When the local came, he boarded it and rode downtown to 4th Street in the Village, and got off, making certain she was in sight before he went up the stairs onto the street.
Then past the little park with the old people—not like him, they were really old, and not making something of themselves as he was—and down the dark street, past the shops where the Villagers made inexpensive earrings and belts.
As he passed the winding darkness that was Gay Street, he hurried his steps, and came abreast of the alley he knew was there beyond Gay. He sidestepped into it quickly, knowing she would see him, hoping she would think he was going to plant the brown paper bag there.
He flattened against the wall, like one of the spies in a movie at the Orpheum; and hoping his slight belly bulge would not give him away, he waited quietly, trembling.
It did not. She came to the mouth of the alley, and hardly without a glance, stepped in. He grabbed for her, and shoved her deeper into the alley. His voice came not at all the way he had planned it; Erwin had planned it to be rough and hard, the way the man in the movie’s had been…
But it was a bit squeaky, instead.
“So! You thought you’d blackmail me, eh? You must think I’m mad like they say, eh? Thought I’d be a sucker, eh?” (He wasn’t at all certain this was the way they talked in situations like this, but it was a bit of a thrill.)
She tried to say something, dropped her wicker basket, and fumbled with the pockets of her dull, grubby, green coat. Her mouth made a squishy sound, and Erwin dragged the bomb from its bag.
“This is the first one I’ve ever made that would kill just one person, but anything to get rid of a nasty snoop like you…”
But the policeman stepped into the alley before he could continue. And the raw light of the flash beam stopped his words dustily in his mouth. The policeman saw the bomb in Erwin’s hand.
“Hey! You! Old man, whaddaya think ya got there! Hey! That’s a pipe bomb…you must be…”
He didn’t finish, nor did he wait to utter those two words of inaccurate description Erwin so despised. He was dragging his big pistol from its holster, and Erwin saw the muzzle rising.
Then from the comer of his eye he saw the old flower lady’s hand come free of her pocket, and there was a snicking sound, and something bright and slim and shining went slashing with a hiss down the alley, passing Erwin, and entered the policeman’s throat.
The blue-coated figure sank to the cement, and Erwin almost gagged at the bubbling sound the officer made as he died. Then the old woman was beside him, saying, “Quickly, drag him back here behind these empty crates!” And then Erwin was straining mightily with the old woman, and in a few moments the policeman was concealed behind the crates.
Then she pulled her knife from his throat, and cleaned it assiduously on the policeman’s jacket, and she was smiling at him, in the dim light from the street. The flashlight was broken, lying beside the policeman.
“You—you killed him,” Erwin mumbled, and he knew he should throw the bomb now, but why?
She took his arm, led him away a step, then stopped.
She went back, got the revolver and tucked it into Erwin’s coat pocket. “That’s right. I’ve been trying to get up enough nerve to speak to you for over a week. I knew we were right for each other when I first saw you.”
Erwin’s mind tumbled and backed up and sputtered like an old car he had owned in 1928. But he could not understand what was happening.
She walked him down the streets of the Village, and after a while they went into Rienzi’s and talked over a pair of cappuccinos with lots; of cinnamon.
“You. You’re the one they call the Slasher,” Erwin said softly, marveling. “You’ve had as many press notices as I’ve had, the last few years.” He could not help but marvel at her. So old and so tired-looking, yet she was so well-known.
“That’s right. And I’ve read about you, too.”
“Well, I’m—I’m pleased to meet you. And I’d like to thank you for what you did back there.”
She waved it off, smiling a tender little smile, and Erwin felt a strange lump form inside him, he hadn’t felt that way since Ellen had died thirty-five years before.
“Where do you live?” he asked, and she told him.
Finally, they knew they would like to see more of each other, and perhaps, well, no one was that old, that a little fine, high-class companionship would not be pleasant.
“You know what they say,” Erwin philosophized, as he magnanimously paid the check and helped her on with her nice green coat, “opposites do attract.”
