The Heist

by Leopold Borstinski

That evening, he called Frank Senior to ask his advice: “Do whatever you think is best. This Martin means nothing to me, but remember he’s one of the boy’s preferred guys.”

  So the next time Pete and Martin hooked up, it was Pete’s turn to pick the venue and he chose a spit-and-sawdust country and western bar where the toilets were right by the fire exit, which led to the back alley. The Whiskey Bar. After making sure Martin had all the Buds he wanted, Pete waited until Martin needed to hit the head.

  He followed Martin through the bar until they had a straight choice between turning left to the john or turning right through the back door. Pete grabbed Martin’s shoulder, making him lose his balance and quickly thrust him through the door and pushed him out into the alley. Half cut, Martin fell to the floor, confused by what had just happened and unable to see his attacker. He landed with a crack, face down, and Pete leapt on him, pushing his knee deep into the small of Martin’s back as he grabbed either side of Martin’s head and slammed it onto the concrete ground.

  Then he whipped out a .38 snub nose from his pants and put a bullet in the base of Martin’s skull as he lay face down, gushing blood into the alley gutter. Two slugs to make sure, then he turned the body over and pummeled it in the face until there were no teeth left to identify Martin. And then Pete took out a hunting knife and sliced off Martin’s fingertips. No nigger was going to sit in Pete’s car.

  6

  The door chime rang out and Andrew got off the sofa and looked through the peephole of their front door. He smiled as he squinted at Martin’s distorted head through the lens. Andrew took the door off the latch, opened it and beamed a smile to Martin, who responded with a similar grin. They hugged in the doorway and then Andrew stood aside to make room so his friend could enter the apartment.

  “Hey, you guys have done wonders to this place!” exclaimed Martin after walking around the living room a couple of seconds.

  “Thanks. It’s amazing what a difference some paint and some soft furnishings can make to the ambience, y’know?” intoned Andrew, who clearly took interior decorating quite seriously. Martin threw himself onto the sofa where Andrew had been sitting.

  “Can I get you some coffee or something?”

  “That’d be lovely. An Irish would be even better.”

  Andrew scrabbled round the back of a cupboard near the percolator and pulled out a bottle of scotch. Displaying the logo like an Oscar, Andrew sorted out the paraphernalia associated with making a decent cup of coffee.

  Eventually Andrew had two mugs of coffees ready, handed one to Martin and sunk into the easy chair next to the brown sofa. Then they got down to business.

  “So tell me how it went with you and Pete yesterday.”

  “The guy seemed okay. I mean he’s obsessed with fast cars but in his line of work that’d be a distinct advantage, if you see what I mean.” They both laughed, briefly enough for the humor to not interrupt the flow of conversation, but long enough for them to share the joke.

  “He’s strange for sure, but I don’t know why just yet.”

  “How so, sister? Your Spidey Sense is normally pretty reliable.”

  Martin was silent for a spell, mulling over his thoughts, trying to figure out why Pete gave him a bad vibe.

  “There’s nothing that he said, but it’s the whole way he acted. He was never relaxed, y’know. Always seemed on edge, even after we sank a beer or two.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “Well, he let me choose so I suggested the Butterfly Arms.”

  “You crazy motherfucker. Of course he was on edge. Is the guy straight?”

  “Um, I didn’t ask. Do you think he could be?”

  “What world are you living in nigger? Of course he’s straight and you took him to the only gay bar for fifty miles!”

  “Shit! I didn’t think. It was just the first place I thought of and it’s got such a nice, warm friendly vibe... Yeah, the guy’s a homophobe.”

  Martin giggled briefly and then frowned. “Now we have a problem. I took Pete the Wheels to a gay bar to talk about a bank job and now he’s pissed at me.”

  “How’d he leave it with you?”

  “Well, he suggested we meet up again tomorrow to make sure we were simpatico before seeing Frank next week and I said yes.”

