Cops and Robbers

16

They’d gotten off duty together at four in the afternoon. Joe had his Plymouth today, and they drove across town, through the park at 86th Street, and over into Yorkville where they stopped at a corner with a pay phone. Tom called the number Vigano had given him, and asked for Arthur, and said his name was Mr. Kopp. A gravelly voice said Arthur wasn’t in, but was expected, and could he call Mr. Kopp back? Tom read off the number of the pay phone, and the gravelly voice hung up.

Then twenty minutes went by. It had been a hot day, and it was gradually becoming a hot evening. They both wanted to go home and take their clothes off and stand in the shower for a while. Tom leaned against the side of the phone booth and Joe sat on the fender of the Plymouth, and they waited, and twenty minutes went by with the speed of grass growing.

Finally Tom looked at his watch for the fifteenth time and said, “It’s been twenty minutes.”

Reluctantly Joe said, “Maybe we should—”

“No,” Tom said. “He told me if he didn’t call back in fifteen minutes, we should try again later. We’ve waited twenty minutes, and that’s enough.” Joe was still reluctant, because he didn’t want to have to nerve Tom up to this all over again, but he gave in without any more argument, saying, “Okay, you’re right. Let’s go.”

Even though they now had a plan, Tom hadn’t been all that eager to talk to Vigano again. “Fine,” he said, and started toward the passenger side of the Plymouth, and the phone rang.

They looked at each other. They both tensed up right away, which Tom had expected but which surprised Joe. He’d had the idea he was under better control than that. “Go on,” he said.

Tom had just been standing there. “Right,” he said, and turned back, and went into the phone booth. The phone was just starting to ring for the second time when he lifted the receiver and said, “Hello?”

“Is that Mr. Kopp?” Tom recognized Vigano’s voice.

“Sure. Is that Mister—”

Overriding him, Vigano said, “This is Arthur.”

“Right,” Tom said. “Arthur, right.”

“I expected to hear from you a couple weeks ago.”

Tom could feel Joe’s eyes on him through the glass walls of the booth. With a sheepish grin, he said, “Well, we had to get things set up.”

Vigano said, “You want me to tell you where to bring the stuff?”

“Not a chance,” Tom said. “We’ll tell you where.”

“Doesn’t matter to me,” Vigano said. “Give me your setup.”

Tom took a deep breath. This was another of those moments of no return. He said, “Macy’s has a wicker picnic basket. It costs around eighteen bucks, with the tax. It’s the only one they’ve got at that price.”

“Okay.”

“Next Tuesday afternoon,” Tom said, “at three o’clock, no more than four people, two of them female, can carry one of those baskets into Central Park from the west at the Eighty-fifth Street entrance to the park roadway. They should turn right, go down near the traffic light, and sit down on the grass there. No later than four o’clock, either I or my partner will show up to make the exchange. We’ll be in uniform.”

Vigano said, “With another basket?”

“Right.”

“Isn’t that kind of public?”

Tom grinned at the phone. “That’s what we want,” he said.

“It’s up to you,” Vigano said.

“The stuff in your basket,” Tom said, “should not have traceable numbers and should not be homemade.”

Vigano laughed. “You think we’d palm off counterfeit on you?”

“No, but you might try.”

Serious again, almost sounding as though he’d been insulted, Vigano said, “We’ll examine each other’s property before we make the switch.”

“Fine,” Tom said.

“You’re a pleasure to do business with,” Vigano said.

Tom nodded at the phone. “I hope you are, too,” he said, but Vigano had already hung up.