As they walked out onto the sidewalk, visitors from uptown—obviously tourists—sitting by the window of Rienzi’s, remarked to one another, “Aren’t they lovely. So old and yet so much in love.”
And Erwin turned to the flower lady—whose name was Martha—and he smiled. “Though we use different forms of expression, I’m sure we’ll get along beautifully, and with your check, and with mine, we’re sure to do nicely.”
They walked a little bit, and then Martha added confidentially, “And with that nasty policeman’s gun, well, we can always experiment, Erwin…and perhaps find some common ground.”
Erwin smiled back. Oh, it was compatibility, he could tell that right off.
TOE THE LINE
The cell door clanged into the wall, and the turnkey motioned Eddie Cappen to step out. Cappen winked at his cellmate, picked up the handkerchief full of odds and ends he had collected during the past two years, and started toward the guard, saying, “So long, Willie, see you never, buddy!”
The little rat-faced man still in the cell laughed, gibed back, “See me never, hell! You’ll be back before I can grow a beard!”
Eddie Cappen waved an amused, disgusted goodbye, and stepped onto the cell block ledge with its steel railing. The guard signaled to the end of the line, and the lever was thrown. The cell door slowly slid back into place, closed, and Eddie Cappen knew now—for certain—he was getting out.
The guard hustled Eddie ahead of him, across the upper tier catwalk, and down the stairs at the end of the line. They walked quickly to the locker rooms, where the guard handed Eddie a package.
Cappen opened it and saw the cheap suit. He laughed. The first thing he would burn, when he was out, was this bit of charity from the State. He would be wearing three hundred dollar suits soon enough. He laughed inside, and put on the suit.
“This way,” the guard said, leading Eddie down the corridor, past the administration offices of the prison. They stopped before the office that had WARDEN A. H. FELLOWS blocked in black letters on its glass.
They entered the anteroom, and the guard motioned at Eddie, saying to the receptionist, “Tell Warden Fellows number 118022, Cappen, is here.”
The girl nodded and flicked on her intercom, repeating the information. A gruff voice answered from the box, “Send him in.”
Eddie entered the Warden’s office for the second time since he and the Joint had said their hellos. The first time had been on his arrival, when the Warden had thoughtfully warned him to “toe the line and stay out of trouble.” It seemed to be one of the Warden’s pet phrases; Eddie had heard other cons laughing about it, but he had considered it good advice; and he had done as the Warden had suggested.
That was one of the reasons why his parole had come through early; he had been a model prisoner.
He had to be, to get out. And he had to get out, because his time in the Joint hadn’t been wasted: he had figured out the foolproof system.
“Sit down, Eddie,” the Warden said.
He was a big, blocky man, with an almost bald head, a few strands of brown hair combed studiedly back over the bald areas. His face was long, but fleshy. He had a nervous, cigarette cough. He was a rough man to deal with. Almost alone he had quelled a riot a year before, using nothing but a bullhorn and a firmly pointing finger. Eddie respected Fellows, and more, never underestimated the man.
The Warden closed a folder, tapping
it gently on the desk top to align the papers inside. He looked up at Eddie, and his expression was so severe Eddie was certain the Warden wanted to smile, but would not.
“So you’re leaving us, Eddie.”
It was a statement, so Eddie just nodded, letting a reserved, lopsided bit of a grin cross his face.
“Well, you probably know what I’m going to say then.”
Cappen decided to play the part to the hilt. Sincerely, be said, “I’d appreciate it if you’d say it anyhow, Warden. I haven’t exactly enjoyed my stay here, but I think I’ve, well, learned my lesson.”
The Warden’s face reflected pleasure, though there was no real concrete evidence of it. “That’s good, Eddie.
“Many men come out of here bitter and disillusioned. A few can make it just even with the world, and even less can come out ahead. You seem to be one of the latter. You’ve been a good prisoner, Eddie.”
Eddie knew that; he’d planned it just that way.
“But more than that, Eddie,” the Warden continued, “you seem honestly interested in making a good life for yourself. Now you haven’t got as big a row to hoe as some of the men who come out of here; your tune was for auto theft.”
