The other man said, “Look, Dum-Dum, it won’t do any harm to wait around for a while. Jesus, after all that drive. Tell you what. Leave the door unlocked and a tiny bit ajar, kind of inviting, and then we’ll go over and sit down behind those boxes opposite and wait. Jesus, I got to catch my breath. All those god (bleeped) trucks!”
He left the door ajar. Chumpy, getting out a burp gun, went over and sat down on the floor back of an island of boxes, in profile and in full view of Heller. I went cold. Then I realized Heller was looking through a slit between two cartons.
The other two disappeared behind the island opposite the door.
“Don’t shoot toward that old car in the back!” said Chumpy. “It’s a walking boom factory!”
“Shut up, Chumpy,” said one of the men. “We’ll give it an hour. So you just shut up.”
Heller looked down and slipped out of his shoes. He moved sideways until he could see the door. It was very dark right near it, the effect heightened by the slit of light coming through the ajar door.
He was fishing in his satchel. He got out the fishline. He got out the multihooked bass plug. He tied the line to the eye of the plug.
My hair felt like it was going to leave my head! This (bleeping) fool was going to try something! Bullets flying into that whiskey or near that car would turn the place into an inferno! All he had to do was wait for an hour and they’d leave! The idiot!
He was coiling the fishline in big, loose loops around his left hand. He took the end he had fastened the bass plug to. He began to swing the plug back and forth.
With a toss he sent the plug sailing through the dimness toward the door! At an exact instant, he tugged it back.
There was a tiny thunk.
There was a rustle from behind the island of boxes where the men were hidden.
Heller slowly began to take in the slack. The line was nearly invisible. I could not make it out.
He shifted the sack on his shoulder and opened it. He shifted the line to his left hand.
He yanked the line!
The door came open with a crash!
There was a sizzling sound and a thud!
Heller had heaved a baseball at Chumpy!
Through the slit, I could see Chumpy fold up, motionless.
Silence.
Minutes.
“(Bleep),” said one of the men. “It was just the wind.”
“Go close it!” said the other.
Through a slit, Heller was watching. A man, gun in hand, crossed the open place toward the door.
There was a sizzle and crack!
Heller had thrown another baseball!
The man jarred sideways. He fell and lay still.
“What the hell? . . .”
Heller threw again. The baseball hit the far wall and rebounded. He was throwing at the sound! With a bank shot!
Heller threw again!
There was a scramble. The man raced out the rear opening in the island and raced toward the back door! Stupid. It was locked!
The man raised his gun to blow off the lock.
Heller threw!
The man was hurled against the door. He slumped.
Heller casually walked to the front door and closed it.
Bang-Bang, more practical, raced to the last man and grabbed the gun. Then he raced from one to the other. He came back to Heller. “Jesus Christ! Their skulls is smashed in. They’re dead!”
“Get the rest of the explosives out of that Cadillac,” said Heller. “We got to get to work now.”
PART SIXTEEN
Chapter 8
Heller fished the car keys out of a dead man’s pocket, opened the full building door wide open, found the hood’s car in the back. It was an old Buick sedan.
He drove it in and closed the full doors again. Then he inched it down the narrow aisle between the islands of cartons and brought it to a halt beside the Cadillac.
Bang-Bang was just finishing. He was sniffing at the oil dipstick. “No additives in the crankcase.” He put the dipstick back. “There was no sugar in the gas—no other tricks. And there’s the gelignite.” He pointed to where it was perched on a window ledge rather precariously.
He went into the Cadillac rear interior, probing the seats. Then he said, “Oh, look! Draw curtains!” He promptly pulled them all down.
Bang-Bang went to a pile of cartons, got one and lugged it to the Cadillac and put it in the back. Then he went and got another one. As he worked, he began to sing softly:
There once was a con who was awful, awful dry.
Sing, sing them Sing Sing blues.
He tried from the guard a little drink to buy.
Sing, sing them Sing Sing blues.
He tried from the warden saying thirst will make me cry.
Sing, sing them Sing Sing blues.
He even wrote the governor his thirst to satisfy.
Sing, sing them Sing Sing blues.
