Death of a City

by Lionel White

  Yes, he had time, plenty of time to circle around the main part of the city and reach Route 17, north of town, and find the Holiday Inn and check into the room which had been reserved and was waiting for him. Time to get there and get settled before those other three would be getting back from the little job which they would be performing. No time to waste, of course, because he wanted to be able to open one of those suitcases and take care of the small details concerning its rather lethal contents before the others arrived.

  He was quite confident that those others, the three men who would be working with him, would perform their task satisfactorily and keep their rendezvous.

  One of the men was an old acquaintance—Charlie, the man whom George Evarts, the manager of the Peabody, knew as Mr. Jackson. He had worked with Charlie on other jobs and he knew that Charlie could be counted on. The fact is, Mr. Carpender had

  almost as much confidence in Charlie as he had in Patsy himself.

  He had met neither of Charlie’s companions, Marty and Basil. But he knew about them, knew a great deal about them. He knew that Basil came out of Chicago and Marty was from New Orleans, not members of “the family” but hired hands. They were very highly competent hired hands who had come with the best of recommendations. That was all he really wanted to know about them. It was all he needed to know—that they knew their job and that they would take orders. The orders, of course, would come from him. Now that he had arrived, he was in charge. The entire operation, from now on out, was his sole responsibility. If everything went right, went according to schedule, the credit would be his. The same as, should anything foul up, should there be the slightest slip, the blame would be his. It wouldn’t matter where the error might lie, who might foul up; it was his responsibility.

  To Patsy’s mind there was only a single distinction between Charlie and the other two. The other two were dispensable. Charlie was not. Charlie was the insurance. Should anything go wrong, and God only knows there was always the chance that something might, Charlie was the insurance. If by any capricious chance Patsy himself were to be taken out of the action, it was going to be up to Charlie. Charlie would have to see that someone kept the appointment the following day with Mr. Carpender in Atlanta.

  Charlie wasn’t a pilot and Charlie couldn’t fly south in the Cessna. Charlie would have to get to the appointment the best way he could.

  But Patsy had no intention of being the victim of an accident, capricious or otherwise. Only a sudden heart attack, an act of God—or just possibly a stray police bullet—could make an accident possible.

  This was one reason he was driving with such extreme caution. This was one reason that, instead of driving with a road map on the seat, every turn and twist on the route was etched forever in his memory.

  He had wound down the right front window of the car and, when he was within a half mile of the city limits, he heard the wail of a police siren and his eyes went quickly to the rear-vision

  mirror. He at once spotted the red rotating light on top of the ( approaching car. Quickly he repressed the automatic instinct to slow down, but merely maintained his speed and pulled slightly to the right, careful not to permit the front wheel to fall off the

  paved part of the highway.

  A moment later the speeding police car screamed past him, doing a good seventy-five miles an hour and not dropping its speed as it went by. Patsy smiled slightly and got back into the center of his lane. A right turn would be coming up in another minute and he would be on the bypass which would take him around the heavily populated part of Oakdale.

  The manager at the Holiday Inn called the bellboy to help him with his luggage after he checked in and Patsy, waiting until they were out of the lobby and at the side of the car, turned and said, “Look, you just dig me up a little ice in a bucket and a bottle of soda. I can handle the bags; they’re light.”

  The bellboy nodded, glad to avoid the chore, and handed him the key. “Number eight,” he said, “directly in front of you. You can park right next to that Chrysler. Will there be anything besides the ..

  “Just the ice and soda,” Patsy said. “That will do fine.”

  “We’re having a little trouble with the lights," the bellboy said. “You won’t be able to use the air conditioner until the electricity comes back on. We are working off our auxiliary generator, but we hope to have things in order shortly.”

  “No sweat,” Patsy said. “No sweat.”

  Three minutes later he had the bags out of the car and they were stacked neatly against the wall, next to the twin beds, when the boy returned with the ice and soda. Patsy gave him fifty cents and signed the bill and then locked the door after the boy thanked him and left.

