McNally's caper

THE BIG CAPER

I was participant. I was observer.

I went stumbling along, conscious of Angela close behind me, snickersnee at the ready. Felt watery knees, faintness, a looseness of the bowels. I did what I was told, allowed myself to be herded, pulled, pushed into the car.

I wasn’t thinking straight; I admit it. I couldn’t concentrate on my plight or how to escape it. Images and notions appeared, flashed by, disappeared: a speeded-up film. It all went so fast. I saw the familiar scenes of midtown Manhattan: streets, traffic, storefronts, pedestrians. But I was not part of it; it was all strange to me. I was a traveler in a foreign land. As participant, I played my role like a zombie. I could have been drugged. I remember making weird, squealing sounds until, in the car, Jack Donohue gripped my arm fiercely. Then I was still.

And all the time, acting. I’m sure, like a goddammed somnambulist, I was observing Donohue and the others. I was watching their reactions, making mental notes, telling myself to remember. Everything. Every detail. The writer at work. So, at the moment of my own death, I might note: ‘Now I am weakening. Everything growing dim. Darkness closing in. There. That’s it.’

Now the thieves were all business, sober and intent. In the rented Ford with me were Donohue, Angela, Hymie Gore, and the Holy Ghost. Angela watched only me, but the heads of the others swiveled constantly, a slow wagging back and forth. They were only watching the traffic about us, but those oscillations had a sinister, mesmeric effect, the deliberate movements of snakes about to strike.

I saw that, noted it, and marveled at their nerve and resolve. All the crimes I had plotted in those sad, fictional novels of mine were as nothing compared to this. I could imagine criminal projects, but this was the real thing. I began to grasp the purpose it required, the resolution to take step A, which led to step B, which led to step C, and so on.

I had another vagrant thought on that trip to the West 47th Street garage. It will probably make me sound like a snob, a prig, an elitist, whatever, but if this is to be a true and honest account, I must record it.

I thought Dick Fleming and I were superior to these creatures. We were better informed, better educated, more intelligent, more sensitive. It was a matter of breeding, of class; yes, it was. We would never have chosen to associate with any one of them if it hadn’t been for our harebrained scheme. Quite simply, they were beneath us.

Yet there we were, in the power of those inferior beings. Because they had shrewdness, strength, vigor, and determination that could not be denied. Most important, they were not daunted by action. I tried to recall an instance in my life in which I had planned and carried out a project of moment. I could not think of a single one. A fitting irony that the superior, well-bred, upper-class Jannie Shean should find the first significant act of her life to be a criminal enterprise controlled by denizens of the deep with few brains, fewer social graces, but With the desperate courage to challenge fate and defy society. It was a depressing, humbling thought.

The other car arrived at the garage before we did. The doors were opened for us by Clement, and quickly closed. Inside were now Dick Fleming’s VW, my XKE, the rented Ford, and the stolen Chevy.

Everyone went about the assigned tasks with a minimum of talk and confusion. The men donned the Bonomo coveralls, including poor Dick, who was urged on by either Clement or Smiley, their guns prominently displayed. I admired Black Jack’s attention to detail, for each man had been issued a pair of coveralls that fitted reasonably well, from the skinny Holy Ghost to the squat Smiley and mountainous Hymie Gore.

Grease was smeared on the license plates of the VW and the rented Ford, the final getaway cars.

‘Not too thick,’ Donohue cautioned. ‘We don’t want to get stopped by some hot-rock cop. Just cover one or two of the numbers, enough to confuse witnesses.’

Then he ran through a checklist, making certain each man carried stocking mask, tape, a few lengths of rope. Gore, the Ghost, Smiley, and Clement carried short crowbars or pieces of pipe. Donohue also had two doorstoppers. And everyone carried at least three folded pillowcases. All were armed, of course.

Donohue inspected each member of his gang, looking for all the world like a sergeant preparing his squad for parade. Then he took a black moustache from a small paper sack, licked the pad on the back, and stuck it on his upper lip, pressing it firmly in place. He unwrapped a Band-Aid, placed it across his forehead. He inspected his reflection in a car window, not smiling. He should have looked ridiculous but he didn’t. I remember thinking that black moustache did something for him, gave him dash, and he should grown one.

