The French Connection

by Robin Moore

  Hawkes cleared his throat. "Well, have we had it?"

  There was a rustle of nervous shifting in seats, but no one spoke at first.

  Then Frank Waters drawled: "Speaking for my office, I'd say it sure looks like the thing is scratched. What have we got? No Frenchmen, and now no Patsy, and he sure looked like he was moving out today." His glance flicked toward Egan.

  The detective slumped in his straight-backed chair and merely scowled. Waters was beginning to annoy him. Everything the agent said lately seemed to imply oblique criticism of the police, or of Sonny and him, or was it just of him?

  "He had to be up to something," Sonny offered listlessly.

  Egan roused himself. "He's been 'up to something' every day. I say let's use the warrants and hit every place now," he growled.

  "Hit who, what?" Waters questioned. "We got nobody!"

  "He's right, Eddie," Hawkes said quietly. "We know Patsy's not home or at his store. Tony's not home — he is at the store. Travato's home, but his car's out, and that doesn't mean anything unless we have Patsy. The Frenchmen — who knows where they are? Where would you hit?"

  "The warrants expire tomorrow night," Egan persisted.

  "We still got more than twenty-four hours." The usually pessimistic Sonny surprised his partner with this bright observation.

  "We'll just have to hope for a break," Waters added.

  "We can always use the warrants tomorrow, whatever happens," Hawkes said.

  "Even if there's only a slim chance," Waters went on, "we got to save the warrants until the last possible minute. They could mean our whole case — "

  "Our case — Sonny's and mine, the N.Y.P.D., not Federal!" Egan snapped and immediately regretted his pettiness.

  Jack Fleming spoke up: "That kind of stuff is not going to get us anywhere at all."

  Sonny stood up and stretched. "Well, unless somebody has got some hot idea, I tell you where I'm going. I've missed my Wednesday night bowling league three weeks in a row now. Instead of going around in any more circles, I think I'll just go roll a few. You can always reach me . . . "

  Jim Gildea clucked, "I wouldn't mind a night off myself. My kids won't even recognize me."

  Egan rose abruptly. "Well, I really hope you guys can get your entertainment plans squared away."

  Egan scooped up his jacket and strode to the stairs and out of the 1st Precinct.

  It was 6:35 P.M. Egan picked his way through the darkness of Old Slip to his car. Carol Galvin made her way into his mind. She would be on duty now. He hadn't seen her in more than a week. Tonight would be a very good time.

  C h a p t e r 1 5

  The tavern where Carol Galvin worked as a barmaid was located at Nassau and John streets, just five blocks north of the New York Stock Exchange and Wall Street. Leaving the 1st Precinct, near the East River, Eddie Egan decided to bypass the narrow, challenging one-way lanes of the financial hub. He aimed his Corvair up South Street — almost deserted now except for a few trucks still at riverfront loading platforms — planning to cut over west on Fulton Street to Nassau. He was tired, a little numb from disappointment and didn't want to think about complicated things anymore. He would concentrate tonight on patching things up with Carol.

  Not that that was going to be easy. He hadn't spoken with her since just before New Year's. Then, she had still been interested in the rich old patron from Jersey and couldn't understand how Egan could be so violently opposed to what promised to benefit both of them. But the few moments he had had to himself during the past hectic week, he had found himself missing her. Just the thought of her golden beauty filling his arms now sent a tingle skittering up his backbone. But that too gave him pause: was it just a physical desire that drew them together? Well, if that's what it was, he would be a sucker not to make the most of it. Tonight he would try to lose himself in Carol.

  It was not until the Brooklyn Bridge loomed before him that Egan realized he had already driven several blocks beyond his intended turnoff at Fulton Street. Another half mile ahead the familiar Manhattan Bridge passed over South Street and the Viaduct — the Manhattan Bridge and Pike Slip and Henry Street and East Broadway, Patsy Fuca's play-ground. Force of habit, he chuckled sourly to himself. Well, as long as he'd come so far, just for the record he might as well continue and take one more look around. There still was plenty of time to get to the Nassau Tavern. It was only 6:45 P.M., and Carol didn't get off until eleven.

