The Hoods (61 page)

He waved me away with a princely air. “Okay, but I expect you here before eleven tomorrow morning. I want to get these damn trunks shipped out of here; they louse the room up.”

I murmured, “Okay, Max,” and left, feeling all screwed up inside.

After my shower I lay on the bed in my pajamas thinking about the heist. Maybe Max knows what he's doing? Maybe he knows of a gimmick, and it could be pulled off successfully? There's always a gimmick to everything. Why not the Federal Reserve Bank? Boy, oh boy, if we could pull that trick, it would really be something. It would be the record heist for all time. It would be at least a million bucks for my share. Boy, a million bucks for me. I'd quit and retire. What wouldn't I do with a million bucks? I'd travel all over the world. I'd lay all the beautiful women in every country. I'd do it systematically, so as not to miss any race or nationality. I'd sample every color and type of female on the face of the globe. I'd be truly unbigoted, give them all a break. I'd stop at all the best hotels. I'd stay a while in Turkey. I hear Turkish women are really something. I wonder if they can teach me anything new? I smiled to myself confidently; I doubted it. Yeh, they kick the gong around a great deal over there, too. I'd like that, plenty of good opium, that's for me. Jesus, I forgot all about Eve. When I got back from the trip, I'd settle down with her. We'd get married.

What the hell am I doing? Lying here dreaming about spending a million bucks that I'll never get. That Federal Reserve Bank heist is suicide. That Maxie is bugs. We ain't got a chance in ten million to get out of there alive. Them twenty machine guns in them walls will cut us up into cold hamburgers before we can even pick up one bag. But that goddamn Maxie. Nothing can change his mind. That Federal heist has been an obsession with him ever since he was a kid. The idea entered his head so many years ago, I thought he forgot it. It s just like some incurable disease with him, like a cancer, that grows and grows and it'll finally kill him, and us with him.

He won't listen to anybody. Anybody? Goddamn it, why didn't I think of it before? That son of a bitch will listen to Frank. He'll take orders from him, all right. There's no question about that. I'll take it to Frank; hell straighten him out. That man can straighten out anybody. Why the hell didn't I think of it before? I gave a sigh of relief. I went to the phone: I called the main office. My heart sank. Damn the lousy luck. Frank was out of town. They didn't know where. Phil was away also. Anything anyone else could do? No, no-one else could do a damn thing. I sat there undecided, down in the dumps, thinking what to do next? Should I pull out? Skip town; go to Eve? No good. They'd think I was yellow. Besides, if I ran away, I'd be through for good. No more of the big, quick dough; I'd have to disappear. Where? No, it's no good, I'm too accustomed to this easy life and New York and the good old East Side.

Maybe Frank's down in New Orleans? He must be around somewhere. I'd stay by the phone all night if necessary until I reached him. I put my call in to New Orleans. I paced the floor nervously waiting for the operator to call me back. It was an uneasy ten minutes. In New Orleans Dudley said, “He isn't here; try Hot Springs.”

I called Arkansas. I was unjustly angry with the operator for the few minutes delay that seemed so much longer. He wasn't there. They said, “Try Chicago.”

Try Chicago? I was getting panicky. It was a matter of life and death to me, and these people talked in an ordinary tone of voice. They took it slow, as if it had no importance whether I reached the guy or not. Where the hell was that guy? He was the only solution. I got to get through to him. I jiggled the hook frantically and with senseless bitterness I browbeat the long distance operator to connect me faster with Chicago.

I winced when Fischetti in Chicago told me, “He isn't here. Try Detroit.”

I was drenched with sweat before that damned operator got me Detroit. An agonizing twinge shot through me as the report came over, “He isn't in Detroit.”

I shrieked over the wire, “Where the hell is he? It's urgent; it's important. I got to get to him.”

The calm Detroit voice answered, “Who knows where 'that man' is? He's got business all over the country. Did you try Chicago?”

I furiously enumerated the cities I had called, “New Orleans, Chicago, Hot Springs and Detroit.”

