Knock, Knock! Who's There?

ONE

The drizzling rain fell on Sammy the Black’s sweating face as he shuffled along carrying the bag of money. He was a tall, gangling negro of around thirty years of age. With the muscular shoulders of a boxer and huge hands and feet, few would guess he had the spirit of a mouse. His large black eyes rolled fearfully as he walked, aware that he was carrying some sixty thousand dollars in the shabby holdall and what was worse that everyone in the district knew it.

Every Friday, at exactly the same time, he did this long walk which took four hours. During those hours, he collected money from bars, news-stands and from the Numbers men. During this stop-start walk, Sammy sweated with fear, expecting at any moment some nut would shoot him down and grab the money.

For five hundred and twenty Fridays, he had done this walk and even after so many Fridays when nothing had happened, he couldn’t shake the fear out of his system. He kept telling himself that if it wasn’t this Friday, it could be the next.

Sammy couldn’t believe, even after ten years, in the power of his boss, Joe Massino. He couldn’t believe that any one man could have this sprawling town of close on half a million inhabitants in such a relentless grip that no one—not even a nutter—would dare attempt to steal the bag of money that Sammy was carrying.

Sammy had told himself often enough that he was crazy to be so scared since Johnny Bianda was always with him and Johnny was considered the best gunman of Massino’s mob.

“If anything happens, Sammy,” Johnny had said, time and again, “fall on the bag and leave the rest to me.”

These should be comforting words, but they didn’t comfort Sammy. The fact that even Johnny thought something could happen turned Sammy sick to his stomach.

All the same, he told himself, it was a lot better than nothing to have Johnny’s protection. He and Johnny had been Massino’s collectors now for the past ten years. Sammy, at the age of twenty, had taken the job because the money was good and his nerves were in much better shape than now. Also, in spite of his fear, he was proud to have been picked as Massino’s collector for that meant the boss trusted him. Well, maybe not quite trusted him for Johnny always went along and there was a fool-proof system against a fiddle. Sammy was given a sealed envelope containing the money and Johnny a sealed envelope containing a signed chit stating the amount of the money. It was only when they got back to Massino’s office and stood around while the money was being counted that they learned the amount they had collected and the amounts, during the ten years they had been collectors, increased every year until the take on the previous Friday had been the alarming ( to Sammy) sum of sixty-three thousand dollars!

Sure, in spite of Massino’s ruthless reputation and Johnny’s ability to shoot fast, some nutter would be tempted to snatch the money, Sammy thought as he trudged along. He looked uneasily around him. The busy, shabby street teemed with people who made room for him, grinning at him and calling out to him.

A big, black buck, nearly as big as Sammy bawled from the steps of a tenement, “Don’t lose it, Sammy ol’ boy, ol’ boy. That little ol’ bag’s got my winnings!”

The crowd laughed and Sammy, sweating more heavily, lengthened his stride. They had one more call to make before they could get into Johnny’s beat-up Ford and Sammy could relax.

Watched by the crowd, they walked into Solly Jacob’s betting office.

Solly, vast, with a tremendous paunch and a face that looked as if it had been fashioned out of dough, had the envelopes ready.

“Not bad this week,” he said to Sammy, “but tell Mr. Joe, next week is going to be a bonanza. February 29th! Every sucker in town will be trying his luck. Tell Mr. Joe you’ll need a truck to bring the money in. Don’t kid yourself you’ll be able to carry it.”

Sammy cringed as he put the envelope in the bag. “And, Johnny,” Solly said, handing Johnny his envelope, “maybe it would be an idea to get more protection for Sammy next week. Have a word with Mr. Joe.”

Johnny grunted. He was a man of few words. He turned to the door and went out into the street, followed by Sammy.

They had only a few yards to walk to where Johnny had parked his car and with relief Sammy got into the passenger’s seat. The handcuff around his thick wrist was chaffing his skin. That was another thing that scared him: to be handcuffed to the bag! He had once read of some bank clerk who had had his hand chopped off with an axe by some nutter, trying to get the bag from him. To be without a hand!