  “Well, it can’t be all that bad between you and him if he’s prepared to hook up again. Maybe he just isn’t the sociable type.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  The conversation drifted for a few minutes until Martin suggested speaking to Frank about getting Andrew on the payroll.

  “That’d be mighty Dutch of you.”

  “No problem, what are friends for? Besides, Frank said he was looking for some good men and you’re the goodest I know.” Martin smiled and put his hand on Andrew’s and gave it a squeeze. “You’re a good man, Charlie Brown.”

  “Don’t start all that up again. We’re friends and no more. What’s past is past. Anyway, I’m happily married now.”

  “Yes, how is Brian?” and somehow Martin made the two syllables drip with venom.

  “He’s fine. Sends his love.”

  “Sure thing. And right back at him.”

  “Now, now. Don’t start getting all shirty on me after all this time. I’m not saying you two are going to be best buddies, but the time has long gone when you are both fighting for my affection. I loved you a lot, Martin dear, but you forget how we used to drive each other crazy.”

  “No I don’t. I just choose not to mention it,” and Martin winked a knowing wink at Andrew, who smiled back and fell silent again. Another Irish coffee and Martin bade his farewell, hugged Andrew and staggered out the door into the apartment corridor.

  Twenty-four hours later, Pete sliced and diced Martin’s body parts on a plastic sheet in a safe house before depositing them in various dumpsters around the Baltimore suburbs. He fed the fingertips to some alley cats and put the teeth in a trash can on the far side of town. Pete was particular about who he had in his car.

  ◆◆◆

  Andrew tried calling Martin several times over the next few days. He wanted to find out how the meet with Pete went. If the guy was a homophobe then Martin would need some help to deal with the guy. When he got zilch by way of reply, he tried going round to Martin’s crash pad. He rang the bell but no-one was home. Three days in a row.

  Andrew asked round the neighborhood but no-one had seen him. In fact, Andrew appeared to be the last person to have spoken with Martin. At least before the Pete meet. After that, there was nothing to show for him.

  Nothing at all. Now maybe he’d hightailed it out of town, perhaps because of Pete, but you’d think Martin’d put a call through to him before skipping if that was his plan, unless things were so hairy with Pete he had no time at all. And that wasn’t good.

  Andrew reckoned the best thing to do was to wait another day or two because if Martin had gone to ground, he would eventually find a dime to drop a call to him. And wait is what he did.

  When it had been a week, Andrew knew something was seriously up. And Brian agreed something should be done. The question was what. They couldn’t go to the cops exactly and it wouldn’t look good to go crying to Frank. But the thought of confronting Pete didn’t hold much joy either. How do you go up to a guy you don’t know and ask if he killed your friend? It’s not an easy conversational starter.

  Andrew and Brian agreed the first step was to aim their search a little wider, because Martin could still be holed up in some guy’s apartment, experiencing the joys of a butt plug and they were worrying over nothing.

  They retraced Martin’s steps up to the point where he entered the Whiskey Bar. One of the wizened drunks hanging outside the bar had taken a five spot to confirm Martin had gone inside the joint. While the hobo couldn’t be sure, he didn’t think he’d seen Martin come out. But by that point in the evening, there was far too much meths in his bloodstream for him to be certain. Or conscious really.

  And as they didn’t know
what Pete looked like, they had no idea if Martin had somehow picked someone up at the bar or if Pete had been a no-show or what.

  Further enquiry through the use of a ten spot delivered definite info from the barman. Martin had spent at least half an hour sat in a booth with one guy. They’d sank three beers each for sure and the guy had settled the tab; Martin had gone by the time the bill was paid.

  “Let’s speak with Frank,” concluded Andrew and Brian agreed.

  ◆◆◆

  Andrew arranged to see him the following day, Wednesday, and Frank chose the same cemetery he’d seen Lagotti. Andrew explained his concerns to Frank, who sighed a long sigh and continued staring straight ahead, with his hands in his pockets and his legs stretched out in front of himself. On the same bench. By the same graves.