He looked at his watch, then took a final glance around. The VW and my rented Ford had been backed into the garage, ready for a quick exit. The keys were left under the floor mats.

‘All right,’ Black Jack said. ‘Put on your gloves. Wipe down the Chevy and the XKE, and I mean really scrub them.’

They worked swiftly, rubbing door handles, steering wheels, door frames, interior armrests.

‘That’s enough,’ Donohue said. ‘Time to get going. Me, Jannie, Angela, Hymie, and the Ghost in the Chevy. Jannie, here’s a pair of gloves for you; you’ll be driving. You other guys travel in style in the Jag. Let’s go.’

His commands were terse, hard, toneless. No joking. No banter. It was all business, strictly business.

We rolled out. I drove the Chevy, Angela sitting beside me, her knife a few inches from my ribs. Donohue sat next to her, on the outside. Hymie Gore and the Holy Ghost were in the back seat. I glanced in the rearview mirror long enough to see my bottle-green Jaguar follow us out, Dick Fleming driving. The XKE paused just long enough for Clement to hop out and close the garage doors.

Then we were on our way. My Big Caper was going down.

On the drive over to Madison Avenue, I wondered if Jack Donohue hadn’t been right. He had told me he felt his luck had finally changed, that this robbery would go off exactly as planned, an enormous success. So far it had certainly gone smoothly. No hitches, no accidents. There hadn’t even been any witnesses in the elevators or garage of my apartment house to note our departure. Perhaps, I thought, gamblers and thieves had an instinct for these things, the way hunters sense game in the vicinity or experienced soldiers sense an opportunity for a kill.

The trip to the antique shop was uneventful. That knife point held unwaveringly near my ribs was a constant reminder not to try anything foolish, like a contrived stall or a deliberate crash.

‘Slow down a bit,’ Donohue commanded. ‘Let the Jag catch up.’

I obeyed. I slowed until the XKE was directly behind us. Then, in tandem, we went crosstown to Madison, made a left, and headed uptown. I drove carefully, heeding every stoplight.

‘Smart girl,’ Black Jack said tensely. ‘Keep it up; you’re doing fine.’

We came to 53rd Street and glanced ahead. No Bonomo truck parked in front of the antique shop.

‘No sweat,’ Donohue said. ‘A slow turn around the block.’

I went over to Park Avenue on 54th Street, drove south, came back to Madison on 53rd, then turned north again. The Jaguar was right behind us.

Still no truck.

Donohue glanced at his watch. ‘They’re a few minutes late,’ he said lightly, and I admired his nerve. I was ready to pee, aching to pee. ‘Another turn around the block, Jannie.’

We made the circuit once more. The streets were heavy with early-morning traffic. The sidewalks were clogged with workers hurrying to offices and stores. It took us almost five minutes to work our way around the block onto Madison Avenue again.

And there was the Bonomo van, doubleparked near the antique shop.

‘Bingo,’ Jack Donohue said with great satisfaction. ‘And look — how’s that for luck? They’re parked a door down so they won’t be able to look out the windows and see what we’re doing.’

He was right: The Bonomo truck wasn’t doubleparked directly in front of the antique shop. I began to wonder if the gods of crooks, if there are such, hadn’t decided to throw in with Black Jack Donohue.

‘Pull up in front of him,’ he directed me. ‘Back up until you’re about five feet away. Keep the motor running.’

I did as I was told. I watched in the mirror as Dick Fleming pulled up behind the van. The three vehicles were in a tight group.

‘Good, good,’ Donohue murmured. ‘Doing fine, doing fine. Now we wait …’

We waited, silent and motionless, for almost ten minutes. A squad car rolled by on the other side of the avenue, but the two cops didn’t even give us a glance. I didn’t see any foot patrolmen.

Donohue turned to the men in the back seat.

‘It’s time,’ he said.