Johnny sank into the driving seat and searched for the ignition key. Sammy looked uneasily at him. He had an idea that Johnny had something preying on his mind. For the past few weeks, Johnny had been more silent than he had ever been. Yes, Sammy was sure something was preying on his mind and this worried him because he was fond of this short, thickset man with his thick black hair, shot with grey, his deep-set brown eyes and his firm, hard mouth. Sammy knew Johnny was as tough as teak and he carried a punch like a sledge-hammer blow. Sammy had never forgotten how Johnny had once handled a punk who had tried to pick a quarrel. He and Johnny were enjoying a beer in a down-town bar when this punk, twice Johnny’s size, came up and said in a voice like a fall of gravel that he didn’t drink in the same bar as a nigger.

Johnny had said quietly, “Then drink somewhere else.”

That was something Sammy always admired about Johnny: he always spoke quietly: he never shouted.

The punk had turned on Sammy who was sweating with fright, but Johnny had stepped between them so the punk had hit him. To Sammy, it seemed a hell of a punch, but Johnny didn’t even grunt. He swayed a little, then the punk took a bang on the jaw that broke it and flattened him. Sammy hadn’t seen the punch: it had been too fast, but he had seen the effect.

Yes, Johnny- was as tough as teak, but he was fine with Sammy. He didn’t talk a lot. In fact, Sammy, after going around with him for ten years, knew little or nothing about him except that he had been Massino’s gunman for some twenty years, was maybe forty- two or three years of age, unmarried, no relations, lived in a two-room apartment and Massino thought a lot of him.

Whenever Sammy got worried or had woman trouble or his young brother was playing up or something he would consult Johnny, and Johnny, speaking in his quiet voice, always managed to make Sammy feel good even if he didn’t solve his problem.

When they began the collection together, Johnny had been more talkative. He had said something that Sammy had never forgotten.

“Listen, Sammy,” Johnny had said. “You’ll make good money from this racket, but don’t let it kid you. You put by ten per cent of what you earn every week. Understand? Out of every ten dollars you earn, put one dollar aside and don’t touch it. In a few years you’ll have enough to be independent and you can get out of this racket, for as sure- as God made little apples, sooner or later, you’ll want to get out.”

Sammy had followed this ‘advice’. It made sense to him. He bought a steel box and every week when he got paid he put ten per cent of his earnings in the box which he kept under his bed. Of course there had been times when he had been forced to milk the box. There was that business with his brother who had to have five hundred dollars or go to jail. Then there was that business with Cloe who had to have an expensive abortion, but over the years the ten per cent mounted up and the last time Sammy checked the amount he was astonished to find he was worth three thousand dollars.

The box which wasn’t large was getting too full of ten dollar bills for comfort and Sammy began to worry whether to buy another box. There was something about Johnny these days that made him hesitate to ask his advice. He was sure Johnny had something on his mind and he didn’t want to be a nuisance. He thought maybe he would wait a little longer before consulting him. Maybe he would get whatever it was off his mind and then, he would be in the mood to advise him.

They drove in silence to Massino’s office: a large room with a big desk, a few chairs and a filing cabinet. Massino believed in austerity when he was downtown, although he had a Rolls, a sixteen-bedroom house up-town, a yacht and a ten-bedroom house in Miami.

He was at his desk when Johnny and Sammy came in. Leaning against the wall was Toni Capello, one of Massino’s bodyguards: a thin, dark man with snake’s eyes and nearly as fast as Johnny with a gun. Sitting on a hardbacked chair, picking his teeth with a splinter of wood was Ernie Lassini, another of Massino’s bodyguards: a fat, hulking man with a razor ‘Sear’ down the left side of his face: another good man with a gun.

Sammy shambled up to the desk and put the bag in front of Massino who leaned back in his chair and grinned at the bag.

At the age of fifty-five, Joe Massino was massively built. Medium height, he had barn-door shoulders, no neck, a heavy fat face with a flattened nose, a straggly moustache and bleak grey eyes that scared men, but intrigued women. Massino was a great womanizer. Although fat, he was still tough and there had been times when he had personally disciplined one of his mob and that man hadn’t been fit for active service for two or even three months.

“No problems, Sammy?” Massino asked and his small grey eyes shifted to Johnny who shook his head. “Okay… get Andy.”

But Andy Lucas, Massino’s accountant, had already come into the office.

Andy was sixty-five years of age: a tiny, bird-like man with a computer for a brain. Fifteen years ago he had served a -stretch for fraud and when he had come out, Massino, realizing Andy’s brilliance, had hired him to control his financial kingdom. As with most things Massino did, this was a wise choice. There was no one in the State as smart as Andy when it came to a tax form, an investment or an idea to make money.