Eddie decided he should point out one fact. “Yeah, but it was my third conviction, Warden; that makes it pretty rough. I got to watch myself real close.” It was always wisest to acknowledge the fact than pretend it didn’t exist.
“Well, Eddie, you’re right in that, but with a little perseverance you can lead a good, healthy life, become a valuable member of society. All you have to do is toe that line…”
There it was!
That was the phrase. That was what had started Eddie thinking. The Warden had said that two years ago when he had entered the Joint, and the words had stuck with Eddie, till they had become a catchphrase in his mind, till the sound of the words had altered their spelling, and finally Eddie had hit the perfect, the ultimate, the foolproof method of auto hi-jacking.
“…and you’ll be okay, boy.” The Warden finished, almost beaming, convinced he had produced one good man from all the filth in his cells. Convinced he had salvaged one soul.
He gave Eddie his possessions, taken from him when first he had come to the prison, and his two years’ wages—pitifully small amount—and the instructions about keeping in touch with his parole officer.
Eddie shook the Warden’s hand, stood up, and turned to go. “Don’t forget, Eddie, just toe the line, and you’ll be all right.”
Eddie smiled back and nodded again.
Yassuh, boss, he thought, I’ll do that little thing; I’ll just do that.
When Eddie Cappen told his parole officer he intended to get a job with a garage, the lean, suspicious man arched an eyebrow and glanced over Eddie’s record. Auto theft.
“Isn’t that a little too close to your old trouble, Cappen?”
Eddie had made a calculated move, and now was the time to back it up.
“Well, sir, I don’t really know anything else but cars. I worked in the auto body shop at the Pen, and they said I was pretty good. I—I thought I’d put what talent I’ve got to good use.”
There was more talk, but finally Eddie convinced the parole officer he was best suited to the role of a mechanic, that he was sincerely interested in the garage business, and that his eventual goal was to open his own auto body and repair shop.
That week he went to work for Mickey Dalco at the little man’s garage. Mickey knew Eddie had a record, but pursuing his policy of giving ex-cons a chance, he hired Cappen nonetheless. “Just work hard and leave the till alone, Eddie, and you’ve got yourself a good job for a long time.” Mickey and Eddie shook hands on it.
Later that week he met with his parole officer again, and checked in, giving him the news of the job. The parole officer was still suspicious, but it seemed Eddie was taking steps in the right direction. He smiled, and Eddie shook his hand on it.
Still later that week, Eddie met with the old members of his car-heist gang. He talked to them in the back room of a beauty parlor, operated by his ex-girl friend.
They sat around, having shoved the hair driers aside, and Eddie grinned at the four men and one girl around the room.
“Benny,” he said to a dapper, thin man, “what’s the best method for grabbing a car you’ve ever found?”
Benny ran a hand through his greased hair, and replied slowly, “I use the adhesive tape. I take two rolls and lay a strip vertically down the window, with each of them, so there are like two bars on the window. I leave enough tape about the middle of the window so I can get a hold on it, then I jerk down real hard. It opens the window every time.”
Eddie interrupted. “What’re the risks?”
“They know my routine, the cops. If I’m caught with a roll of adhesive on me, they book me on suspicion.”
Eddie nodded, turned to the second man. “What’s your bit, Vinny?”
Vinny sucked in on the cigarette perpetually hanging from a corner of his slash mouth, said, “I use a jump wire on the motor. The under ‘alligator’ clip, so’s the vibrations of the motor don’t shake the jump loose.”
Eddie said again, “Risks?”
Vinny shrugged helplessly, “Same as Benny’s, but also the wire sometimes comes loose anyhow, and I stall in the middle of the street.”
Then it was the third man’s turn. Grouse answered quickly, “I use two spoons. I shove one between the rubber edgings on the little window, stick the other one in and bend it, twist the second spoon so it opens the handle of the little window.”
“Then you’re in, right?” Grouse nodded, and Eddie added, “but you’ve got the same problems as the others.”
