Operation Underworld (41 page)

The question about loved ones had never occurred to Doc.

“Because, they killed a client. They killed a client and someone I care about might be next. It’s gettin’ personal.”

“Care about, or love?”

“Don’t push it, asshole! I need you in the back field in case I blow it.”

“Aw, c’mon, Doc! If we don’t come out on top of this, it’s back to garbage trucks for me. Besides, I already got my own brass knuckles!”

“You’re not gonna listen to me no matter what I say, are you, Bonehead?”

“Not a chance in hell. Doc!” There was a long pause on Doc’s end of the line as he realised it was safer to know where Louie was and what he was doing than to risk him meandering about when things got thick.

“Make sure Doris stays in the house with the girls, and doesn’t even think about leaving until she hears from us! You got that?” The ‘us’ part was all Louie needed to hear.

“Roger that, Green Hornet!”

“Don’t start that shit. This is serious.”

“Doc, don’t lose your sense of humour on me, huh?”

“Get over to the office, and don’t move until you hear from me! I’m meetin’ this Bozo at one.”

“I know, at the Hayden.”

Doc thought about Sullivan’s call earlier. “What, did somebody take out an ad in
The Times
, fer Christ’s sake?”

“Nikki told me.”

“All right, get over to the office. I’ll call and give you an update as soon as I made the drop. And Louie…” Doc hated to say it, but given Louie’s propensity for not being in the right place at the right time, he felt obligated. “I might get myself up the creek on this one, savvy? You need to be there! Got it? Kato.”

“Roger that, Doc! Count on me. And Doc?”

Doc sensed Louie was going to say something sentimental. “What?”

“If you die, can I have your desk?”

“You‘re a sick son-of-a-bitch, Mancino. You know that?”

“Hey, Al. Get a load’a this!” The gate guard perched in his armoured tower high above the fence-line called over to his partner as a black, chrome-plated Chrysler limousine pulled up outside the steel gates of Great Meadows.

“Three guesses who that’s for, and the first two don’t count,” the second guard replied.

From their vantage points, the guards continued to watch as the limo pulled up next to the granite wall beside the gate and Meyer Lansky got out, followed by Socks Lanza.

Both were dressed in silk suits and Lanza carried a clothes bag and a pair of brown wingtips. The two made their way through the gates with no resistance from the sentries, who knew why they were there. In fact, by way of every newspaper in the country the entire New York penal system knew why they were there.

Lucky Luciano had made parole.

An hour later, dressed in his new, charcoal grey suit and shoes, Lucky, escorted by Lansky and Lanza, walked through the gate a free man, sort of.

Even though the parole board granted him parole, they were ever mindful of their political careers. The board, the judge and the Governor attached severe restrictions. Actually, only one restriction. Get the hell out of the country.

Ironically, it was DA Hogan, the Third Naval District and Commissioner Lyons who were directly responsible for Lucky‘s favourable parole decision. Despite the fact that he had up to forty years remaining on his greatly inflated sentence, he was out of prison because of the aforementioned bureaucrat’s refusal to co-operate with the parole board when questioned about Lucky’s contribution to the war effort. Instead of being told that Lucky had or had not made a contribution to his adopted land, the parole board investigators were essentially told it was none of their business. So, by way of showing their authority, and the fact that they had no sense of humour about being told to piss off, they set Lucky free.

“Do you, Charles Luciano, understand and concur with all the conditions of your parole as set forth by the New York State Parole Commission?” The tall, lanky administrator, one of the two who would accompany Lucky to New York City and keep him under close eye until Monday morning, spoke mechanically as he filled out yet another document for Lucky to sign.

“Sure, I understand. You want me to take my boys and go home.”

“Sign here, please.”

Lucky signed and without waiting for his copy of the papers, walked out of prison. The two administrators followed the new limousine in their state issued, 1934 Ford.

“So how long you got?” Lanza asked Lucky as they made their way down the mountain road.

“Forty-eight hours. Then they get ta watch me leave.”

