  “What you got?” asked Tony.

  “Saw this in an old Charlie Chan movie,” Ray said, still shading with the pencil. “Did you get a look at that guy’s desk?”

  “Yeah, it was a real shit pile,” said Tony. “Kinda reminded me of yours.”

  Ray shot him a frown.

  “Yeah, it was,” he said. “And it’s an old Lovisi proverb that when you’re looking at a shit pile, the turd on top is always the freshest. Wa-la.” He held up the paper, which now showed the white impression of a phone number inside the gray shading. “Did you see the way that guy was hawking this number when we were talking to him? Like he wanted to grab it real quick so we wouldn’t see it, or something.”

  “Call information and see if you can find out who it’s registered to,” Tony said.

  Ray grabbed the car phone, dialed the number, and read it off to the operator.

  “Shit,” he said, hanging up the phone a moment later. “It’s a mobile number.”

  “Well let’s call Faulkner and see if he can find out who it belongs to,” Tony said. “Maybe it’s this Lincoln guy’s phone.”

  “Oh, are we back to calling him Faulkner now?” Ray said sarcastically.

  “Just make the fucking call, would you?” Tony said with a grin. As Ray was punching in the number Tony added, “That was good work, Ray.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No, I mean it. It was.”

  Ray shrugged.

  “You know,” said Tony, “you’re even starting to look a little like Warner Oland.”

  “Who?”

  “The guy who played Charlie Chan.”

  “Yeah,” grinned Ray, cradling the car phone against his ear, “but you’re too damn old to be my number-one son.”

  9
:20 A.M.

  Linc returned from his trip to the front counter to get a newspaper just as the waitress was at the table re-filling Rick’s coffee cup. “You want some more, too, honey?” she asked Linc. He smiled and nodded. After he’d slid into the booth, Rick’s inquisitive gaze asked the unspoken question.

  Linc shook his head.

  “Everything looks cool,” he said, picking up his coffee cup and spreading the paper out on the table. Most of the news still centered on the massive efforts to repair the damage from the flood and get the Loop back to a functioning level. Several pages showed diagrams of the tunnel systems, maps of the areas without power, and various pictures of the endless series of heavy-duty hoses pumping water from the basements of the flooded buildings. Linc found a small blurb about the shootout buried in the Metro News section. After reading it he pushed it across the table, his index finger on top of the heading.

  Rick turned the paper over and began to read it. Linc got up and said he was going to check in with Uncle Henry.

  “You sure that’s wise?” Rick asked.

  “Why?”

  “I mean, you sure you want to drag him into all this?”

  Linc considered his answer, then said, “He’ll understand, he’s family. Besides, we gonna need another ride soon, or at least a place to stash yours.”

  “Yeah,” Rick said reaching in his pocket and taking out his prescription medication. “Good thing I had these on me, or they’d probably be looking to nail me when I went in for a refill.”

  Linc just nodded as he got up. He knew that the cops probably had Rick’s name if they’d searched the apartment, and he was certain they had his by now. But he also knew that he had to keep Rick cool, at least till the action was over. He was going to need him to get Diane back. He was going to need Henry, too, and a lot of luck. Once she was free, he’d figure how to get them all out of it. Take the blame himself, if need be. He wasn’t exactly sure he could, but didn’t want to worry about all the details just yet. He had to concentrate on the task at hand: freeing Diane. Then he’d figure out the rest of it. There had to be a way. He wasn’t exactly sure just how, but there just had to be a way, and he knew the key to it all was that tape.

  He moved toward the double set of pay phones in the vestibule, got some change for his dollar at the register, and dropped the coins in the slot. Henry answered immediately after the first ring.