The calm voice said, “Why don't you call Jersey?”

Yeh, why didn't I think of Jersey? Boy, am I dumb! He could be right across the river.

With uncontrolled violence I jiggled the operator and shouted the Jersey phone number into the mouthpiece. Solly reported he wasn't there. What was this, a conspiracy? Nobody wanted to let me know where Frank was. He was somewhere within reach of a phone, somebody knew where he was. Miami? One chance in a thousand for him to be there this time of year. I called Miami.

A laughing voice answered, “What would that man be doing here? The track is closed.”

My desperation kept me on the phone all night. I called up and down the West coast. I called Mexico. I called Canada.

No use. It was daylight, and I had no more numbers to call. I was exhausted. My throat was sore; my voice was hoarse, yeh, just like Frank's. Bells were ringing in my ears. I felt sick when I had to reach for the phone again to tell the switchboard to call me at 8 a.m.

The hotel operator said, “Did you know you made $400 worth of calls during the night?”

“Who asked you?” I growled impatiently. “Put it on the bill.”

I slammed down the receiver. I drank a third of a quart of whiskey and fell into an exhausted and uneasy sleep.

The telephone woke me. The girl at the switchboard announced, “Good morning, it's 8 o'clock.” I hung up after I grumbled, “Yeh, thanks.”

I felt jittery, and I had an awful headache. I took a long swallow from the bottle on the table. It took me a few minutes to collect my thoughts. What was on the schedule for today? Yeh, I got to go to the bank, close out my savings account, and take the dough out of the vaults.

I dressed quickly, took a large empty valise out of the closet and went out. I looked at my watch: it was twenty after eight, too early for the bank. I walked over to the Automat and sat there nervously drinking cup after cup of black coffee.

I jumped a cab and went down to the Public National. The bank wasn't open yet. I walked up and down the street for five minutes. What the hell was I so nervous about? I was the first customer of the day. I felt very conspicuous as I made out the withdrawal slip to close out my account.

I muttered inanely to the teller, “I'm leaving town on important business.”

He smiled. “What denominations?”

I answered, “Hundreds.”

I threw the bundles in my valise hurriedly, without counting. A customer beside me watched bug-eyed.

I snapped at him, “What the hell you staring at?”

He turned away, embarrassed.

I went downstairs to the vaults. The guard nodded a greeting and unlocked the gate. I went in swiftly, emptied the contents of my boxes into the valise and walked upstairs and out to the street.

I felt self-conscious as I walked with all that money through the streets. It seemed as if all the passers-by were staring at me, and they knew what I was carrying in the valise. It would be ironic if a couple of heist guys would take me over, now, with all this dough on me. Boy, it would be a good heist for anybody—two hundred grand.

Would I plead professional immunity, and say, “Lay off, pal, I'm in the same racket you are?”

Boy, am I getting silly. Nobody knows what I got in this valise. Or does someone?

A large man fell in step beside me. I shifted the heavy valise to my left hand away from him and put my right in my pants pocket. I clenched my knife. As I met his gaze, I watched his hands. A tremor went up my spine and froze the hair on the back of my head. He put his left hand in his coat pocket. He had a bulge there. It looked like the outline of a rod. We walked in step down the street. He began yanking the object out of his pocket. I took the offensive.

I pressed close to him and hissed in his ear, “One move out of you, bastard, and your head rolls in the gutter.”

With a startled expression he stopped in his tracks and murmured, “There's all kinds crazy lunatics on Delancey Street.”

I looked back at him, he was standing there munching a banana.

He waved his peeled banana and shouted after me in Yiddish, “Me-shuggeneh merder.”

The valise seemed to be getting heavier by the minute. I speculated on the weight I was carrying. It seemed to be a hundred pounds at least. It was silly of me not to have taken a cab, but it seemed to be such a short walk.