  He made a left on Pike Street past Blair's Inn, then drove through Henry Street. The dingy block was quiet. At Rutgers Street he swung up to East Broadway and turned downtown. Anthony's auto shop came up on his right, the only clearing in an almost solid line of parked cars. Anthony's was dark, closed for the night.

  And then he saw Nicky Travato's gray Cadillac, parked two cars the other side of Anthony's driveway.

  Egan almost jumped on his brakes, but he caught himself and continued on to the intersection of Pike Street. Patsy or his friends could be around, watching to see if some excitable cop would pounce on the Caddy. He circled the block and back to East Broadway, nosing the Corvair into the curb behind another auto, half a car length into a bus stop.

  Switching off the headlights and motor, he reached for the radiophone. "This is Popeye, calling base. Popeye to base . . . does anybody read me, kay?"

  "Ten-four. We read you."

  "I just found the car our friend was driving, the gray Cadillac."

  "Repeat. Your signal is wavy. What about a Cadillac? Repeat, please."

  Egan twisted the volume dial as far as it would turn. "I said I am sitting on the Cadillac that we lost this afternoon. I am now on East Broadway, the west side of East Broadway, near the corner of Canal Street. The car, the Caddy, is parked beyond Anthony's auto shop, halfway between me and Pike Street, on the same side as me. I am going to wait here and see if the subject comes back for it. Who you got around to help? Do you read, kay?"

  There was a hissing, static-filled pause, and Egan, breathing an obscenity, was about to repeat the message when base responded: "Hold it a second. Yeah, we got you. Your signal's real weak though. Look, there's hardly anybody here. Everybody went home, or they're out someplace . . . "

  "Well, find somebody!" Egan bellowed. "We can't risk another screw-up. With all the agents in New York — "

  "Okay, okay. We'll get somebody over there. We'll let you know."

  "Ten-four."

  That was about seven P.M. Egan's eyes scarcely left the front of Anthony's. From his location, he couldn't see the Cadillac itself, but he had it placed roughly twenty-five feet along the building line past the auto repair shop. He could spot any movement within that focal area. Egan wasn't tired or depressed anymore, and he wasn't thinking of Carol. He was all cop again.

  At seven-forty, the radio gabbled: "Popeye? Ripa here. On Park Row coming up to East Broadway. Are you still in the same location? Acknowledge."

  "Ten-four," he answered. "You alone?"

  "Eddie Guy's with me. What's with our man?"

  "Nothing yet. Look, try to grab a space by the corner of East Broadway and Pike Street; then we'll have the Caddy in between us. Somebody's got to show.

  Glad you guys are here."

  "Ten-four. Hey, by the way, we don't read you too good. Signal's in and out."

  "Yeah, I know. Hope it holds out. Kay."

  Egan relaxed a little, knowing that the two Federal agents would be covering the other end of the block.

  He sat back and lit a Camel. Before he finished the cigarette, Ripa reported again:

  "Okay, we got a spot the other side of Pike. What's happening?"

  "Still the same," Egan replied.

  "Ten-four."

  Hardly had the detective turned his gaze back to East Broadway when his attention was caught by a pale blue-and-white two-door coupe moving slowly past him. Egan jerked as though lanced.

  There were three men in the front seat, and one was Patsy Fuca.

  The two-tone coupe, a Chevrolet at le
ast six or seven years old, slowed down. One of its taillights was not working. Egan pressed the radio mike to his mouth: "There's a blue and white Chevy in the middle of the block. He's in it!"

  Egan leaned out his window to follow the progress of the Chevy. It eased to a halt abreast of the spot where he estimated the Cadillac to be parked. "He's getting out," he alerted the other agents by radio.

  "We make him . . . but we can barely read you."

  "He's talking to the guys in the car," Egan continued. "He's going to the Caddy . . . Now he's back by the other car . . . "

  Egan ducked his head inside. "He was looking back this way. I wonder if one of them made me?" Cautiously he again tilted his head side-ways toward the window. "Uh-oh! Now he's going around and getting into the driver's seat of the same car! The sonofagun is on to something."

  The Chevrolet started to move away. "Watch them, watch them!" Egan warned the agents. "They're coming your way."

