The Heckler

13.

THE FOUR MEN SAT on the hillside overlooking the ice-cream factory. The factory was surrounded by a cyclone fence and within that fence there were at least thirty white ice-cream trucks lined up in three identical rows. Two smokestacks jutted up into the April sky, and a huge sign straddled the stacks:

PICK-PAK ICE CREAM

The Big Lick on a Stick

The four men looked like a group of congenial buddies who had been out for a late afternoon stroll, who’d discovered this grassy hillock overlooking the ice-cream plant, and who’d decided to sit and rest their weary feet. There was certainly nothing sinister-looking about any of the men. If they’d showed up at Central Casting for parts in a grade-B gangster film, each and every one of them would have been turned down. And yet three of the four men had police records, and two of the men were, at that very moment, carrying guns. And even though their conversation was carried on in low and gentle tones, accompanied by sincere facial expressions, these men were discussing the future commission of a crime.

The deaf man was the tallest and handsomest of the four. He sat looking out over the rows of white trucks, a strand of grass between his teeth.

“That’s where we get it,” he said.

Chuck, sitting next to him, fished for a cigarette in the pocket of his jacket, pulling out a single cigarette while leaving the package inside the pocket. He took out a book of matches, lifted the cover, bent one match over from the rest so that it was close to the striking surface, closed the cover, and then struck the match, all with one hand, the match flaming but still attached to the folder.

“Plenty trucks,” he said, and he blew out a stream of smoke.

“We only need one, Chuck,” the deaf man said.

“That’s for sure. When do we grab it?”

“Tomorrow.”

“The day before, huh?”

“Thenight before,” the deaf man corrected.

“What time?”

“I figured along about midnight. Rafe’s been casing the lot for a week. Rafe, do you want to fill us in?”

Rafe adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, let out a sigh and ran a busy hand through his straw-blond hair. He seemed reluctant to speak. It almost seemed as if speaking pained him physically.

“There’s a simple padlock on the gate,” he said, his voice very low, as if he had learned at an early age that people who speak softly are generally listened to. “I can open it with a bobby pin.”

“He’s speaking figuratively,” the deaf man said. He grinned. “Aren’t you, Rafe?”

“Sure, not a bobby pin, but this is a snap, believe me. Also, there’s no watchman in the yard. So once we’re in, we’re in.”

“Are the ignition keys left in the trucks?” Chuck asked.

“No. We’ll have to cross the wires.”

“No possibility of getting duplicates made?”

“I don’t see how.”

“That might be worth thinking about,” Chuck said, turning to the deaf man. “I mean, we can’t keep the thing running all the time, can we? And if the law shows, who wants to be fooling around with wires under the dash?”

“Once we get the truck away from here, I can rig a switch that works without an ignition key,” Rafe said. “Don’t worry about that.”

“I’m not worried, I’m only thinking ahead. This isn’t a penny-ante thing we’re involved in here, Rafe.”

“Nobody said it was.”

“Okay. Is the fence wired?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. Apparently they’re not too concerned about the trucks. There’s an alarm for the plant, and there’s also a watchman who—”

“Uh-oh,” Chuck said.

“No, no, nothing to worry about,” the deaf man assured him quickly. “He never comes out into the yard, and we won’t make our play until he’s up on the top floor of the building.”

“How do we know when that is?” Chuck asked.

“It’s at elevenP.M .,” Rafe said. “He begins making his rounds at that time. Takes the elevator up to the sixth floor and then starts down on foot. We’ll start working on the fence at eleven. We’ll grab the truck when he reaches the top floor.”

“And how will we know when he reaches the top floor?”

“You can see his flashlight as he walks around. It lights up the whole damn floor. Okay?”

“Sounds good so far. We grab the truck and we’re out before he gets a chance to come all the way downstairs again, right?”

“Right.”

“Then what?” Chuck asked.

“We drive the truck to the store.”

“Think that’s smart?”

“Why not? It says Chelsea Pops, Inc. right on our window, doesn’t it?”

“Sure. But it says Pick-Pak Ice Cream on the side of the truck.”

“The truck’ll be in the back yard. Nobody’s going to go looking there. Besides, Pop can keep away any visitors while we work on it.”

Pop, who had not uttered a word thus far, cleared his throat and said, “Sure, I can do that. It’s Rafe and Chuck who’ll be taking the truck, is that right?”

“That’s right, Pop,” the deaf man said.

“And they’ll drive it to the store where you and I’ll be waiting, is that right?”

“That’s right, Pop.”

“Will I be dressed, or what?”

“Yes, of course,” the deaf man said. “Your job is to keep any unwanted visitors away.”

“Okay.” The old man put a hand up to shade his eyes and squinted at the rows of white trucks in the lot below. “Is that tin covering the trucks?” he asked.