They nodded, got out of the car slowly. Went to the back of the van, walking in the street, not on the sidewalk, keeping parked cars between them and the Bonomo cleaning crew inside the antique shop.

I watched in my rearview mirror as Dick Fleming, Smiley, and Clement got out of the XKE, moving leisurely. As far as I could observe, none of the hurrying pedestrians noticed a thing. The five coveralled men disappeared inside the van and closed the rear doors.

‘Beautiful,’ Donohue breathed. ‘Isn’t that beautiful, Jannie?’

I didn’t answer.

‘Just like you planned it,’ he said. ‘You should be proud.’

I wasn’t proud; I was numb. I knew what was going on inside the van: The five men were pulling on their stocking masks, poor Dick Fleming being urged on by the prodding of Clement’s gun. My gun.

‘Here they come,’ Donohue said suddenly.

I looked up. The Bonomo cleaning crew was coming out of the antique shop.

‘My turn,’ Black Jack said. He opened the door on his side, if she gives you any trouble,’ he said, ‘kill her.’

He was speaking to Angela, but he was looking at me when he said it.

I hope I never see eyes like that again. Holes. Empty. Deep, deep pits.

I watched him go. He timed it just right, hesitating on the traffic side of the doubleparked cars until the Bonomo crew had gone to the rear of their van and opened the doors.

They stood frozen. Then Donohue was behind them, hands at their backs, shoving them forward. Other hands from inside the van reached out, yanked them in. No shouts. No screams. No shots. It had been done.

I let out a long, quavering sigh. Angela hadn’t been watching the action. She had been watching me. And that knife blade never wavered, never drooped.

‘Angela,’ I said desperately, ‘why don’t we-”

‘Shut up your mout’,’ she said tonelessly. ‘You jus’ do like you was tole. You jus’ drive, that’s all you do. You say nuttin. You unnerstan’? Nuttin. Ever’ word you say, I cut you a leetle.’

So I said nuttin. I want this clearly understood: At that moment, and during what followed, I was absolutely certain that she meant what she said, that she was capable of cutting me and killing me. That’s why I did what I did. I was in fear of my life. I want everyone to know that. I acted under duress. I am not legally responsible for what happened.

I watched again in the rearview mirror. I saw the Bonomo driver climb out of the rear of the van. Jack Donohue was close behind him, a hand in his coverall pocket. The two men, walking almost in lockstep, moved to the passenger side of the van’s cab. The Bonomo driver got in first and slid across the seat. Donohue followed him inside and slammed the door.

Nothing happened. I glanced at my watch. About 8:53. A few minutes early. We waited. Then, at 8:57 the motor of the cleaning truck was started. It slowly, carefully, pulled out around us into the northbound traffic. I got a glimpse of the driver as they passed. His face was white. He looked like he was about to weep. Then I felt a light prick from Angela’s knife. The tip sliced through cloth coat, dress, and touched my flesh. Just touched. It was enough. I pulled out after the cleaning truck, not tailgating but close enough so no other car could cut between us.

That’s when I heard the sirens, a lot of sirens and buffalo whistles. They were coming from the west and south. I knew what they were: squad cars, fire engines, and the bomb disposal truck, all converging on Rockefeller Center in answer to those diversionary phone calls Jack Donohue had set up. That son of a bitch!

We turned west on 55th Street. The cleaning truck pulled to a stop in front of Brandenberg amp; Sons. I pulled up behind it. There was no parking allowed on this street, so the van was able to angle in to the curb. I was farther back, doubleparked outside a truck apparently unloading material for the construction site on the Madison Avenue corner.

The Bonomo driver and Donohue got out of the cab. They went to the rear of the van. The driver pulled out a mop and a small, canister-type vacuum cleaner. Then he marched up to Brandenberg’s. Donohue was close behind him. He was carrying a pail in one hand. The other hand was still in his coverall pocket.

They stood an instant outside the door. It was unlocked almost immediately.

Then the rear doors of the van swung wide again. The five men, stockinged heads lowered, moved swiftly the few steps across the sidewalk. They pushed into the opened door on Donohue’s heels.