  He pulled the heavy drapes over the thermopaned front windows, then poured a glass of soda water, tossed in an ice cube, and put the glass on the night table. He took the larger of the suitcases and carefully laid it on one of the beds, unlocked it and opened it cautiously, dropping each half back on the counterpane.

  He checked his wristwatch. He would have twenty-five minutes to half an hour before he could expect the knock on the door.

  Although he knew the contents of the suitcase by heart, he nevertheless made a final inventory. He took out the three floor plans first and spread them on the bed next to the suitcase, the plan of the Oakdale First National Bank on the bottom, next, the one for the Columbia Savings and Loan, and, on top, that of the City Trust Company. Next he removed the four silver shields which carried the legend “Special Guard” and underneath “Bankers’ Security Association.” He figured that there was just about a fifty-fifty chance that it would not be necessary to use the shields. And if he won that bet, there was almost an equal chance that he would find it unnecessary to use the three keys which he next removed from the suitcase, the keys which he was absolutely certain would unlock the front doors of each of those three banks for which he had the detailed and perfectly scaled floor plans.

  The extremely complex and sophisticated electrical equipment was next. He was careful with this but gave it only a cursory inspection as he had checked it all out only some ten hours previously.

  It took him about fifteen minutes to go through the contents of the first suitcase, and he smiled with grim satisfaction when he had finished and replaced most of the items.

  He reached for the glass of soda and drank it, regretting that he was unable to spike it with a shot of bourbon. But he had had two drinks at the airport and two were his limit.

  His eye went to the second suitcase, but he made no move to touch it. There was no use disturbing sleeping dogs. He was satisfied that everything was in order. One doesn’t mess around with anything as volatile as nitro any more often than one has to.

  At last, satisfied that he had done everything he could do for the time being, he again closed the suitcase and put it back on the floor next to its mate. He moved over and sat on the other bed, leaning back with his hands behind his head. There was nothing to do now but wait.

  He didn’t have to wait long. Twenty-eight minutes after he’d checked into the room, there was a soft knock on the door. A

  moment later, when he opened it a crack, he could hear the sound of fire sirens somewhere off to the south.

  3 BUDDY wiped the drops of blood off of the corner of his mouth. He said, “Parky, Parky man, you mus’ be crazy. You can’ get away with it. Don’ you know that, you can’ get away with it.”

  “I tol' you, Joe, he’s chicken,” Parky said. “Didn’t I tell you? What you mean, man, I can’ get away with it?”

  “I ain’t chicken,” Buddy said. “I done plenty already myself tonight. How you think I got that money you took off me? I jus’ say you can’ get away with this. Too many people know she’s here. Somebody gotta talk sooner or later.”

  Parky stood up, his hand sliding into his coat pocket.

  “This cat’s nuts,” he said. “Who the hell goin’ talk? Joe here? Joe ain’t goin’ talk. You can be sure of that. This gal a yours?
” He looked over at Shirley Candle. “She ain’t goin’ talk. An’ this one?” He turned and stared down at Caroline, who sat straight and stiff in the chair next to the table, her eyes wide and staring as though she were in a coma. “She won’ be able to talk when I get done doin’ what I’m goin’ do. So, Buddy boy, who do you mean?”

  He moved forward a step and Buddy’s eyes suddenly opened wide, showing the whites around the iris as Parky’s hand came out of his side coat pocket and he used the nail of his forefinger to open the straight-edged razor.

  Caroline felt the scream coming and her mouth slowly began to open. Shirley said, “Mister, please . .

  Buddy’s mouth had fallen open and for a moment he remained frozen where he stood. And then he uttered a soft cry, like an animal, and turned, starting to run for the door.

  Parky muttered the words half under his breath as he moved, springing forward. He said, “Only you, Buddy, only you could talk.”