Andy unlocked the handcuff from Sammy’s sweating wrist, then pulling up a chair by Massino, he began to check the contents of the bag while Massino watched as he chewed a dead cigar.

Both Sammy and Johnny moved away and waited. The count came to sixty-five thousand dollars.

Andy put the money back in the bag, then nodding to Massino, he carried the bag into his office and put it in the big, old-fashioned safe.

“Okay, you two,” Massino said, looking at Johnny and Sammy, “take time off. I don’t need you until next Friday. You know what next Friday is?” His hard little eyes rested on Johnny.

“The 29th.”

Massino nodded.

“That’s it; the freak day: Leap year’s day. It’s my bet the take will be around $150,000.”

“Solly said the same.”

“Yeah.” Massino dropped the dead cigar into the trash basket. “So… Ernie and Toni will go with you. You’ll collect in the car. Never mind the traffic. I’ll have a word with the Commissioner. Next Friday, the cops will look the other way if you have to double park $150,000 is a hell of a lot of money and maybe some hop-head just might try,” He eyed Sammy. “Take it easy, boy, you’ll be protected. Don’t sweat so.”

Sammy forced a sick grin.

“I’m not worried, boss,” he lied. “You tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”

Out in the drizzle, Johnny said, “Come on, Sammy, let’s have a beer.”

This was the usual ritual after the collection and Sammy walked along beside the short, thickset man, gradually relaxing until they came to Freddy’s bar. They went into the warm darkness, climbed on stools and ordered beer.

They drank in silence, then Sammy ordered more beer.

“Mr. Johnny…” He paused and looked uneasily at the hard, expressionless face. “Excuse me, but have you got worries? You’re sort of quiet these days. If there’s anything I can do…” He began to sweat, scared he had talked out of turn.

Johnny looked at him and smiled. Johnny didn’t often smile, but when he did it sent a glow of happiness through Sammy.

“No… there’s nothing.” He lifted his heavy shoulders. “Maybe I’m getting old. Anyway, thanks, Sammy.” He took a packet of cigarettes, rolled one towards Sammy and lit up. “This is a hell of a lifer isn’t it? No future in it for us.” He let smoke drift down his nostrils, then asked, “How do you feel about it, Sammy?”

Sammy shifted on his stool.

“The money’s good, Mr. Johnny. I get scared, but the money’s good. What else could I do?”

Johnny regarded him, then nodded.

“That’s right… what else can you do?” A pause, then he went on, “Have you been saving?”

Sammy smiled happily.

“Just like you told me, Mr. Johnny. One dollar in ten. That’s what you said and now I’ve got three thousand bucks in a box under my bed.” He lost his smile as he paused. “I don’t know what to do with it.”

Johnny sighed.

“You keep all that money under your bed?”

“What else can I do with it?”

“Put it in a bank, you goon.”

“I don’t like banks, Mr. Johnny,” Sammy said earnestly. “They’re for white men. It’s best under my bed. I guess I’ll have to buy another box.”

Although Sammy looked hopefully at Johnny wanting him to solve this problem, Johnny shrugged and finished his beer. He couldn’t be bothered with Sammy’s stupid problems. He had too many problems of his own.

“Please yourself.” He slid off the stool. “Well, see you next Friday, Sammy.”

“Do you think there’ll be trouble?” Sammy asked fearfully as he followed Johnny out into the drizzle.

Johnny saw the naked fear in Sammy’s big, black eyes. He smiled.

“No trouble. Not with me, Ernie and Toni with you. Take it easy, Sammy… nothing will happen.”

Sammy watched him drive away, then he set off along the street towards his pad. Friday was a long way off, he told himself. $150,000! the Boss had said. Was there that much money in the world? Nothing would happen. He’d believe that when Friday was over.

Johnny Bianda unlocked the door of his two-room apartment. He moved into the big living room and paused to look around. He had lived in this apartment now for the past eight years. It wasn’t much, but that didn’t worry Johnny. At least it was comfortable, although shabby. There were two battered lounging chairs, a settee, a T.V. set, a table, four upright chairs and a faded carpet. Through the door opposite was a tiny bedroom that just took a double bed and a night table with a built-in closet. There was a shower and a loo off the bedroom.

He took off his jacket, loosened his tie and parked his .38 automatic, then pulling up a chair to the window, he sat down.

The noise from the street drifted up to him. Noise never bothered him. He lit a cigarette and stared through the dirty window pane at the apartment block without seeing it.