“It’s a porcelainized metal of some sort,” Rafe answered. “Why?”

“Will we have any trouble getting the new signs on it?”

“I don’t think so. We’ve got an electric drill and carborundum bits. Those things can drill throughsteel .”

“Mmm, that’s good,” the old man said, nodding.

“What about the license plate?” Chuck asked, sucking in on his cigarette.

“What about it?” the deaf man said.

“We’re grabbing the truck the night before the job, aren’t we?” he asked. He was truly an ugly man with the squat solidity of a gorilla, huge shoulders and long, dangling arms, massive hands, a square, short-snouted head. And yet he spoke quietly, almost gently.

“Yes, the night before the job,” the deaf man said.

“So they’ll be looking for it, won’t they? What I mean is, the watchman’ll call the cops either as soon as he hears that truck taking off, or as soon as he realizes it’s gone, depending on how much on the ball he is. Next thing you know a whole description is going out, you know how the cops work, don’t you? So next thing you know, the license plate is being flashed to every squad car in the city. So where does that leave us? So that’s what I meant when I asked about the plate.”

“Naturally, the plate will be changed.”

“But when? It’s a long haul from here to the store. If that watchman is on the ball, the license plate number can be on the air in five minutes. I’ll be driving this truck, you know.”

“So what’s your idea?”

“I say we change the plate right here in the lot, even before we start the truck. That’s what I say.”

“All right.”

“Fine. And it can’t be an ordinary plate, you know. You look at those trucks down there, you’ll see they’re not carrying ordinary plates. That’s a special kind of commercial plate. We’ll have to scout around for some between now and the thirtieth.”

“We will,” the deaf man said.

“The other thing that bothers me is working in the open, in the back yard, when we get to the store. You know what I mean? Even if the license plate isn’t flashed, every cop in the city’ll be looking for a Pick-Pak Ice Cream truck. So there we are drilling holes into the side of one. That doesn’t smell so hot to me.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Can’t we build some kind of a temporary screen?”

“I’m afraid a screen would attract attention.”

“Well, I don’t like working in the back yard. This is too big a thing to take a risk like that.”

“Could we take the truck to Majesta?” the old man asked. “Work on it there?”

“That would really be dangerous. A half-hour ferry ride? No, that would be out of the question.”

“Why don’t we rent a private garage somewhere near here?” Rafe asked. “We can drive to it as soon as we have the truck, make our changes, and then go over to the store. Once the changes are made, we’re safe.”

“I think that would be best,” the deaf man said. “I’ll contact some real estate agents tomorrow. This is a fairly rural section, so perhaps we’ll have some luck. If not, we’re simply going to have to chance working in the open.”

“If we can’t get a garage near here, I’d rather drive it to some dark street and do the job there instead of in that back yard.”

“Let’s not cross our bridges,” the deaf man said. “It’s agreed that I’ll try to find a garage in this neighborhood tomorrow. Let’s leave it at that for now.”

“Okay,” Chuck said.

“But we’ll be taking the truck tomorrow, right?” the old man asked. He paused. “I don’t like to ask too many questions, but I did get in this sort of late, and…”

“That’s all right. Yes. We take the truck tomorrow night.”

“And the big job?”

“The next day, of course. April thirtieth.”

The old man nodded. “Who’ll be driving on the day of the big job?”

“Rafe.”

“Who’ll be with him?”

“I will,” the deaf man said.

“Have you got uniforms?”

“I’ve ordered them. I’m to pick them up tomorrow.”

“Where will Chuck and I be?” Pop asked.

“After you deliver your packages?” the deaf man said, and he grinned.

“Yes.”

“You’ll go immediately to the house in Majesta. You should be finished by one o’clock or so. I expect you’ll both catch the two-fifteen boat. Or, at worst, the four-oh-five.”

“And you and Rafe? Which boat will you be on with the truck?”

“We’re trying for the five-forty-five. If not, we’ll catch the six-oh-five.”

“And when’s the one after that?”

“Seven-fifteen,” Rafe said.

“We don’t have to worry about any boat beyond the six-oh-five,” the deaf man said. “We’re starting the job at five o’clock, and it shouldn’t take more than ten minutes to do the remaining work. Another ten minutes to load the cartons, and another ten to get to the ferry slip.”

“With the loot,” Pop said.

“I should hope so,” the deaf man said, smiling.

“And when do we leave Majesta?”

“As soon as things begin to cool. We can work that out while we’re there. We’ll leave one at a time. Last man takes the car. The ice-cream truck stays behind, in the garage.”

“You think of everything, don’t you?” Chuck said, and there was a tinge of bitterness to his voice.

“I try to,” the deaf man said flatly. “I find it’s just as simple to think of everything asnot to. And a hell of a lot safer.”

“I hope you’ve thought of everything,” Chuck said.

