The Outfit Page 7

  “Sure.”

  Rico cut the wheel and switched off the ignition, and the Buick slid silently up beside the orange Volkswagen.

  They were out of the Buick before it had completely stopped. They grabbed the sacks and jumped out. The sacks they tossed behind the front seat of the Volkswagen. Hats and masks followed. Then they both got into the car, slamming the doors.

  The Chrysler Imperial shot by, and went about a hundred yards farther down the road before its brakes began to squeal. Rico started the VW, spun it around in tight turn, and aimed it towards town. It didn’t shift like a Volkswagen, and, above sixty miles an hour, it didn’t sound much like a Volkswagen any more. Two more cars came boiling out of the Club Cockatoo and roared by the little orange car without a glance. Everybody knows a VW is no good as a getaway car.

  This wasn’t the operation Rico had ordered the VW for, but just before he’d picked up the car he’d received the letter from Parker about hitting the syndicate. The Club Cockatoo had been bothering him for seven years, and he felt relieved when he discovered a justifiable reason for knocking it over. He combined the plan he already had with the orange car he’d just picked up, brought Terry into the deal, and did the job immediately, before Parker could tell him everything had been straightened out. He drove along now pleased with Parker, pleased with the car, pleased with the operation, pleased with the world.

  By morning they were nearly six hundred miles away from the club, so they stopped to see just how much they’d taken.

  THREE

  “EIGHTY-SEVEN grand!”

  Bronson stared at the telephone. He didn’t believe it. It was a bad dream.

  The voice at the other end was saying, “Just two guys, Mr Bronson. They came in and did the job like they’d been practising it for ten years.”

  “Where the hell was everybody? Asleep?”

  “Mr Bronson, these guys were smooth. They came in and —”

  “God damn it, Kirk, don’t give me a lot of crap! How many employees you got?”

  “Thirty-seven, Mr Bronson.”

  “Where the hell were they?”

  “All working, Mr Bronson. Most of them didn’t even know what was going on. They sapped a cashier and a customer, and held—”

  “They sapped a customer? How much did that cost me, Kirk?”

  “Half a yard. He—”

  “Another five hundred. Pretty goddam expensive, Kirk.”

  “We didn’t want any stink, Mr Bronson. We —”

  “How many people know about this, Kirk?”

  “Just me and maybe seven employees and three customers. I called—”

  “Three customers?”

  “Two more saw them on the way out. But I straightened that out, Mr Bronson. And then I called Marty Keller, and he said I should call you direct.”

  “He gave you the number, huh?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr Bronson. He said you’d want to hear about it right away.”

  “All right. All right. I’ll be sending somebody down there — hold on a second.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr Bronson.”

  Bronson thought a minute, rubbing his hand over his face. “Quill. Jack Quill. He’ll be down there in a couple days.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr Bronson. I’m sorry about this, Mr Bronson, but they pulled it off so smooth and quick, and we never ran into nothing like this before.”

  “All right Kirk.”

  “I could maybe of tried to make a play for them before they got out of the club, but I figured then they’d be shooting, maybe a customer killed or something, and that would of been even worse. I figured we’d pick them up after they got outside, but they just disappeared on us. We found the car they used, but they —”

  “All right, Kirk. You tell Quill all about it.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, Mr Bron —”

  “Goodbye, Kirk.”

  Bronson hung up, then picked his cigar from the ash tray and puffed on it a while, staring at the opposite wall. So it wasn’t crap after all. Parker could do it. Somehow or other, he could talk a bunch of heavy armour people into going after organization targets. God damn him! How the hell could they guard against a thing like that?

  After a while he sighed, put the cigar down again, and picked up the telephone. He dialled an area code, then a seven-digit number. He gave his own number to the operator and listened to the ring that followed.

  Keller himself answered. Bronson said, “This is Art.”

  “Art! Say, did Kirk—”

  “You gave out my number, Marty.”

  “What? Oh! Listen, I just thought you’d want to —”

  “You give out my number again, Marty, I retire you. With flowers, Marty.”