Sammy had been right in guessing he had something on his mind. This something had been on his mind now for the past eighteen months. It had begun to nag him on his fortieth birthday. After celebrating with his girl friend, Melanie Carelli, and when she had fallen asleep, he had lain in the darkness and had thought about his past and had tried to imagine what his future was going to be. Forty years old! The halfway mark… always provided he didn’t have an accident, got lung cancer or stopped a bullet. Forty years old! His life half over!

He had thought of the years that had moved behind him. First, he thought of his mother who hadn’t been able to read or write and who had worked herself to an early death to keep a roof over his head while his father who had been able to read but not write had slaved in a fruit-canning factory: two decent God-fearing Italian immigrants who had loved him and bad hoped for great things from him.

Just before she had died, his mother had given him her only possession: a silver St. Christopher medal on a silver chain that had been in her family for over a century.

“There’s nothing more I can do for you now, Johnny,” she had said. “Take this: wear it always: as long as you wear it nothing really bad can happen to you. Remember that. I’ve worn it all my life and nothing really bad has happened to me. It’s been hard, but not really bad.”

He had been superstitious enough to have worn the medal and even now as he sat by the window, he put his fingers inside his shirt to touch the medal.

Lying by the side of the gently breathing Melanie, he had thought of the years after his mother’s death. He hadn’t settled to anything. He had got tired of his father’s constant nagging and had left home. Although only seventeen, he had got a job as a bartender in a dive in Jacksonville. There he associated with the wild boys, the little crooks and the petty con men. He had hooked up with Ferdie Ciano, a small time heist man. Together, they had pulled a number of jobs, mostly gas stations until the police caught up with them. Johnny did a twoyear stretch and that decided his fate. He came out of prison, educated in crime and sure that next time he wouldn’t be caught. For a couple of years he worked solo as a stick-up man. The money hadn’t amounted to anything but he was always hoping for something big. Then he ran into Ciano again who was now working for Joe Massino, an up and coming gangleader. Ciano took him along and Massino looked him over. He thought Johnny was made of the right material. He had been looking for a young, reliable man, good with a gun, to act as his bodyguard. Johnny knew little or nothing about guns. As a stick-up man he had used a toy pistol. This didn’t bother Massino. He had Johnny trained. After three months, Johnny proved himself to be a top-class shot and during the years of Massino’s rise to power, Johnny had killed three times, saving Massino’s life each time from certain death. Now, he had been with Massino for the past twenty years. There were no more killings. Massino was firmly in the saddle. He not only controlled the Unions in this big town, but also the Numbers racket and there was no one powerful enough to challenge him. Johnny was no longer his bodyguard. He had been assigned to take care of Sammy when Sammy collected the money for the Numbers pay-off. Massino believed in having young men to protect him. Anyone over thirty-five was too old, too slow for protection.

Lying on the bed beside Melanie, Johnny had thought about all this and then turned his mind to his future. Forty years of age! If he didn’t do something soon, it would be too late. In another two or three years, Massino would begin to think he was getting too old to guard Sammy. Then what? No golden handshake for Johnny… that was for sure. He would be offered a job, probably counting Union votes, running errands or some such god-awful thing. It would be the kiss-off. He had never been able to save money. His mouth had twisted into a wry grin as he remembered the advice he had given Sammy. Somehow his money bad slipped through his fingers: women, his fatal weakness for listening to any hard luck story and betting on horses that never showed. Money came and went, so he knew when Massino gave him the kiss-off he wouldn’t have enough to live on the way he wanted to live nor to do what he had always longed to do.

Ever since he could remember, he had dreamed of owning a boat. When he was a kid he had spent all his spare time down at the harbour where the rich had their yachts and the fishermen their boats. The sea had pulled and still pulled him like a magnet. When he should have been at school, he was messing around in boats. He didn’t care bow hard he worked or what he was paid so long as be was allowed on board. He scrubbed decks, polished brass and spliced ropes for nickels. He still thought back on that time when he was a kid: the best time of his life!

Lying in the dark, he again felt the compulsive urge to return to the sea, but not as a kid working for nickels and sweating his heart out just to feel the lift and fall of a deck under his feet. He wanted to return with his own boat: a sleek thirty-footer and he would charter her for fishing: going along as Captain with one crew—someone like Sammy: even Sammy.