  Before the words were out of his mouth, his arm was raised and for a second the naked blade of the razor flashed in the candlelight and then it struck, catching Buddy just in back of his left ear. It made a perfect half circle and the blood was already gushing from his severed jugular as his body slowly crumpled and he dropped to the floor.

  The suppressed scream burst full flood from Caroline’s throat.

  Parky ignored her, carefully wiping the blade on his trousers before folding it back into its handle and returning the razor to his side coat pocket. He said, staring at Shirley, “Shut her up. Shut her up or I’ll cut her head right off a her. An’ pour me a drink. Joe, pull that chicken bastard over inna corner. He’s gettin’ the place all slopped up.”

  4 BASIL came into the room, followed by Marty. Charlie brought up the rear. He closed the door and locked it.

  “How you, Patsy?” he said. “This is Basil and this one’s Marty.”

  Patsy nodded.

  “I don’t have to ask how it went,” he said. “They already are using their generator here.”

  Charlie half-smiled. He looked over at Marty and said, “You still got a lot of black on your face. Better go in and wipe it off.” Turning back to Patsy, he continued, “We were spotted while we were leaving. That’s why we got rid of the cork. I changed the license plates the first chance I had.”

  “No more black face now anyway,” Patsy said. “From now on out it’s going to be a lot safer being white. How’s everything else? The ambulance?"

  “I have the ambulance stashed away in an empty garage in an alley in back of the City Trust,” Charlie said. “Everything is set and waiting. Marty here will be handling the soup. Basil will take care of the alarms. We haven’t been able to make sure, but I am pretty certain that they will work off of separate storage cells in each of the banks. I know they do at the First National. Again, I can’t be sure, but I don't think there is an inside man at either the City Trust or the Columbia Savings. Could be, of course. I would probably count on someone being inside at the First National. That’s the one that was open earlier this evening.”

  “I know,” Patsy said. “How about the blockbuster? That all taken care of?”

  Charlie nodded. “Yeah. On the main floor, public library. Planted late this afternoon. When she goes, they’ll think it’s an earthquake.”

  Again Patsy nodded.

  “OK,” he said. “Fine. Now I want us to get our watches coordinated. From now on, we follow the schedule to the second. We’ve got time to take care of everything but nothing to spare. Once we get inside, I’m allowing exactly twenty minutes for each bank. To get the nitro set. I'm planning the big blast for exactly twelve-forty and we have to be damned sure the three vaults are set to go off simultaneously. They will make a little noise, of course, but when the big one goes, it will cover perfectly."

  Basil, who had said nothing so far, shook his head.

  “I don’t get it,” he said. “I don’t care how close you time it, how you going to arrange that the shots in the banks go off the same second the big one blows?”

  Patsy stared at the other man for a moment. “Simple," he said shortly. “We use a little closed-circuit device, something on the order of a walkie-talkie. It works up to a mile or more. That's what triggers the blast at the library. It also triggers the ones in the banks, as soon as we get them set up.”

  “Well, there’s one thing,” Charlie said. “When that baby goes off at the library, and that’s some ten blocks from where the banks are, it’s going to draw every cop in the city. They’ll be able to hear it twenty miles away.”

  “That’s the point of it,” Patsy said. “But let’s stop the bullshit and get started. We follow the plan as laid out. Three cars. I’ll go first and make my stop at police headquarters. Give me exactly twenty minutes and then, Charlie, you take off, alone in your car. Unless you think by any chance those guys who spotted you might recognize the car.”

  Charlie shook his head.

  “Naw, I wouldn’t worry. I told you I changed the plates. My identifications are all in order.”

  “OK. Give Charlie ten minutes and then you two guys follow on in. Charlie, you wait there in front of the Peabody until I come by. You two, just keep cruising and go past the square every five

  minutes until you see Charlie and me. Just be careful. We don’t want any hitch-ups now.”

  “There won’t be any hitch-ups," Charlie said.