“These rat bastards gonna be with us until Monday morning?” “They might hang around, but sometime tomorrow they’ll take a powder and some INS guys’ll show up. They’re the ones gotta put me on the boat.”

“The boat? Why don’t you fly, Boss? You could go first class! We could a bought you a ticket!” Socks asked.

“They’re the ones kicking me out. Let them pay for the ticket!” Lucky looked out the window at the world he hadn’t seen for six years. Smiling, he added, “I’ll take a plane when I come back.”

The parade route was scheduled to start south of the American Museum of Natural History, a structure which dwarfed the adjacent Hayden Planetarium situated next door to the museum. The early afternoon crowd were dressed in heavy, winter clothing, and snow continued to lightly coat the pavement as wind sporadically made its way up the avenue.

McKeowen cautiously approached from the 78th Street side and slowly walked up Columbus Avenue, to the back of the museum complex. At 81st Street, across from the park, he took full advantage of the steady stream of spectators making their way down Central Park West by peering around the corner. He noticed that there were an inordinate number of police in the area, but put it down to crowd control. To play it safe, he decided to enter the Hayden through the museum, via the annex hallway.

“Excuse me, miss?” Doc was at the coat check just inside the door, and a young girl came to the counter.

“Yes, sir?” Over her shoulder Doc could see the nearly full Lost and Found bin. He shifted to a thick Jersey dialect.

“Miss, I was here last month, on a field trip with some of my students, and… well, I’m embarrassed to say it, but I was so tired, I think I left my overcoat here.”

A few minutes later, Doc strolled through the museum annex wearing a grey tweed overcoat on top of his leather jacket, and approached the lobby of the planetarium. He stood there for a few minutes, glancing around the room as he pretended to read the programme until he picked out two of Johnson’s stooges. One he recognised and the other was new. Johnson had brought reinforcements. It was five minutes to one, and after assessing his situation, he proceeded directly into the planetarium theatre where the crowd were taking their seats.

Doc took a seat in the front row and removed the overcoat, letting it fall back onto his seat. No sooner did he have his arms free when two men sat down, one on either side of him. The one on his right was Johnson, the other was another new face.

Doc looked at all four of the exits of the circular room and saw that each was manned by an agent accompanied by a policeman. “Jeez, Bob, how many assholes does one guy need?”

“Hi McKeowen, how’s the bedroom peepin’ business? I hear Sammon is doin’ real well uptown. Even lives in a penthouse now.”

“I really want you to know how flattered I am that you take such an interest in my personal life. But let me ask you something. How does it feel to murder a defenceless mail clerk in his eighties?”

“I don’t know, Mac. You tell me.”

Johnson reached into his breast pocket and dropped a piece of paper into Doc’s lap. As he read it, Doc realised what Sullivan was too cowardly to tell him. It was an arrest warrant with Doc’s name on it, for the murder of Ira Birnbaum. It was hard to contain himself, but Doc focused on knocking Johnson off balance as soon as possible.

“And just in case you’re thinkin’ about any local connections, you’ll notice it’s a Federal warrant.”

A middle-aged couple holding tickets approached the seats where Doc and the two agents were sitting. The man double-checked the ticket numbers and then looked to Johnson. The tourist adjusted his glasses as he spoke in a mid-western dialect.

“Excuse me, I believe you’re in our seats.”

Johnson looked up at the man and smiled. “Hit the bricks, Mortimer. These seats are taken.” The couple exchanged glances.

“Excuse me, sir but we paid for those seats!” the man insisted. Johnson flashed his badge.

“Tough shit, Henry! Looks like you either stand or go look at the dinosaurs! Now, get the hell outta here before I run you and the misses in for loitering!”

The wife tugged at her husband’s arm and they walked away. Doc called after them, smiled and waved. “Welcome to New York!”

The house lights began to dim and an older man stood at the podium which was off-centre of the amphitheatre.

“Guess this means the deal is off?” Doc held up the warrant.