The door was closed behind them.

They were inside.

So far, everything I have related I saw and heard with my own eyes and ears. What follows next I learned later from Dick Fleming and Jack Donohue …

The moment the door to Brandenberg amp; Sons is opened, Donohue shoves the Bonomo driver through. Shoves him so hard that the man stumbles forward, falls to his knees before a startled Noel Jarvis.

Jack whips out his gun, points it directly at the manager’s face, a few inches away. The masked thieves come rushing in, drawing their guns. Nothing is said. Nothing has to be said.

Hymie Gore and the Holy Ghost dash directly to the vault room. They are in before the outer door or the safe door can be locked. The two repairmen are herded into the main showroom. All employees are told to stand in the center of the floor, away from the silent alarms and the chair rail around the walls.

Noel Jarvis says — both Donohue and Dick Fleming remembered this later — ‘You’re making a mistake. A terrible mistake.’

All the employees are patted down. One of the clerks and one of the repairmen are carrying pocket transmitter alarms. More surprising, all three clerks are armed with short, blunt pistols in hip holsters. Transmitter alarms and weapons are confiscated.

All employees and the Bonomo driver are made to lie prone in the center of the showroom. Their wrists are tied behind them. Their ankles are roped. Just before their mouths are taped, Noel Jarvis repeats, ‘You don’t know what you’re doing. You’re making a terrible mistake.’ Then he, like the others, has his mouth and eyes taped shut.

The thieves remove their stocking masks and set to work.

The Holy Ghost watches over the fettered men. The others start smashing showcases and removing small leather packets from the safe. Everything goes into the pillowcases. There is no time for selection; everything is taken: rings, necklaces, watches, tiaras, earrings, cufflinks, unset gems, chokers, emeralds, bracelets, diamonds, gold, sapphires, silver, rubies — the works.

Dick Fleming is put to work closing the mouths of full pillowcases with strips of tape. He is under the gun of the Ghost.

The others empty all the showcases, the big safe in the vault room. They work swiftly, sweeping their loot into the pillowcases with the edges of their gloved hands. Very little talk. Very little confusion.

Donohue works as hard as the others, glancing at his watch occasionally.

‘Fifteen minutes,’ he says.

‘Another ten minutes,’ he says.

‘Five minutes left,’ he says.

They redouble their efforts, digging into bottom drawers in the display cases, cleaning out the show windows behind the drawn steel shutters, reaching deep into the big safe to pull out more of the black leather packets.

‘One more minute,’ Donohue says.

They drag their full pillowcases to the door. Fleming tapes up the mouths. There are fourteen bags of loot for the six men to carry.

‘We can’t manage,’ Clement says. ‘Too heavy.’

‘We can manage,’ Donohue says. ‘Hymie, take four.’

‘Sure, Jack,’ Hymie says.

Donohue says: ‘Smiley, Clement, Fleming go out first to the van. Hymie and the Ghost go next to the Chevy. I’ll be along as soon as I wedge the door shut. No wild running, but move quickly. Let’s go.’

From then on, I saw what happened.

Clement came out first, carrying a taped pillowcase in each hand. After him came Dick Fleming, also carrying two cases. He was closely followed by Smiley, who was lugging two pillowcases in one hand. The other hand was in his coverall pocket.

The three burdened men took a few swift steps to the rear of the Bonomo van. They opened the rear doors, threw their stuffed pillowcases inside. Clement and Fleming climbed in, closed the doors. Smiley went around to the driver’s side of the cab.

All this had been done in full view of a score of passing pedestrians. No one noted a thing. No one shouted or raised an alarm. Why should they? Three coveralled cleaning men were returning to their van, that’s all.

Then came Hymie Gore carrying four pillowcases in his big hands, and the Holy Ghost carrying two. They walked rapidly, purposefully, to where I was parked, threw their loot in the back seat, and climbed in.

‘Start up,’ the Holy Ghost said hoarsely. ‘He’s coming in a minute.’

I started the engine. We all looked toward the front door of Brandenberg amp; Sons. Jack Donohue came out casually.