  “Well, sure, Art. Jesus, I figured this was a special —”

  “With flowers, Marty.”

  Bronson slammed the phone down. He glared at it a few seconds, then picked it up, and dialled another number. When he got an answer, he asked to speak to Quill. When Quill came on, he said, “Get on a plane. Come to Buffalo. Phone Edgewood 5-6598 when you get in. Ask for Fred.”

  “Right now, Mr Bronson?”

  “When the hell do you think, Quill? Next year?”

  He broke the connection. The next time he dialled a local number. The voice that came on said, “Circle Rental.”

  “Let me talk to Fred.”

  “Who wants him?”

  “I do. Snap it up.”

  There was a silence, then the phone was slammed down. After a brief wait, a new voice came on. “Yeah?”

  “Bronson. Sometime tonight or tomorrow, a guy named Quill will call you from the airport. Go pick him up and bring him here.”

  “Will do.”

  “Good.”

  Bronson hung up and spent a while sitting motionless at the desk. He finished his cigar, sat a while longer, then made one more phone call, this lime to Fairfax in New York. When Fairfax came on the line, Bronson said, “Parker’s causing some more trouble.”

  “St Clair’s conscious,” Fairfax said. “They say he’ll pull through.”

  “What? Who cares? Two professionals knocked over a gambling setup of ours tonight.”

  “You mean Parker’s threat of—”

  “I mean two pros knocked over one of our operations! You got wax in your ears?”

  “All right, An, all right. Just take it easy.”

  “The hell with take it easy! What have we got, god damn it, do we have an organization or don’t we? Do we have twelve thousand employees, coast to coast, or don’t we? What the hell is this? One lousy man can goose us any time he wants?”

  “You sure this was connected with Parker, Art?”

  “Who else?”

  “Parker was just in New York two days ago.”

  “For Christ’s sake, do you listen or do you just stand there and play with your moustache? This wasn’t Parker, this was two of Parker’s friends! You know what that means?”

  “An, did they say so? Now quit screaming at me for a minute.

  Did they soy it had anything to do with Parker? Maybe it was somebody else altogether —”

  “No. Amateurs try to hit us sometimes, but not pros. Pros leave us alone. Why should two pros suddenly hit us? You like coincidence, maybe?”

  “All right, so it was Parker himself, faking it. Right now he’s on a plane to Oregon, maybe, or Maine, or someplace, and tomorrow night he does it again. And you stick pins in a map and say, ‘Look at that, all over the country. It couldn’t all be just one man.’”

  “Maybe so.”

  “Sure. Those robbery guys are loners. They don’t go help somebody for the hell of it.”

  “Yeah. And what the hell difference does it make?”

  “What?”

  “If Parker’s doing it, or somebody else is doing it, what the hell difference does it make? Somebody’s doing it! We still got hit for eighty-seven grand last night!”

  “Well, all I was saying was —”

  “Don’t give me a
lot of talk! I didn’t call you you should give me a lot of theories — who needs them?”

  “All right, Art, it’s your dime.”

  “It’s a hell of a lot more than a dime, you bastard. Don’t get snotty with me.”

  “I’m not Parker, Art. Shout at him if you want, don’t shout at me.”

  “All right. Wait. Wait a minute.” Bronson put the phone down and took a deep breath. He rubbed his hand over his face. He lifted the instrument again and said, “All right, I just got upset, that’s all.”

  “Sure, Art. What did you want?”

  “Parker. I want Parker. Don’t that sound easy? He’s one miserable man, and I’m a coast-to-coast organization. Don’t it sound easy?”

  “But it isn’t easy.”

  “I know that. All right. What about this Parker? What about his background? Where’s he from? Where’s he live? What kind of family? He’s got to have some family some place.”

  “He had a wife, but she’s dead. He killed her himself.”

  “There’s got to be somebody. I need a hook in him. I need to be able to grab him. Listen, you put people on it. I want to know who this guy Parker is. I want to know where he’s soft.”

