Cage's Crew

by Martin Archer

  ******

  We finally got through the city’s rush hour traffic and over the bridge into Jersey late Friday afternoon to look at a couple of vans and cars Norm had found on Craigslist and called to inquire about. I did the driving, and Norm did the navigating and buying. He looked at a van and passed because of its spare tire—it didn’t have one. At our second stop, less than an hour later, he bought our first escape car to park in the Bronx, a Buick four-door with current New Jersey plates.

  I followed in the Chrysler as Norm drove the Buick back across the bridge to the Bronx and parked it in one of our newly acquired side-by-side parking spaces. It would be our primary escape car, the one we’d switch into a few minutes after we finished preparing our little surprise for the club and its members.

  It took us forever to get back to the motel, and afterwards we had another meal at the greasy spoon across the street. Hamburgers and fries again.

  ******

  We spent all day Saturday buying a somewhat battered old delivery van and a backup escape car. We bought the car first, an older black Lincoln, for eleven hundred dollars. The seller was a recent immigrant from somewhere in the Middle East and hesitant about handing over the car title so Norm could write his name on it as its new owner, probably because Norm’s disguise looked a bit hokey when viewed up close. He held up each of the hundred dollar bills to the light to see if it was real. They were, and he reluctantly signed the title and handed it over to Norm.

  Immediately afterwards, Norm paid cash to fill the Lincoln with gas and drove it over the bridge and into the city with me following close behind. I waited outside the parking garage while he parked in our backup escape parking space. Then we drove back to Jersey to look at a couple of delivery vans.

  The first van we drove to see was still available and, after driving it around the block and hearing its story, Norm counted a pack of twenty dollar bills into the hands of a black man who had introduced himself with a Hispanic name and Puerto Rican accent, at least that’s what Norm said he thought it probably was.

  Norm drove the van back to the motel with me following in the Chrysler. Norm had driven the van wearing gloves ever since he bought it. It had a somewhat faded sign on it for Bouquet Flowers of Bayonne, New Jersey.

  ******

  Tommy showed up right on schedule at exactly ten o’clock Sunday morning. I was looking out of my room’s window and saw him as he pulled into the parking lot in the rear of the motel. I hustled down from my second floor room to greet him and waved a greeting with a big smile, at least big for me, and motioned for him to park next to the Bouquet Flower’s van with New Jersey plates. He pulled in next to it. Norm must have been looking out of the window of his room too; he came down the stairs right behind me and joined us on the deteriorating and cracked asphalt of the old motel’s parking lot.

  “Hey, Tommy, welcome to the big city,” I shouted as I trotted down the stairs and walked forward with my hand outstretched as he opened his door and climbed out. Interestingly enough, this time Tommy’s van had Wisconsin plates.

  “Yo Cage, good to see you. You too, Norm.”

  After handshakes all around, and a rush to the toilet in my room by Tommy who said he was “near to busting,” we promptly got to work moving a bunch of heavy milk cartons filled with what sort of looked like paper-wrapped bread loaves from Tommy’s van into our old florist van. Then we took Tommy to lunch to bring him up to date and tell him about the plan.

  It was a long lunch caused by the need to explain to Tommy what we were going to do and answer his questions. Actually, we only answered some of his questions; we didn’t tell Tommy everything, only that it had to be done to “get rid of some dangerous people who are pissed about the jewelry store job and other stuff.”

  After lunch, we returned to the motel and Norm and I wiped down Tommy’s van and the Chrysler while Tommy took a much-needed nap. We used Windex and paper towels. Hopefully, if they’re found, the only fingerprints in them will be those of whoever steals them after we abandon them with their keys in their ignitions.

  Around six in evening, Norm and I woke up Tommy and we each drove one of our three vehicles, including our newly acquired florist’s delivery van, now loaded with Tommy’s explosives, to one of the more rundown areas of Jersey City. We stopped along the way to fill them up with gas. Tommy drove the florist’s van “being as you're the one who knows all about explosives”—and being as neither nor I know shit about them and don’t want to get ourselves blown up.

  Norm and I parked Tommy’s original van and the Chrysler on separate side streets a few blocks apart with their keys in their ignitions. Then we got in our new and highly explosive florist’s van, with Norm taking over from Tommy and doing the driving, to go back to the motel. On the way back we stopped at a McDonald’s for hamburgers and coffee—all the time talking about tomorrow’s operation and what we would do if this happened or that happened.

  After McDonald’s, we went back to the motel and once again made sure Tommy knew how to use his Bluetooth and the night vision headset he’d be wearing in order to see inside the club. He seemed a bit anxious about working on his explosives in the dark with only the night vision gear, particularly when I told him he could bring his flashlight but not plan on using it. I told him not to worry because I’d be right there with him all the time and would make sure he could see clearly enough to do whatever he had to do.