“Oh no, we still got a deal. You give me my book and I’ll think about speakin’ to the judge so you don’t get the chair. But I can’t make any promises. That young DAover in Brooklyn is makin’ a pretty big deal over this murder.” Johnson leaned in to Doc in mock emphasis of his point. “Rumour has it he’s talkin’ about goin’ for governor.”

In the centre of the room, two trap doors opened up and a large, black object began to rise above floor level. It gave the appearance of a six foot metal ant, freckled all over with white dots as it slowly came to life. It was the Zeiss projector. Doc saw his cue.

“This little black book must be pretty important, huh?”

“Where is it?” Johnson didn’t want to play any more.

“You get the book, you leave everyone alone!”

“Otherwise what? You’re gonna give it to the press? The papers have been notified that a top secret document has been stolen by a murder suspect, and if anything surfaces, they’re to notify me personally. Any other clever moves, rookie?”

“Always one step ahead, huh, Bob?”

“I get my book, and you don’t face espionage

“I get my book, and you don’t face espionage charges along with premeditated murder. Last chance, hero, where is it?”

The smile Doc had been wearing evaporated from his face as he hung his head. Putting his hand over his mouth, he nodded at the projector, just as the show’s presenter began his lecture about the wonders of the nighttime winter sky.

“Taped underneath,” he said to Johnson. Johnson looked at McKeowen and then at the projector.

“C’mon, I’ll show you,” Doc offered. Johnson slapped his hand on Doc’s chest and pushed him back into the seat.

“No! You sit there, and don’t even think about moving!” He turned to the other agent. “He’s under arrest. If he moves, shoot him!”

Brandishing his badge, Johnson walked over to the astronomer presenting the lecture and ordered him to stop the show, while the back-up cops and agents closed ranks in front of the exits. By now, it was obvious to everyone in the house that there was some kind of disturbance down front and Johnson was being showered with assorted cat-calls and abuse which temporarily distracted him, until he yelled back at the crowd to be quiet, this was a police matter.

At the same time, the other agent produced a pair of handcuffs and ordered McKeowen to put his hands behind his back. Doc complied while judging the distance to the Zeiss projector to be about ten yards. The presenter’s podium looked to be about twice that, and when Johnson momentarily turned his back while giving orders to the speaker, Doc stood, hands still behind his back, gripping the overcoat off the seat back.

One moment the agent was looking at his handcuffs, opening them, the next moment everything was black. Doc had him covered in the heavy garment, punching furiously until the agent offered no more resistance, and fell to the floor. The crowd whistled and began to clap. This caught the attention of Johnson who was so affronted by McKeowen’s audacity that he saw red.

Charging at Doc, who was scanning the room after finishing punch-bag practise on the agent, he ran at full speed, his hat flying off and his open coat flapping behind him. Johnson couldn’t have done Doc a bigger favour.

Doc stood perfectly motionless, poised as if to catch Johnson as he attacked. Instead, at the last second, Doc side-stepped the charging bull and grabbed hold of him as he flew past, pushing Johnson as hard as he could, headfirst into the steps leading up the aisle.

The crowd let out a tremendous cheer, and Doc made his break for the base of the projector, between the trap doors. As the cops and agents scurried down the aisles to converge on the centre of the theatre, Johnson rolled over, rubbing his head to tumultuous applause, while looking around, trying to focus on the room.

Running at full speed, Doc dived to the marble floor and slid through the open trap doors into the darkness below. After getting to his feet, Johnson regained his focus and started shouting orders.

“You two, down the hole, now! Berryman! Take a cop and search the projector!” Then he turned to the presenter. “You, perfessor! Where does that hole lead to?”

Doc was learning the answer to that question as they spoke. The hall beneath the lifting device for the projector was barely wide enough for one man to walk through, bent over. Originally designed for repair access only, it was unlit and showed no signs of ending. Doc could hear the two men following him stumbling around in the dark, trying to light a cigarette lighter.