  “I don’t think he’s soft anywhere.”

  “Everybody is. Everybody’s soft somewhere. We’re an organization, right? Can’t we find one man? Find me this bastard Parker. Find what he is, what he does, who he knows! Find HIM!”

  “I’ll do my best, Art.”

  “Don’t do your best, god damn you! Find him!”

  “All right, Art, calm down. I’ll call you back tomorrow or the next day.”

  “Just find him.”

  He hung up and sat a while longer at the desk, brooding. Then he got to his feet and left the office. He was remembering how abrupt he’d been with Willa, and he wanted to make it up to her. She was somewhere in one of these draughty rooms, maybe still down at the television set. He’d find her and they could go for a drive. Maybe up to the Falls. And stop someplace for dinner. And leave the damn bodyguard behind for once.

  He stopped, halfway down the stairs, and thought it over. There was no sense going overboard. Just keep the bodyguards in the other Cad, like this morning. It would be almost the same. Willa would hardly even know they were there.

  FOUR

  Three days after the Cockatoo Club raid, and twelve hundred miles away — All the money came to the Novelty Amusement Corporation. It started as small change, here and there throughout the city, and it all funnelled into one central office, all the money bet every day on the numbers.

  Take one dime. A lady goes into a magazine store and tells the man at the counter she wants to put ten cents on 734. If 734 hits she wins sixty dollars. The odds are 999 to one, but the pay-off is 600 to one. The magazine store owner writes 734, and l0c under it on two slips of paper. He gives the woman one slip; he puts the dime into the cash register, but he rings No Sale. At three o’clock, his wife takes over the counter while he takes the cigar box in back and adds up the amounts on all the slips. The amount is $18.60. He puts all the slips in an envelope and goes out to the cash register and from it he takes a ten dollar bill, a five, three ones, two quarters, and the dime. He puts this cash in the envelope with the slips. He places the envelope inside a science fiction magazine — on Wednesdays, it’s a science fiction magazine — and puts the magazine under the counter.

  At three-thirty the collector comes. The collector is a plump young man with a smiling face, a struggling writer making a few dollars while waiting to be discovered by Darryl Zanuck or Bennett Cerf. He drives up in a seven-year-old Plymouth that belongs to the local numbers organization and which he is allowed to drive only while making collections. He parks in front of the magazine store, goes inside, and asks for a copy of a particular science fiction magazine. The owner gives him the magazine arid tells him that will be $1.86. No science fiction magazine in the world costs $1.86, but that’s what the young man hands over with no protest.

  The young man then carries the magazine out to the car. He sits behind the wheel, takes the envelope from the magazine, put it in a briefcase which is on the seat beside him. He tosses the magazine on to the back seat with seven other discarded magazines and takes a small notebook from his breast pocket, he writes in it after several other entries: “MPL 1.86.” Then he puts the notebook and pencil away and drives on to his next stop.

  All in all, he buys fifteen magazines, then drives on to the Kenilworth Building and leaves the car in the lot next door. He carries the briefcase up to the seventh floor and enters the offices of the Novelty Amusement Corporation. He smiles at the receptionist, who never gives him a tumble, and goes into the second door on the right, where a sallow man with a cigarette dangling from his lips nods bleakly. The young man puts briefcase and notebook on the desk, and sits down to wait.

  The sallow man has an adding machine on his desk. He opens the notebook and adds the figures for the day, coming up with $32.31, which should be ten per cent of the day’s take. He then adds up the prices on the policy slips, and gets $323.10, which checks out. He finally adds together the actual money from all the envelopes, once again arrives at $323.10, and is satisfied. Out of the money, he gives the young man $32.31, which is what the young man paid for the magazines. In addition, he gives him $16.15, which is one-half per cent of the day’s take from his area— his cut for making the collections. He averages $15 a day, for an hour’s work a day. Well pleased, the young man goes home to his cold typewriter.