He calmly put his two pillowcases down on the sidewalk, then bent as if to tie his shoelace. I saw him slip the rubber wedge under the door, jamming it shut.

He picked up his two pillowcases, straightened, started to move toward us.

As he swung around, he bumped full-tilt into a man turning into the entrance.The man was one of those soberly clad jewelry salesmen we had noted making frequent visits to Brandenberg amp; Sons, attache case handcuffed to the left wrist. I saw Jack Donohue smile, saw his lips move, imagined him apologizing for the collision.

Donohue came back to the Chevy, circled to the street side. Hymie Gore opened the back door, took the pillowcases, slammed the door. Then Black Jack opened the front door on the driver’s side.

‘Shove over,’ he said.

Angela slid to the door, I moved closer to her (and her knife), and Jack got behind the wheel.

I was conscious of all this happening. But I was watching that jewelry salesman. After bumping into Donohue, he had stopped right where he was. He just stood there, watching Black Jack walk away, come back to our Chevy with the pillowcases, toss them to Hymie Gore in the back seat, then get behind the wheel.

The salesman saw all this. He turned suddenly to the front door of Brandenberg’s, shielded his eyes, peered within. Then he turned back to the street, went down on one knee. His right hand went into the left side of his topcoat and jacket, reaching.

At the same time this was happening, the Bonomo Cleaning Service van began moving. Donohue started the Chevy rolling. The light at the corner of East 55th Street and Fifth Avenue turned green; traffic began moving across the avenue.

It all happened at once. No sequence that I could remember.

‘Move it, move it, move it!’ the Holy Ghost howled.

The jewelry salesman pulled a gun from inside his jacket and slowly, carefully, sighted it at me as we accelerated past him. Later, of course, I realized he didn’t especially want to kill me. But at the time I saw the muzzle of his revolver tracking us, and it seemed that big eye was looking only for Jannie Shean.

Then the rear door of the Bonomo van ahead of us opened slightly. A black hand with a gun came out. A shot was fired. The glass door of Brandenberg amp; Sons shattered, not far above the head of the man kneeling on the sidewalk. Shards came crashing down.

‘You fucking idiot!’ Donohue screamed.

The salesman flattened after the shot was fired and began to aim again, propping his elbow on the concrete. This time his gun was pointed toward the van ahead of us. I heard at least three shots, and saw the revolver jump in his hands.

Now there were yells, shouts. Pedestrians scattered. Squeal of brakes as cars pulled up, drivers ducked down out of sight. There was a great blaring of horns, a momentary traffic jam at the corner, then more screams and shrieked curses.

The van sideswiped a parked taxi, bounced back into the street, jammed ahead. The back door was opened wide. Clement was firing at the prone salesman.

Then unaccountably, there was a man on the sidewalk in front of the Hotel St Regis. All the other pedestrians had run for cover. But this man, conservatively clad in gray topcoat and gray fedora, had fallen into a low crouch, knees bent. He was holding a large revolver in his two hands, calmy squeezing off shots at the fleeing van as if he were on the firing range.

(Later newspaper reports said he was an FBI man, assigned to the Manhattan office, who had gone to the St Regis in hopes of effecting a reconciliation with his estranged wife).

The Bonomo van accelerated across Fifth Avenue, heading straight west on 55th Street. We went hurtling right behind, Jack Donohue cursing and wrestling the wheel. I wondered why we hadn’t turned south on Fifth, then realized it would be jammed by the police response to those bomb-scare calls.

So we went speeding west on 55th Street, as fast as we could. Traffic was heavy, but we were moving, and once we were across Sixth Avenue, I began to think we might make it.

‘Anyone hurt?’ Donohue asked. He was driving like a maniac, scraping fenders, shooting through openings, jumping lights.

No one in our car was hurt. But when I turned to look back, I saw a hole in our rear window with cracks radiating from it like a star.

Hymie Gore saw me looking, and stuck one of his thick fingers through the hole.

‘Ain’t that cute?’ he said, grinning.