  He backed the Corvair into the bus stop, shifted gears and lurched forward along East Broadway.

  " — they're making a left on Pike," Jack Ripa advised.

  Egan pressed down on the accelerator. As he approached the intersection, he barked into the phone: "If you read me — you guys stick right there and don't take your eyes off that Caddy. I'll take — "

  "Are you gonna take him?" Ripa's voice was urgent. "You want us to sit on the Caddy?"

  "Great!" Egan snorted aloud. "Now they're not reading me at all!" He was cornering on Pike. As he went by, he gestured furiously toward the agents' car.

  Ripa responded: "Okay, ten-four. The Chevy turned into Henry Street."

  Egan wheeled the bouncy Corvair down wide Pike Street and made a screeching left into Henry. The other car, traceable by its single taillight, was still moving about a block ahead. There was little doubt in Egan's mind that Patsy, the master driver, was testing surveillance. The Chevy continued three more blocks along Henry, then cut sharply right on Clinton Street, through the LaGuardia housing project. Egan rounded that corner just in time to see the single taillight disappearing onto Cherry Street as though circling back in the same direction from which it had come. He followed, maintaining distance of about a block; it was too late now to be subtle. At Jefferson, the Chevy went left, toward the river. Egan swung around the corner, and applied his brakes. Near Water, the next cross street, the Chevy had stopped and was idling as one of the men left the car and was clambering into another at the curb. It was not Patsy.

  The Chevy started up again, only two men in the front seat now, moving rapidly down toward South Street. Egan accelerated after them. But before the detective reached Water Street, the car at the curb swerved out broadside to his path. "Dirty bastard!"

  Egan cried, stamping on his brake pedal. It was a bright green Valiant, about a sixty-one. Egan recognized it, and the driver as well. He was a pal of Patsy's from the Pike Slip Inn named Solly DiBrasco, called"the Brass," a thug whom the police had guessed was one of Patsy's "connections."

  Egan pressed a long blast on his horn. The Valiant remained lengthwise across the street in front of them. Egan backed the Corvair a few yards, then crept forward, edging to the left. DiBrasco moved the Valiant just enough to prevent any passage around his front end. "You dirty moth — !" Egan choked.

  He grabbed at the radiophone. "Popeye here. I am being blocked off by one of his friends while he takes off in the other car. This is a deliberate act of obstruction! The car must be loaded with junk! If anybody reads me — HIT that son of a bitch!" he pleaded viciously, disregarding the dictum that radio transmissions should not contain profanity.

  "Where are you?" Jack Ripa's voice returned.

  "We're coming!"

  Egan growled directions. He had jerked into reverse again. Now, as he veered ahead to the right, he snapped his .38 from its belt holster with his left hand and thrust it out the window toward the Valiant.

  "You let me past, you guinea bastard!" he roared at Sol the Brass. "Or you're gonna get one!"

  Still waving the revolver, with his other hand Egan manoeuvred the car behind the Valiant, partially up onto the sidewalk, and clear.

  Jefferson Street, of course, was empty. Muttering curses, Egan squealed around the corner of South Street. The only vehicle in sight had two red taillights.

  At Pike, he hesitated, then whipped right past Blair's Inn, up toward East Broadway.

  The moment he turned that corner, Egan knew he had been beaten. Outside Anthony's Auto Shop, there was a gaping space in the line of parked cars where the gray Cadillac had been.

  Egan did not pause. He raced the Corvair up East Broadway to Clinton Street again and back down toward the river. At least maybe he could nail Patsy's confederate. But when he reached Jefferson and Water streets, the Valiant was parked, silent, in the place it had originally been. DiBrasco was nowhere to be seen.

  Still bristling, Egan snarled at the radio: "We better have a meeting."

  The offices of the U.S. Bureau of Narcotics were located in the huge, block square Federal Office Building at 90 Church Street, one long block west of Broadway. Three blocks further west was the Hudson River. Two blocks to the east was City Hall Park and Plaza. Although the streets were wider here, and the buildings taller and more impressively businesslike, at night the area was almost as desolate as Old Slip on the eastern tip of Manhattan.