  The sallow man now takes out a ledger and enters in it the amount of, and the number of, each bet according to the exact location where each bet was made. He adds his figures again to check his work and gets the correct total. By then, another collector has come in. The sallow man is one of six men at Novelty Amusement who each take in the receipts from five collectors. They work at this approximately from four until six o’clock. Each of them clears about $1,500 a day — resulting in a grand total of about $9,000 a day for the entire operation.

  Ten-and-a-half per cent of this money has already been paid out. The receivers each get 1 per cent. Additional office salaries, rent, utilities, and so on eat up about 3 l/2 per cent more. When the sallow man stuffs the day’s proceeds into a canvas sack and carries it back to the room marked “Bookkeeping”, there’s about 85 per cent of it left. On an average day, this leaves about $7,700. Ten per cent more is deducted almost immediately and put into envelopes which are delivered to law officers and other local authorities. Twenty-five per cent is retained by the local organization and split among its chief personnel; the remaining 50 per cent is shipped weekly to Chicago — the national organization’s piece of the pie. In an average six-day week, this half of the pie comes to better than $25,000. Each day’s cut is put in the safe in the bookkeeping room, and, on Saturday nights, two armed men carry the cash in a briefcase to Chicago by plane. For security, one of the armed men is from the local organization and one is from the national organization.

  On this Saturday, there was $27,549, earmarked for Chicago, in the safe. In addition there was the $20,000 kept as a cash reserve— on the unlikely chance that, someday, there might be a run on a winning number, or for additional greasing when and if necessary, or for whatever unforeseeable emergency might arise. And further, there was $13,774.50, in the safe, which represents the week’s 25 per cent cut for the local organization to be split on Monday. The total in the safe was $61,323.50. Including the dime.

  At six-fifteen on this Saturday, a late mailman with a bulging bag walked into the Kenilworth Building, chatted with the elevator operator about special-delivery packages, and rode up to the ninth floor. He then took the fire stairs down to the seventh floor. A couple of minutes after he entered the building, two well-dressed men with briefcases, looking like insurance salesmen, walked into the building and rode up to the sixth floor. The elevator operator was a bit puzzled — it was Saturday and after six o’clock — that there was so much activity going on, but he
shrugged his suspicions off. When he brought the elevator back to the first floor, he found two bearded young men with trombone cases waiting for him. One of them said, “Hey, Pops. What floor’s Associated Talent?”

  “Tenth floor, but I think they all went home.”

  “They better not had, man. They called us over special Weekend gig, man.”

  The elevator operator carried them up to the tenth floor.

  On the seventh floor, down the hall from Novelty Amusement, the mailman was talking to the two apparent insurance agents about people who address their mail incorrectly. A few minutes later, the two trombone players emerged from the stair well on to the seventh floor, joined the other three men, and the mailman looked at his watch. “We’ve got fifteen minutes,” he said.

  They all reached into the mailbag and came up with white handkerchiefs, which they tied over their faces like bandits. Then, from the sack, they pulled two stubby shotguns with barrels sawn off back nearly to the stocks. The trombone players opened their trombone cases and produced partially assembled Schmeissers — burp guns with folding stocks. They put these together rapidly and snapped in clips.

  The mailman said, “All right. Give me one minute.”

  He opened the door to Novelty Amusement and went inside. The other four men waited, outside, one of the trombone players studying his watch intently. All the other offices on the floor were closed at that time. The collectors had all been and gone at Novelty Amusement, and the couriers weren’t due for half an hour yet, so it was unlikely that the party would be interrupted.

  The mailman walked into Novelty Amusement looking mild and baffled. He had a thick moustache, black edged with grey, and very thick glasses. He went over to the receptionist’s desk, “I’m sorry, Miss, but I can’t find this company. Do you know where Associated Removals is?”

  The receptionist shook her head. “I never heard of it.”

  “Well, maybe that isn’t it. The writing on the package label is terrible. Here, you take a look at it —” He came wandering around the desk. “— maybe it says something else and I’m reading it wrong.”