  “Martin was a good man,” he eventually monotoned, his voice heavy with the weight of the implication of his words. “I’ll speak to Pete and get this sorted out, don’t worry. Pete’s a reliable guy. Not prone to irrational violence. He likes his engines and his autos and not much else. But he is reliable. I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation. Martin’ll probably be fucking his way across Penn. state if I know him,” and Andrew agreed that this was the most likely explanation. But under his breath, he didn’t believe Frank because he didn’t know this Pete and he didn’t trust him. Trust was something that needed to be earned.

  On the plus side, Andrew got the opportunity to ask Frank if he’d like to have Brian in the crew. Reliable guy, tough as old boots but calm under pressure and damn reliable. Reliable as hell.

  Frank said he’d think about it and call him tomorrow with an answer. This time Frank left the cemetery first and Andrew waited fifteen to twenty minutes before making a move out of the graveyard.

  Next day, Frank phoned Andrew: “Hi. It’s me. About Brian: it’s a go.”

  “And about the other matter?”

  “I’ll talk to the guy for sure.”

  “Good news.”

  “Bye then.”

  “Bye.”

  But Frank never asked Pete because Pete was the best driver not in stir and Martin was just another muscle, no matter how much Frank liked Martin and how little he knew Pete. After all, Uncle Frankie had given him Pete and he wasn’t stupid enough to want to put his big dream in jeopardy.

  And no-one spoke of Martin again.

  DECEMBER

  7

  With snow on the ground, Frank had warned them all to be careful not to break their legs on the ice; Baltimore didn’t usually get this cold. It was said in more than just mock paternal concern. The last thing Frank needed was one of his crew not functioning. He wasn’t too sure how long it would be before they hit the bank but he did know they needed to be ready real fast. And at that point, there would be no time to think or to replace someone stupid enough to go and break their leg.

  But Frank was worrying in vain because not only were all limbs safe that winter, but it would be months before they were ready and extracted enough information out of Carter, even though Mary Lou was spending a lot of her time with the scrawny sack of shit.

  The much bigger problem they were facing was that any damn fool can walk into a bank, but it takes one special kind of crazy fool to take the bank’s money and walk out with it the same way they came in. Now, the First Bank of Baltimore, Lansdowne branch had a major advantage over its local rivals: it had a back door which led out to an alley and a small parking lot. And a quite wide L-shaped alley led straight onto the main drag.

  That meant in-and-out was more or less sorted, but quite how they were going to get to the vault and extract the simoleon without getting into a whole mess of trouble was far from clear.

  Frank met up with the great persuader, Brian. It was his job to handle security during the ruckus and that included old man Joe, the security guard and any civilians who got in the way. At the back of their minds was the knowledge robbing a city bank was one thing, but shooting and killing someone during an act of grand larceny and then crossing the state border was federal. And none of them wanted that shit storm in their lives. Brian might not have been the sharpest tool in the box, but they all recognized he had an exceptional talent for figuring these kinds of things out. It’s why Frank was okay with Brian coming onboard all those months ago. Martin was too flakey anyway, as much as Frank liked him.

  Brian had been thinking about all this and had decided Frank, Andrew and himself could handle the job between them. Any more and it would get too top heavy. With three of them, you could have one keeping control of the civilians, while the other two went into the vault and grabbed the cash. But Brian also knew two kinds of weapons were needed for the job: a loud motherfucker to scare the civilians and that old timer security guard of theirs and some heavy armor for the getaway itself. And something to blow open the vault if necessary.

  His real concern was the vault because that wasn’t down to him and if that bit fell apart they were all screwed. The good news was that they were going to hit the joint just after it opened for business so the vault would be fat with cash and open. They wouldn’t even need to take anyone’s fingernails off with a pair of pliers.

  But the bottom line was they needed to get hold of some fire power, in part to scare the civilians and in part to take care of any situation that might arise.

  ◆◆◆

  Pete honked the horn twice. He’d had enough waiting around for one day and it’d only just gone past breakfast time. He honked again.