Grouse replied, “Not only that, but it’s harder than hell to get into a car these days that way. People spot you, what can you say?”
Benny inserted, “Yeah, and with my adhesive tape method, it don’t work so well with power windows.”
Eddie looked at the last man, “And you, Tom?”
“I use a rolled-up magazine. The big, thick ones. I use it for a lever. Jack-handle it over the door handle and jerk down. I’m strong, that’s why it works.”
Then the woman spoke. “Okay, Eddie, we all know how each other make a buck. We know all the routines, and we know all the handicaps. What’s the score?”
Eddie Cappen slid back in his seat, tilted his hat back on his head and grinned widely. “Kiddies, I’ve got the pitch of the year. The only sure-fire way of getting off with a hot car.”
They grinned back at him, first dubiously, unbelievingly, but as he explained in detail, their grins grew wider, and finally…
Eddie shook hands on it.
Six months of inactivity came first. Eddie had to allay the fears and suspicions of the parole officer. He also had to get Mickey Dalco’s complete trust. Trust that would allow Eddie to say:
“Mick, I’ve got some more work to do on re-touching that ’71 Chevvy’s paint job over the rust repair. Okay with you if I stay late tonight?”
Trust that would allow Mickey Dalco to reply:
“Yeah. Sure. Here’s the keys, Eddie. Lock up tonight, and just be here by eight tomorrow mornin’, so’s I don’t have to stand around in the cold waitin’.”
Trust like that took six months.
Trust like that allowed Eddie to use the tow truck. The big red tow truck with the Dalco sign on it.
MICKEY DALCO AUTO REPAIRS CAR REPAINTING AND SERVICE CALL: 384-8821
Trust like that was important. But finally trust like that came, and with it, Eddie’s first venture into the foolproof car-jacking system typified by the phrase “toe the line.”
Or, more correctly, “tow the line.”
Eddie took Vinny with him on the first job. They took out the tow truck on Eddie’s lunch hour, in broad daylight.
“Mickey, I’m gonna use the tow. Want to take a run uptown, see if they got my TV installed at home. Okay with you?”
“Sure, Eddie. Go ahead. But I’ll need
you pretty quick after lunch. Don’t dawdle.”
“I won’t.”
Eddie didn’t dawdle. He traveled the nine blocks to the alley where Vinny waited with the big sign. The sign had pressure-sensitive tape stuck to its back, and it fitted neatly over the Dalco advertising on the side of the truck. The new sign read
IMPERIAL REPAIRS ALL HOURS CALL 723-6922 FOR SERVICE
With the sign up, they went looking. The car they wanted was parked double outside an apartment building, and Eddie backed up to the Continental in accepted tow style. He got out and lowered the winch chain. He hooked the big steel hook under the front fender, noting through the locked car window that the emergency was off and the car was in park. It wasn’t really necessary; even rear-wheel drives move with their front wheels off the ground, but there was no chance of error if you were observant.
That was Eddie’s key to success. Be observant, and nothing can go wrong.
He jumped back in beside Vinny, and they took off quickly. A few pedestrians idly took notice of the big red tow truck hauling away the new Landau-top Continental, but had they been checked later, they could not have told what the men looked like who had done the towing, what the sign on the truck said, or which way they had gone after they’d turned the corner.
It was a foolproof method.
On the fifth job they learned it was better to hoist the car by the rear wheels, for two reasons: the car followed the truck better, and they had found cases where front-wheel towing was impossible due to locked brakes. It was the sort of thing experience taught, as was the incident that occurred on that fifth job.
They crashed a light.
Unintentionally, but the cop whose motorcycle was parked by the curb took after them and they were dragged to a stop.
He berated them, checked the truck registration—not the registration of the car in back—and let them go with a warning. On that job, Tom sweated; Eddie laughed all the way to the junkyard.
The four cars that had been previously stolen were all parked side by side in the yard. In the center of the deep yard, surrounded on all sides by chrome and rusting parts of old autos. Work had to be done on them, and Eddie did it in his spare time, cut off from the world, safe from cops.
No Doors No Windows Page 10