The boat of his dreams would cost money: then there was the heavy fishing tackle and the first running expenses. He reckoned he would need at least $60,000.

He told himself he was crazy in the head to be thinking like that, but that didn’t stop him thinking nor dreaming. Like an aching tooth, the dream of owning his own boat, feeling the surge of the sea nagged him for as long as he could remember and was nagging him now as he sat at the window.

A dream that could come true if he could lay his hands on a large sum of money.

Some six months ago an idea had dropped into his mind which he had immediately shied away from… shutting it away like a man who feels a sudden stabbing pain shuts away the thought of cancer. But the idea kept coming back. It even haunted his dreams until finally, he told himself an idea was just an idea: it could be looked at, couldn’t it? There was no harm in looking at it, was there?

And when he began to look at it, he realized for the first time what it meant to be a loner. It would have been so much better, so much more reassuring if he had someone to discuss the idea with, but there was no one: no one he could trust. What was the use of talking about a thing like this with his only real solid friend: Sammy the Black? What use would Melanie be if he told her what was going on in his mind? She would hate the idea of the sea and a boat. She would think he had gone crazy. Even if his mother had been alive, he couldn’t have talked to her about it. She would have been horrified. His father had been too dumb, too much of a slave, to discuss with him any goddamn thing.

So he had looked at this idea when he was alone as he was now beginning to look at it again while sitting at the window.

Simply stated, the idea was for him to steal the Numbers collection, but to justify the high risk, he had, he told himself, to wait patiently until the big take came along as he knew it must from his past experience as a collector.

And now here it was! February 29th! Something like $150,000! The big take!

If I’m going to do it, if I’m ever going to own that boat, Johnny thought, Friday 29th is D-day! With that kind of money, I can buy a good boat, have money over so if the fishing charter idea flops, it won’t matter. With that kind of money and living carefully, I can last out until I die and still have the boat, the sea and nothing to worry about. I swear I’ll kiss the horses good-bye. I might even kiss the chicks good-bye and I’ll shut my ears to any future hard luck story!

Well, okay, he said to himself, as he settled his bulk more comfortably in the old lounging chair, so on Friday night of the 29th, you go ahead and take this money from Massino. You’ve thought about it long enough. You have made plans. You have even gone so far as to take an impression of the key of Andy’s safe. You have gone even further than that: you have made a duplicate key from the impression that you know will open the safe. That was where those two years in jail had’ paid off: you learned things like taking key impressions and making keys from the impressions.

He paused here to recall just how he had got the impression and tiny beads broke out of his forehead when he remembered the risk he had run.

The safe was a big hunk of old-fashioned metal that -stood in Andy’s tiny office, facing the door. The safe had belonged to Massino’s grandfather.

More than once, Johnny had heard Andy complain about the safe to Massino.

“You want something modern,” Andy had said. “A kid could bust into this goddamn thing. Why not let me get rid of it and fix you with something modern?”

Johnny well remembered Massino’s reply.

“That safe belonged to my grandfather. What was good enough for him is good enough for me. I’ll tell you something: that safe is a symbol of my power. There’s no one in this town who dare touch it except you and me. You put the take in there every Friday and everyone in this town knows the take will be there on Saturday morning for the pay out. Why? Because they know no one would have the guts to touch anything that belongs to me. That safe is as safe as my power… and let me tell you, my power is very safe!”

But Andy had tried again.

“I know all that, Mr. Joe,” he had said while Johnny had listened, “but there might be some out-of-town nutter who couldn’t resist trying. So why take a chance?”

Massino had stared at Andy, his eyes like little pools of ice.

“If anyone busts into that safe, I go after him,” he said. “He wouldn’t get far. Anyone who takes anything from me had better talk to a grave-digger… but they won’t. There’s no one dumb enough to try to take anything from me.”

But Massino hedged his bets. He had done that most of his life and it had paid off. When the Numbers money was locked in the safe on Friday, he left Benno Bianco locked with the safe in Andy’s office. Not that Benno was anything special. He had once been an up and coming welter-weight, but he hadn’t got very far. He was pretty good with a gun and he looked tough: a lot tougher than he was. But that didn’t matter. Benno came cheap. He hadn’t cost Massino much and the suckers of the town were impressed by his battered face, the way he walked and spat on the sidewalk. They thought he was real tough and that was what Massino wanted them to think. With Benno locked in the office, with Massino’s reputation and that great hunk of safe, the suckers who parted with their money felt sure that when they came to pay-out day, the money would be there, waiting for them.