  The few elevators running at night in the Federal Building were operated by night watchmen. On the sixth floor, a glass door in a corner was numbered 605, and lettered FEDERAL BUREAU OF NARCOTICS.

  Beyond the door was a sparsely furnished reception room with two lounge chairs and an end table; behind a partition there was a receptionist's desk. Inside, a long room, partitioned into six sections, demarked the six groups into which the bureau's New York office was divided. Each group normally comprised twenty agents; each had its own stenographer-secretary and its own radio communications setup. Each section was furnished with eight or more comfortably spaced desks, usually more than adequate to accommodate the number of agents who might be in the office at any one time. Its atmosphere of spaciousness and comfort was in marked contrast to the near squalor of the New York Police Department's Narcotics Bureau.

  Unconsciously or otherwise, when a city detective had occasion to visit his Federal counterparts an imprint of discontent remained with him when he left 90 Church Street.

  Eddie Egan usually felt this way, and tonight his pique cut deeper because the case had deteriorated the past several days. Egan still was simmering over the brazen way he had been obstructed by Patsy's paisano, Sol the Brass. But at least he knew where to find Solly when this was over — which might well be already.

  Waters was senior agent in No. 4 Group, and by nine-thirty he had managed to round up seventeen other agents, following the alert by Jack Ripa relayed from Egan. The only New York police narcotics officer who had so far responded to the call from base radio was Detective Dick Auletta. Twenty of them gathered now in the group section, some perched on desks, some straddling chairs, others standing. Coffee and sandwiches had been sent up. Once again jackets were off, ties loosened. They all looked tired.

  Egan, Ripa and Eddie Guy related how Patsy had again eluded surveillance. "I'm convinced that the car Patsy was driving tonight must have been loaded,"

  Egan declared. "Having that punk block me was an overt act against the law. I say hit Patsy's house, his old man's place, and all the other places we got warrants for, now, or else we might as well forget the whole operation!"

  "Eddie, I know how you feel," Waters said, "but we went through all this before over at your office. If you had bagged Patsy tonight with the stuff on him, great. But now that he's faded again, I don't think there's a prayer."

  The telephone on Waters's desk jingled. "Four-seven-oh." He listened a few seconds, then said,

  "Okay. Is somebody staying on him out there? Okay. Thanks."

  He replaced the receiver and turned to the others. "That was radio control. Patsy got
home a little while ago — in his own car, the Olds."

  "He must have switched with Travato again someplace," said Egan. "I still say let's hit them all, now."

  "Look," Waters countered, "it's a cinch he didn't bring the stuff into his own house, assuming he did have it on him tonight. And we don't know where he stopped between the time you saw him and he got home."

  "I know, I know," Egan waved him off, "like you said, we went around this track before. But my point is this: I honestly think we've screwed this whole thing up. The Frenchmen, the key guys, I don't think we'll ever see them again. I think they probably already made their deal, and they're gone. Maybe they even called the deal off because of the heat, but I don't think so. From everything we heard, it was too big. The mob needs this shipment. All right, so the Frenchmen I can do without. But Patsy? Him I care about. And the stuff I care about. And I say if we don't get smart and hit Patsy and every place else right now, by tomorrow that stuff is going to be distributed and we're going to wind up with nothing.

  We can't wait anymore!"

  The telephone rang again. Waters picked it up.

  "Egan? Who's calling? Just a minute." Smirking, he held the receiver out to the detective. "It's a ‘friend' —a lady. One of your stools?"

  Egan took the phone and sat on the edge of the desk, turning his back to Waters. "Popeye here. Hey, Carol!" He stood erect. "Wait a minute, will you?" Egan twisted around to Waters. "It's not a stool. Is there another extension I could use?" Waters pointed toward a desk across the room, then pressed the Hold button on the telephone and reached for the receiver.

  Egan picked up the other phone. "Okay, I'm back. So what's new with you? God, I wanted to see you so bad tonight. No kidding, I was really on my way to your joint when I got tied up."

  "Honey," Carol interrupted, "I would love to see you and talk and everything — but I think I better tell you first why I called. I tried your office, and they said you were at this number. I don't know, it seemed like it might be important . . . "