  “Come on, come on. What the fuck’s taking you so long?” he said to Brian in his head. They had a long, dull drive ahead and Pete just wanted to get it over and done with. There was business to take care of. Gun business.

  Pete was generally a happy driver. He enjoyed controlling the vehicle, harnessing the power of the engine. Raw power. But dealing with gun sellers was a different matter altogether. The guys who bought and sold guns for a living were a different breed. They were cold, man. Steely cold. Life was cheap when you could blow a man’s brains apart with a slight movement of one finger on a trigger. So no matter how well you knew them, you had to give your supplier a respectful wide berth. And that meant close encounters had an edge to them.

  So Pete was fine with today’s trip apart from the destination which was hanging on his mind already. And he didn’t need Brian jerking him about before the day had begun. He honked three times in quick succession.

  Finally Brian ambled out the building and slunk into the back passenger seat.

  “What am I? You’re fuckin’ chauffeur?” barked Pete, “Get up here!”

  “Sorry, man. Wasn’t thinking.”

  “Too fucking right, ya mook.”

  Brian clambered out the back and dropped himself in the front passenger seat.

  As soon as the door was shut, Pete slammed on the gas and they were off. He switched the radio on and KWFM 101.2 All Country, All Western burst out the speakers. Despite his ill humor, Pete was still a professional and made sure his speed never beat the limit. There was no way he was going to get stopped by the cops on this trip.

  “Settle in, it’s going to be a while and I don’t wanna get off for no piss stop,” instructed Pete when they reached the I-95 turnpike.

  “Fine by me. Let’s get this job done. The sooner we are there, the sooner we are back, ‘n’ no offense to you, but I don’t want to be stuck in this tin can all day myself.”

  “None taken. I like a man who keeps his eyes on the prize. You and me’ll get on just fine.” And with that Pete sat quiet again, thinking what a coon lovin’ cocksucker he had sat next to him. The sooner they got back, the sooner that sack of shit could leave his car. And then there’d only be one or two more times he’d have to be near the cocksucker and the other fag. Not that he had anything against fags, no. But they were both coon lovers and that sat badly at the back of his throat.

  Just before the Joppa exit Pete punctured the silence: “I need a piss,” and pulled off the I-95 onto the South
Mountain Road until they reached a diner he knew a few blocks away.

  One thing Pete had not brought with him was any heat of his own. After all, he was just the chauffeur. Up to this point, he hadn’t seen the need but Brian had managed to piss him right off. Pete knew he’d hidden a small snub nose in the john at the Steers Rancho diner.

  “Stay here, I’ll be back in a min,” instructed Pete.

  “Sure thing,” auto-replied Brian.

  ◆◆◆

  Pete went to the right of the main entrance and headed for the washroom door. A check both the cubicles were empty and he went into the left one and shut the door. Lid off the cistern and he felt for the plastic bag he’d taped to the inside several months before.

  And there it was. He ripped the elephant tape off and grabbed the gun and bullets he’d secreted for just a day like today. Put them in his pocket, placed the cistern back on and flushed.

  Then he hightailed it back to the car, but Brian was missing. Again. Coon loving cocksucker. He hooted twice and fumed some more. The crazy thing was Pete would have been very happy to have gone inside himself - if that was where Brian was - because Pete knew the very horny Lucy who served up hot coffee and more for a traveler passing through. But Brian would have found out this was more than a chance stopover at a diner because Lucy would no doubt remember him from the last time he was here. He’d doubt that many customers took her from behind on the kitchen table.

  As soon as Pete had entered the rest room at the side of the gas station, Brian got out of the vehicle and headed straight for the door of the adjacent diner. He went to the counter and asked for a coffee to take away.

  “Going far, honey?” asked Lucy, the waitress who had a tarnished badge over her left breast. She wore too much blusher and not enough bra but that’s how she got most of her tips from the middle aged locals who came to her counter most days of the week. Most of her tips and the occasional dose of crabs.