He even begged the president, I will not tell a lie.
Sing, sing them Sing Sing blues.
But none of them would tell him how he could qualify.
Sing, sing them Sing Sing blues.
He sang on and on. He was absolutely jamming the back of the Cadillac with whiskey cases. Then he got Heller to open the trunk and he piled it full of boxes of miniature wrist recorders. He went back and looked into the rear seat area of the Cadillac again. He juggled it around so there would be more room. He went and got two more whiskey cartons.
So he prays each night unto the Lord his thirst to gratify.
Sing, sing them Sing Sing blues.
And drown him in a tub of gin, if he has to die!
Sing, sing them Sing Sing blues!
With one last shove, he managed to get the rear door closed.
Heller had been working industriously. He had put the Buick’s plates on the Cadillac. Then he had the hood of the Buick open. He piled the gelignite on top of the Buick’s motor. He went and got a dead man’s revolver and made sure that there was a live cartridge under the pin when it was cocked. He took some of his tape and then taped the weapon, pointed at the gelignite, to the Buick’s cowling.
Heller got in the Cadillac and drove it to the main door, opened it and then drove outside. “Wait in the car,” he said to Bang-Bang. And Bang-Bang went out and got in, petting the whiskey cartons.
Heller went back in. He closed the main door and its entry port. He found the bass plug and hooked it into the top inside edge of the door. He ran the fishline over a nail and then unreeled it all the way back to the Buick. Then, very gingerly, he tightened the fishline and tied it to the cocked trigger of the revolver.
Then he did something very odd. He took two blank pieces of paper and laid them on the seat of the Buick.
He looked around the garage. He found a heavy iron jimmy.
Starting near the Buick, he raced down the rows of cartons; smash right, smash left. The crash of glass and the gurgle of whiskey followed in his wake.
Heller climbed out the window, made it secure so it didn’t look like it had been touched. Then he gently closed the padlock on its hasp.
He got in the Cadillac.
“You booby-trapped it, didn’t you?” said Bang-Bang.
Heller didn’t answer.
Heller drove up the street six blocks. There was a hamburger stand there and an outside pay phone. He got out. He went into the phone booth. From his pocket he took a handful of change. Then from another pocket, he took a card.
Swindle and Crouch!
He deposited coins and dialed.
A telephonist at the other end simply repeated the number for an answer.
In a high-pitched voice, Heller said, “I got to speak to Mr. Bury.”
The telephonist said, “I am SOR-ree. Mr. Bury left for Moscow this morning to join Mr. Rockecenter. WHOM shall I say CAlled?”
Heller hung up. “Blast!” he said in Voltarian.
Bang-Bang was near the phone booth. “You look like the sky fell in.”
“It did,” said Heller. “There was a guy made a bargain. This is twice he didn’t keep it. He doesn’t have any sense of honor or decency at all! Won’t keep his word.”
“So that’s who the booby trap was for,” said Bang-Bang.
“Yes. I was going to tell him some papers had been left in a car. He would have been over here by airbus in ten blinks of an eye.” He sighed. Then he said, “Well, I guess I better go back and undo the booby trap.”
“Why?” demanded Bang-Bang.
“Some innocent person could come along and get killed,” said Heller.
Bang-Bang was looking at him in round-eyed astonishment. “What’s that got to do with it?”
And I could certainly agree with Bang-Bang. Heller with his scruples. Far too nice. I scoffed aloud at the viewscreen.
“I don’t just run around killing people, you know,” said Heller. “We’re not at war!”
Code break! He’d be telling this gangster about the threatened invasion next.
“Oh, the hell we aren’t!” said Bang-Bang. “It’s war flat out! That Faustino is pushing our backs straight against the wall. Don’t go wasting a booby trap!”
“I suppose you mean we should phone Faustino,” said Heller.
“No, no, no. He’d never cross the river to Jersey. But I got a real candidate! A turncoat!”
“Somebody who is dishonorable?” said Heller. “Somebody who double-deals?”
“You said it! I got somebody who really deserves it! A filthy, boozing, two-timing crooked crook!”
“You sure?” said Heller.