  “Keep your guns concealed and don’t use them except as a last resort. I’m going now so turn the lights off as soon as I leave. Charlie will take the two suitcases. The one on the floor has the stuff so be damned careful handling it. Right?”

  No one answered and Patsy turned without further words and started for the doorway.

  When his hand reached the doorknob, he hesitated and turned back.

  “Just one more thing,” he said, “in case I don’t have a chance to mention it later on. When those blasts go off, you got so much time and not a second more. You’ll be in the First National, Charlie, and you are going to have exactly eight minutes. No more and no less. Eight minutes. Marty, you are in Columbia Savings, that right?”

  Marty nodded, not speaking.

  “You got seven. Seven minutes. To get that gunnysack filled, to get back through the bank and to be out there on the curb. You”—he gestured toward Basil—“you got six. I’m going to be driving that ambulance and I won’t be waiting one extra split second for nobody. Understand? Not a second. And it doesn’t mean that you are to pass anything up except hard money. We only take paper. I don’t have to tell you how the man would feel if you were to try to hurry it and miss anything. You’ll have enough time, but just enough. So check those watches and be there.”

  He turned the doorknob but hesitated again before opening the door.

  “Of course, we’ll be seeing quite a bit of each other before that and the last thing we will do will be to recheck our time pieces just before I go for the ambulance.”

  No one answered as he opened the door and quickly slipped out into the hot August night.

  5 SHORTLY after midnight, Lieutenant Dan Albright of the Oakdale Fire Department entered police headquarters and went

  directly to Chief Del Partridge’s office, stumbling over a chair when I he crossed the information room in the dark and badly skinning

  his shins before he found the proper doorway. The Chief of Police looked up tiredly when he entered the room without knocking.

  “My boss just sent me in, Chief,” Albright said. “We just had another fireman wounded by gunfire. He wants to know if you can’t give us some protection. Every time we try to get near enough to use the chemicals, those bastards start throwing hunks of...”

  Del Partridge sighed and spread out his hands in a helpless gesture.

  "Jesus Christ,” he said, “I can’t even protect my own people. Every man I can dig up is out there on the streets right now. We are doing everything we can do. Tell your boss that if his men are being fired on or being injured by flying rock
s, to just pull back and let the Goddamned places burn.”

  "Well, that’s what we are doing. We can’t do anything else,” Albright said.

  “What is the situation outside of the colored section?” Partridge asked.

  “Few scattered blazes. We have been able to handle them without any trouble.”

  Partridge nodded.

  “Well then,” he said, “that’s all that counts. As long as you boys aren’t being bothered in the white districts, that’s where you should stay. If those niggers want to burn down their own end of town, let ’em. And if they won’t let you in to try and save their houses, then certainly let them burn.”

  “We’re doing that whether we want to or not,” Albright said. “Trouble is that the wind is beginning to shift, changing around to the northeast. And it’s beginning to blow up a little, starting to cloud over, and we may get rain by tomorrow morning. But right now we are starting to get a pretty strong wind. It’s going to make it damned tough to control those fires if it gets much worse. We don’t want to see it spreading into ...”

  “I’ll try and get a hold of a few men and assign them to your people,” Partridge said. “I don’t want those fires spreading either.”

  He thought for a moment and then said, “You say from the northeast? Wind shifting in that direction? That could be bad if anyone starts setting fires out past the tracks.”

  “Haven’t had trouble out there yet," Albright said. “But if one of those canneries started to burn ...”

  Chief Partridge nodded.

  “Yeah, it would be bad. Real bad. So far, as near as I can tell, most of the blazes in the white sections have been very small fires started in one or two of the schools.”

  "There’s P.S. 12, right across from the library, Albright said. “All wood, a perfect fire trap if there ever was one. My God, if they set that on fire, and this wind keeps shifting around, the whole damned downtown section could go up. There wouldn't be a damned thing we could do about it. Even without the rock throwers and the snipers.”