“I have, believe me.” He looked at his watch. “We’d better get back to the store,” he said. “I want to get to work again. We’ve got a lot to do before Thursday.”

“Look, I hate to sound too cautious,” the old man said.

“What is it?”

“I’m going to have to take another look at those maps you drew. I mean, I’ve got to know exactly where to plant those things.”

“Certainly,” the deaf man said, and he reached into his side jacket pocket. “I thought I had them with me,” he said. “I guess I left them at the Franklin Street apartment. I’ll stop by for them.”

“Think that’s safe?” Chuck asked, a worried look on his ugly features. “Going back to that apartment?”

“I think so, yes,” the deaf man said. “As a matter of fact, I was there again just last night, entertaining a lady friend.” He stared at Chuck defiantly. “I’ll meet you back at the store. You can begin working again as soon as it’s dark. Pop, you take up your usual post. We have to be finished by Thursday, remember that.”

THE BUILDING ONFranklin Street was an elegant dwelling which, some twenty years ago, had been among the most aristocratic of apartment houses. Time and the vagaries of the taste makers, a fickleness which shifted the desirability of neighborhoods from the south side to the north side with the swiftness of summer lightning, had combined to render Franklin Street no longer as desirable as the buildings to the south. The local joke now was that no one went to the north side unless it was to take a steamer to Europe, and the bromide was not very far from the truth. But the buildings on Franklin Street had not succumbed to the shoddy encroachments of the slums as had some of the buildings within the territory of the 87th Precinct, buildings which had once been princely and which had slowly been strangled by the octopus of poverty. The buildings on Franklin Street still had doormen and elevator operators. There were no profanities scrawled on the walls of the entrance foyers. The rents in these now-unfashionable buildings were still very fashionably high.

Which led Carella to wonder how a man like John Smith, who had been existing on his social security checks, could afford to live in a joint like 457 Franklin Street. Carella stood on the sidewalk underneath the green canopy and looked into the entrance foyer. A doorman standing just inside the glass entrance doors stared out at him, opened one of the doors in anticipation, and came out onto the sidewalk.

“Help you, sir?” he asked.

“Yes. I’m trying to locate one of your tennants, a man named John Smith.”

“Yes, sir, he’s one of our tenants,” the doorman said. “But he ain’t around right now. In fact, I ain’t seen him for quite some time.”

“For how long?”

“Oh, since last month some time.”

“Mmm. How long has he been living here, would you know?”

“Just a few months, sir.”

“When did he move in, would you say?”

The doorman studied Carella narrowly. “Are you a friend of his?” he asked.

“No, I’m a cop.” He flashed the buzzer.

“Oh.”

“Yes. When did he move in, can you tell me that?”

“The end of February, I think it was.”

“And the last time you saw him was in March, that right?”

“That’s right.”

“Was he living alone?”

“I don’t know. He was here quite a lot.”

“But alone?”

“What?”

“Alone? Was he here alone?”

“Well, I just told you—”

“There were visitors?”

“Yes.”

“Living with Smith?”

“Maybe. It don’t matter to the building, you know. Long as a tenant don’t disturb other tenants, it’s his apartment, after all. So long as he don’t play the radio late or make noise or do anything against—” The doorman’s eyebrows went up quizzically. “Thelaw ?” he asked. “Is Mr. Smith in some kind of trouble?”

“Well, I wouldn’t worry about it, if I were you. I’d like to take a look at the apartment. Think you can let me in?”

“I’d have to check that with the building manager. And he won’t be here until later this afternoon.”

“Call him,” Carella said.

“Well, I—”

“It’s very important,” Carella said. He smiled. “Call him, won’t you?”

The doorman seemed dubious for a moment. Then he smiled back at Carella and said, “Sure, I’ll call him.”

Carella followed him into the building. The lobby had been redecorated recently, the furniture looking shining and new and unused. The doorman went into a small office, made his call and returned to Carella, still smiling. “Miracles will never cease,” he said. “The old bastard said okay. Only thing is we ain’t got a pass key or anything. I mean, he said if you can get in, okay, he don’t want any trouble with the police. But everybody buys their own locks, and we don’t have keys to none of the apartments.”

“Well, just take me up, and I’ll try some of my keys, okay?” Carella said.

“You carry skeleton keys, huh?” the doorman said, grinning knowingly.

Carella winked slyly. Together they took the elevator up to the sixth floor, and then walked down the corridor to apartment 6C.

“There it is,” the doorman said. “Nice apartment. Seven rooms. Very nice. It has this sunken living room.”

Carella reached into his pocket and took out a ring of keys.

“Skeleton keys, how about that!” the doorman said, still grinning. The doorman watched him as he began trying the keys in the lock. There were, in addition to his own house keys, perhaps half a dozen skeleton keys hanging from the ring. He tried them all. Not one of them turned the lock.