I thought, why the hell should I put all my eggs in one basket? Yeh, that's right. I'll split it. I passed the Bank of the United States. Yeh, that's a good safe bank. I walked in. Yeh, best thing is to put it under an assumed name. Yeh, I'll make two accounts. I'll put fifty thousand under Eve McClain, fifty under John McClain, and one hundred grand I'll put in storage. Everybody from the bank president down shook hands with me before I left.

I was glad when I finally made Fat Moe's.

Patsy was sitting alone at the table drinking.

He waved his glass at me. “Have an eye opener, Noodles.”

He glanced at my valise. “I see you got all your gelt. There's mine.” He pointed to his valise under the table. I nodded and poured myself a drink.

Patsy said casually, “So you don't like that Federal Reserve heist, Noodles?”

I countered, “Do you?”

Patsy shrugged. “Maxie usually knows what he's doing. That last payroll job went off smooth as silk. You'll see this one will, too.”

I gestured hopelessly. “I hope so.”

Patsy rubbed his hands together, a happy smile on his face. “A million bucks is a million bucks, no matter what. That Maxie, he knows what he's doing. He's always got a gimmick up his sleeve.”

“I hope so,” I repeated. I felt justified in my pessimism. What kind of gimmick could Max have to trump those machine guns planted all around the walls? We will be like ducks in a barrel. The thought gave me the shakes. It reminded me of the time in Chicago, of how we poured bullets into those guys. I poured myself another double hooker. The side door opened. Max and Cockeye strode in carrying valises. Max was in a genial mood.

He greeted us. “How yuh douchin?” He reached for the bottle and poured for himself and Cockeye.

He saluted with his glass, “Le' chayim.”

“Le' chayim,” we answered.

He smacked his lips. “That hit the spot.”

He picked up the bottle and poured for all of us. He raised his glass in the air with a smug smile.

“Tomorrow is the big day, it will go down in history,” he said.

“You got the job all set up for tomorrow?” Patsy asked with admiration.

“Yep, everything will go off as scheduled. I'll give you guys all the low-down. First, let's get these trunks out of the way.”

Maxie walked from trunk to trunk, opening them up.

“Okay, you guys take your choice,” he said.

He strode to the door leading to the bar and called, “Hey, Moe. Keep this door locked, we don't want to be disturbed by anyone.”

Moe answered, “Okay, Max.”

Each of us picked up his valise and walked toward a safe. Cockeye appeared to be going for the same one I was.

I said, “Go ahead, take it. I'll take the other.”

He walked away to the remaining one, muttering, “Don't do me no favors.”

I slit open the envelope which was tied to the handle of the safe, and took out the typewritten combination. I twirled the knob to the proper number and yanked the door open. I opened my valise and began stuffing in the dough. From the corner of my eye I could see the rest of them doing the same. It was an odd sight, the four of us busily piling bundles of money from valises into safes.

Just then the phone rang. Maxie uttered a loud disgusted, “Damn” and answered it.

I continued stacking my money in the safe.

Max came away from the phone and said, “It was from the main office. We got to escort a big load of the Combine's whiskey up to Westchester this afternoon.”

Immediately I thought, boy, if only we could get pinched doing it. About five minutes later the thought flashed through my mind: this is luck. I hate to do it, but it's better to do eighteen months on a Prohibition rap than face certain death in that goddamn stupid Federal Reserve heist. Yep, I hate to do it, but I'm going to blow the whistle on all of us, to the Prohibition Agents. Yeh, I'll blow the whistle and turn informer. I'll go up to their office and tell them where to pick us up with the load.

All we would actually have to do with time off for good behavior would be twelve months, and that we can do standing on our heads. At least we'll be alive, and maybe, by that time, Maxie will get some sense in his head and forget all about that damn heist. That's the only way out. If the Combine ever found out I blew the whistle on them and made them lose a fifty-grand load of Scotch, it would be bye-bye for me, in a cement kimona. Yeh, but how the hell would they find out? They'll never suspect I blew the whistle on myself. I'll cop a sneak the first chance I get and give the Prohibition Department all the dope.