“Of course, I’m sure. There’s no crookeder rummy drunk on the whole planet.”
“Ah, a ‘drunk,’” said Heller. “What’s his name?”
“Oozopopolis!”
Heller shrugged, Bang-Bang took it as assent. He got his satchel from the car and sped into the booth, closing it.
Through the glass door, Heller watched Bang-Bang wad a rag around the mouthpiece. Then he took a rubber glove out of his satchel and put the cuff over the rag and mouthpiece. Then he took a small tape recorder out of his satchel and turned it on. Faintly, the sound came out of the telephone booth. It was planes taking off.
At least this Bang-Bang knew some tradecraft. He was messing up his voice pattern and, with the planes, was mislocating the source of the call to some airport.
Bang-Bang spoke briefly into the phone and then hung up. Yes, he did know some tradecraft. His call had been too short to trace.
He recovered his gear and went back to the car window. “Like a hamburger?” he said.
Heller shook his head. Bang-Bang dove into the joint and the girl there began to fry a hamburger in a leisurely fashion.
My toes curled! Tradecraft be (bleeped)! After you make a sensitive call, you don’t hang around the phone booth!
Then I reviewed the rest of it. The car they’d left in there had motor numbers. It was a different make even! If it blew up, nobody would be fooled!
Heller’s tradecraft might be good in its place—getting into forts and blowing them up. But shortly after, in his profession, he would be out in space and not on the planet!
They were howling amateurs!
Six blocks down the street, the garage was in full view!
Heller said, “There’ll be concussion.” He turned the Cadillac around so that it faced the blast more squarely.
Bang-Bang came out with a hamburger and a beer. “You sure you don’t want one?” said Bang-Bang. But again, Heller shook his head.
Bang-Bang settled down and began to eat. “He lapped it up,” he said. “I told him in Greek—I was raised in old Hell’s Kitchen and that’s gone Greek. Otherwise he wouldn’t have believed me.”
“What was his name again?” said Heller.
“Oozopopolis. About a year ago, he stopped taking bribes from us, changed his coat and started taking them from Faustino. And he’s been hitting at us ever since.” He took another bite of hamburger. “I told him a couple of the Atlantic City mob had been seen looting Faustino’s liquor right down at that address and they were inside stealing the place blind with the outside door locked. Wouldn’t do to get the name Corleone mixed up in it. He sure leaped at it.”
Bang-Bang finished his hamburger and washed it down with beer. He then passed the time by filling Heller in on mob politics.
After a while there was a roar of cars.
Three sedans went streaking by. The seats were full. “You can tell they’re government men, all right,” said Bang-Bang. “The way they carry those riot shotguns. Did you see Oozopopolis? He was the big fat slob in the front seat of the second car.”
The three cars raced the last six blocks and drew to a skidding halt in front of the garage, a reeking bomb of gelignite and alcohol fumes.
Men bailed out, guns ready and threatening.
“Come on out of there! We got you covered!” drifted faintly up the street.
Then a very fat figure raced forward and slammed the flat of his foot against the door.
There was a tremendous flash!
Blue flame and red battered the street!
A fireball bloomed!
The concussion and sound hit the Cadillac! It recoiled and then rocked!
Through the smoke and falling debris six blocks away one could see the strewn bodies.
Heller turned the Cadillac around. “Who was this Oozopopolis?”
“He was the New Jersey district head of BAFT. That’s the US Treasury Department Bureau of Alcohol, Firearms and Tobacco. The Revenooers. The dirty turncoats. Aside from changing sides on us, it was Oozopopolis that planted a machine gun on me and got me sent up.”
Bang-Bang was smiling happily. “Oh, my! Babe certainly will be pleased. Not only did we cost Faustino two million bucks, but we also got rid of the Feds! And it’s about time she got some breaks, let me tell you!”
They wended their way through the fire engines now charging toward the sky-leaping conflagration.
PART SEVENTEEN
Chapter 1
Heller drove north. He patted the car’s windshield ledge. He said, “Well, you chemical-engined Cadillac Brougham Coupe d’Elegance, we got you out of that free and clear.”