“No good?” the doorman asked.

“Not very,” Carella said, shaking his head. “How many floors to this building?”

“Nine.”

“Fire escapes?”

“Sure.”

“Think you can take me up to the roof?”

“You going to come down the fire escape?” the doorman asked.

“I’m going to try,” Carella said. “Maybe Smith left his window open.”

“Man, you guys sure work for your money, don’t you?” the doorman said admiringly.

Carella winked slyly and stepped into the elevator. He got off at the ninth floor and walked the flight to the roof, opening the fire door and stepping out onto the asphalt. He could see the city spread out around him as he crossed the roof, the sharp, vertical rectangles of the apartment buildings slit with open windows, the water tanks atop each roof nesting like shining dark birds, the blue sky beyond and the tracery of the bridges that connected Isola to the other parts of the city, the solid heavy lines of the old bridges, and the more delicate soaring lines of the newer bridges, and far below him the sound of street traffic and the hum of a city rushing with life, kids flying kites from neighboring rooftops, a man down the street swinging his long bamboo pole at his pigeons, the pigeons fluttering into the air in a sudden explosion of gray, beating wings, the April sun covering the asphalt of the roof with yellow warmth.

He walked to the edge of the roof and glanced down the nine stories to the interior courtyard below. Gripping the ladder tightly, he swung over the tiled parapet and began working his way down to the fire escape on the ninth floor. He did not glance into the windows. He didn’t want any women screaming for a cop. He kept working his way downward, not looking to the right or the left, going down the ladder hand over hand, and then marching across the fire escape, and onto the next ladder until he reached the sixth floor. He squatted outside apartment 6C and looked through the window. The apartment was empty. He tried the window.

It was locked.

“Dammit,” he said, and he moved along the fire escape to the second window. He was beginning to feel like a burglar, and he wished he had a small hand drill with which to bore into the wood and a hunk of wire to slip into the hole to lift the window catch. He was beginning to feel like an ill-equipped thief until he tried the second window and lo and begorrah, the goddam window was unlocked. He looked into the apartment again, and then slowly slid the window up and climbed over the sill.

The place was silent.

He dropped onto the thick rug and hastily scanned an apartment done in expensive good taste, sleek modern furniture set low against muted wall tones. His eyes touched each piece of furniture, lighted on the Danish desk in one corner of the living room. He went to it instantly and pulled down the drop-leaf front. He hoped to find some letters or an address book or something which could give him a further lead onto the people Smith had known, and especially the identity of the deaf man. But there was nothing of value. He closed the desk and oriented himself, figuring the kitchen to be that way, off the dining room, and the bedrooms to be that way, at the other end of the living room. He walked through the living room, his shoes whispering against the thick rug, and through the open arch and into the first of three bedrooms flanking a Spartan white corridor.

There was a faint trace of perfume in the bedroom.

The bed was neatly made, a black nightgown folded at its foot. Carella picked up the gown and looked for a label. It had come from one of the most expensive stores in the city. He sniffed it, smelled the same perfume that was in the air, and then dropped it onto the bed again, wondering if the gown belonged to Lotte Constantine, wondering too if she’d been lying when she said she didn’t know where John Smith had lived. He shrugged, snapped on a lamp resting on one of the night tables, and pulled open the top drawer of the table.

The first thing he saw was a series of crude drawings, either maps or floor plans, none of them labeled, all of them had several things in common. To begin with, each of the maps on floor plans, (it was difficult to tell exactly what they were supposed to represent) was marked with X’s scattered onto the face of the drawing. There was no clue anywhere on any of the drawings as to just what the X’s were supposed to represent. The maps had something else in common. Each of them had a name scrawled onto the right-hand corner. There were six maps in all.

The name on three of the maps was: CHUCK.

The remaining three maps had first carried one name, and that name was: JOHNNY. But the name had been crossed off all three, and another name written in its place: POP.

Johnny,Carella thought.John Smith?

The second thing in the drawer was a portion of a blueprint, neat and professional. He unfolded it and studied it for a moment:

He was folding the blueprint again when the telephone rang, startling him. He hesitated a moment, debating whether or not he should answer it. He put the blueprint down on the night table, wiped his hand across his sweating upper lip, and then picked up the receiver.

“Hello,” he said.

“This is Joey,” the voice on the other end told him.

“Yes?”

“Joey, the doorman. The guy who took you upstairs.”

“Oh, yes,” Carella said.

“I see you got in.”

“Yes.”

“Listen, I didn’t know what to do. So I figured I’d call and tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“Mr. Smith. John Smith, you know?”

“What about him?”

“He’s on his way upstairs,” the doorman said.

“What?” Carella said, and at that instant he heard a key being turned in the front door.