Johnny knew all this. The opening of the safe and Benno presented no problem. He remembered what Massino had said: No one would have the guts to touch anything that belonged to me.

Well, Johnny was going to touch something that belonged to Massino. Guts? Probably not, but the urge to get his hands on such a sum, the smell of the sea, the dream of a beautiful thirty-footer added up to a lot more than guts. A grave-digger? There would be no grave-digger if his planning was right, Johnny told himself.

The big safe remained empty all the week. It was only on Friday that it was used. There was no combination; just a heavy oldfashioned key. During the months, Johnny, passing by Andy’s open door, got to know the key was often left in the lock. On Friday when the take was put in the safe, Andy took the key home with him. Three times, long after midnight, Johnny had entered the building, gone up to Andy’s office, picked the door lock and had hunted for the key. Third time lucky! On a Wednesday night, he had found the key in the safe. He had come prepared with a lump of softened putty. The impression had taken only a few seconds, but God! how he had sweated!

No one was ever allowed inside Andy’s office. If someone wanted to speak to him that someone stayed in the doorway and did his talking but never crossed the threshold. Andy had a thing about this. The only exception was when Benno guarded the safe on Friday nights, then Andy would clear his desk, lock every drawer and generally behave as if vermin was invading his holy of holies.

It took Johnny three nights to make the key, then on the fourth night he returned to the building, again picking the door lock to Andy’s office and tried out his handiwork. A touch with a file, a drop of oil and the key worked perfectly.

Taking the money was now easy. Even fixing Benno wasn’t too tricky. It was what happened when Massino found he had been robbed that mattered.

There’s no one dumb enough to try to take anything from me.

The trick in this steal, Johnny had decided, was not to let Massino find out who had taken the money. Once Massino knew who the thief was, that thief had as much chance of surviving as a scoop of ice cream dropped into a furnace.

Massino was affiliated with the Mafia to whom he paid regular dues. His own organization could take care of the town: he would get away as fast as he could. So Massino could call his opposite Mafia number and alert him. The whole of the Mafia organization would swing into action. No one steals from the Mafia or its friends without paying for it: that was a matter of principal. There wouldn’t be a town nor a city in the whole country that would be safe. Johnny knew all this, and his plan was to fix things so that no one could guess who had taken the money.

He had thought about this a lot as his future and his life depended on it. When he had the money, he would rush it across the street to the Greyhound left- luggage lockers and dump it there. The money would stay there until the heat cooled off—probably three or four weeks. Then when he was sure Massino was convinced whoever had grabbed the money had got away with it, he ( Johnny ) would move the money to a safe- deposit bank. He wished he could do this as soon as he had the money, but his alibi depended on speed. The Greyhound bus station was right opposite Massino’s office. It would be only a matter of minutes to dump the bag and get back to Melanie’s pad. The safe- deposit bank was at the other end of the town and anyway it would be shut for the night.

The whole operation involved great patience. Once the money was in the safe-deposit bank, Johnny knew he would have to wait two or three years, but he could wait, knowing when he left town he would have all that money to set up somewhere in Florida, get his boat and achieve his ambition. What were two or three years after waiting all this time?

Massino had the police in his pocket. Johnny knew the police would be called in once the robbery was discovered and they would go over the safe and Andy’s office for fingerprints. That didn’t worry Johnny. He would wear gloves and have an unassailable alibi: he would be in bed with Melanie during the time of the steal with his car parked outside her pad. He knew he could rely on Melanie to cover those thirty minutes when he was making the steal.

Because the safe had been obviously opened by a key, the full weight of Massino’s suspicions would fall on Andy, and the police would really take Andy to the cleaners since he had the only key and had a criminal record. Maybe Andy wouldn’t be able to clear himself, but if he did, then Massino would look around at the other members of his mob. He would know it was an inside job because of the key. He had two hundred men who came and went. The last man, Johnny told himself, he would suspect was his faithful Johnny who had saved his life three times in the past, had always behaved himself and had always done as he was told.

Sitting there before the window, Johnny went over the plan again and again and he couldn’t fault it and yet he was uneasy.

He could hear Massino’s harsh, ruthless voice saying: There’s no one dumb enough to try to take anything from me.

But there could be someone smart enough, Johnny thought and putting his fingers inside his shirt, he touched the St. Christopher medal.