I sneered, Fleet officers and their toys. Fetish worship!
Bang-Bang Rimbombo said, “Hey, kid. While in this moment of glory I don’t want to spoil things, I got to point out you are driving on stolen plates and that’s illegal!”
“I’ve got another set of plates, registration card and everything,” said Heller.
“Where’d you get them?”
“Why, from that guy I was going to call.”
“The one you wanted to bump? Listen, kid, there’s a lot you got to learn. The fuzz runs on car plates. If they didn’t have plates, they couldn’t trace nobody. They’d be lost. Their whole system is founded on license numbers. So, if you got dough, I’d advise you to buy a new car. I know a guy . . .”
“No, I want this one,” said Heller.
“But it’s a gas hog!” said Bang-Bang.
“I know,” said Heller. “I need it.”
Bang-Bang sighed. “All right, I know another guy that can change its motor numbers and get a new license. I owe you. I don’t wanta see you get pinched! Turn left right up ahead onto Tonnelle Avenue. We’re going to Newark!”
They were soon amongst the roar of trucks and gas fumes and, with Bang-Bang’s direction, came to Newark, drove down numerous side streets amongst numerous light and heavy industries but only in heavy polluted air and came at length to the Jiffy-Spiffy Garage. They threaded their way amongst numerous vehicles in various stages of repair and painting.
Bang-Bang leaped out and shortly came back with a portly, greasy Italian in a white foreman’s coat. Heller got out.
“Kid,” said Bang-Bang, “this is Mike Mutazione, the owner, proprietor and big noise of this joint. I told him you was a friend of the family. So, tell him what you want.”
Heller and t
he man shook hands. “Maybe he better tell me,” said Heller.
Mike looked over the Cadillac. “Well,” he said, “the first thing I would do is run it into the river.”
“Oh, no!” said Heller. “It’s a good car!”
“It’s a gas hog,” said Mike. “A 1968 Cadillac only gets about ten miles to the gallon.”
“That’s what I like about it,” said Heller.
Mike turned to Bang-Bang. “Is this kid crazy?”
“No, no!” said Bang-Bang. “He’s a college kid.”
“Oh, that explains it,” said Mike.
Bang-Bang was hastily tearing something inside the car. He came out with a bottle of Scotch.
“What the hell is this?” said Mike. “Gold Label? I never seen none of this before.”
Bang-Bang wrestled off the top. “It’s so good the Scots guzzle the whole supply of it themselves. Have a gulp.”
“You sure it ain’t poison?” He cautiously took a little. He rolled it around on his tongue. “My God, that’s smooth! I ain’t never tasted anything like that.”
“Just off the boat,” said Bang-Bang. “We brung you a whole case of it.”
“Now, as I was saying, kid,” said Mike, “let’s look over this beautiful car.” Gripping the bottle tenaciously, he raised the hood with the other hand. He got out a flashlight. He was looking at the engine block. Then he shook his head sadly. “Kid, I got bad news. That engine number has been changed too often. And the last ones that did it scored it too deep. It can’t be done again.”
He stood there. “Aw, don’t look so downcast, kid. You must have sentimental attachments for this car. First one you ever stole or something?” He took another sip of Scotch and leaned against the radiator. He was deep in thought. Then he brightened. “Hey, I just remembered. You can buy brand-new engines for a 1968 Cadillac, this model. They been in stock ever since at General Motors. You got money?”
“I got money,” said Heller.
“I’ll check.” Mike went into his office and got on the phone. He came back beaming. “They still got them! You in a hurry or can this job take a few weeks?”
“I’m in no hurry,” said Heller. “That will fit into my plans just fine.”
Suddenly, I was all adrift. I had been so certain he just wanted the car to bash around in New York with, so certain that this was just more Fleet officer fixation on toys that I had not examined the possibility that he had some diabolical plot in mind. I hastily reviewed his actions so far. He was NOT idly drifting as I had thought! He was working! The (bleepard) was plowing straight ahead on his mission! The horrible idea that he might succeed rose over me like Lombar’s specter. What the Devils was he up to?
Mission Earth Volume 2: Black Genesis Page 27