  Tommy shared my room Sunday night and slept on the other twin bed. I should have stuck him in with Norm—he snored.

  Chapter Sixteen

  We slept late Monday morning and then the three of us went out together for a late breakfast and a lot more talking about tonight’s operation. There were the usual minor last-minute questions and clarifications, but nothing significant came up. Talking about what we were going to do helped solidify the job in everyone’s mind, including mine.

  After breakfast we went back to the motel to rest and nap. I told Tommy and Norm to get some sleep and said I’d wake them up at about nine so we can go out together to get something to eat and have one last review of the operation. And that’s exactly what I did. It turned out, when we talked, that Tommy had developed a serious reservation about what we were going to do. When he told us what it was, I had to smile and Norm broke out laughing.

  “I don’t mind telling you guys that I’m really nervous about this here plan—I ain’t never been in no flying plane before.”

  We were a go for an early Tuesday morning visit to the Arthur Avenue Social Club.

  ******

  Everyone napped until a little after midnight Monday evening with the connecting door open between Norm’s room and mine. Then, without anyone saying a word, we began putting on our disguises and gloves. We checked and adjusted each other’s disguises, made sure we each had our ski masks in our pockets, and once again tested our cell phones, Bluetooths, and the night vision devices we’d be using. No problems.

  The last thing all three of us did before we pulled out of the motel’s parking lot was make a final inspection and cleanup of both motel rooms to be sure they were totally empty and wiped clean of fingerprints and any DNA-yielding piss spots that might have hit the faded tiles on the bathroom floor.

  Both of our rooms at the motel were paid up in advance for the next two weeks and we had gotten a lower rate by doing without maid service. Hopefully, the motel owner will never be asked about us or, if he is, won’t realize we left days earlier and that there were three of us.

  ******

  It may have been warm and muggy all day Monday, but it was cool and almost chilly by the time we piled into the Bouquet Flowers van and drove out of the motel parking lot early Tuesday morning. Norm was driving, and I was sitting in the passenger’s seat; Tommy was sitting on an empty milk crate in the rear babysitting his explosives and the soft gym bags carrying our disguises and our changes of clothes for after the job.

  We reached the George Washington Bridge at about two forty. The somewh
at muggy day had turned into a comfortable middle of the night. As we drove we could see the side of the road still had wet spots from a slight rain that must have fallen hours earlier. There was a surprising amount of traffic going into the city but it moved right along except for a stretch of the road just before the bridge where a repair crew was working.

  “Smile,” said Norm cynically as we pulled up to the brightly lighted toll booth to toss in the required number of coins, “you’re on Candid Camera.”

  I did smile, and then I deliberately turned to say something to Norm; I wanted the camera to pick up my missing tooth, the fake ponytail coming out of my Met’s baseball cap, and the bulges in my face caused by all the moldable pink ear plugs I jammed in between my teeth and my cheeks to disfigure the shape of my face. I’d temporarily taken the Bluetooth out of my ear and kept it clenched in my fist until we cleared the bridge on the New York side.

  ******

  New York’s late-night bars were still open and would be for almost an hour more. Even so, traffic was virtually non-existent and there was no one on the sidewalk to see us as we turned right off of streetlight-lit Arthur Avenue and then right again a few feet later to enter the darkened alley behind the club.

  We all pulled on our ski masks as Norm tersely announced that he was turning into the alley. He drove up to the rear door of the club and stopped in front of it with the van’s headlights on as if he’d done it a thousand times before. After a few seconds, he doused the headlights and we all climbed out to help unload the truck just as we would if we were making a normal delivery.

  Tommy and Norm began to unload the truck and stack the crates of explosives next to the club’s rear door. While they were busy unloading the crates, I stuck the thick metal wires of my battery-powered lock picker, the new one Robbie had found and sent to me in response to my “special request,” into the keyhole and hit the trigger with my right hand while I tried door knob with my left. There was the usual chattering clatter for a couple of seconds, and the knob turned; we were in.

  I quickly put the lock picker back into the van, shut the van’s door without slamming it, and moved to hold the door to the club open so Tommy and Norm could begin stacking the crates of explosives just inside the door. They moved quickly and I kept a lookout and listened while they did.

  Less than three minutes later everything was inside including me and Tommy, the rear door to the club was once again closed and locked, and Norm was driving away in the florist’s van to where he would wait for our call to come pick us up and carry us away to safety. The only things in the van besides Norm were three small soft duffle bags with our changes of clothes and shoes and the battery-powered lock picking gun Robbie had sent me.

  ******

  Tommy and I did not put our night vision headsets on until we were all the way inside the club with the door shut and locked. And then I put mine on and helped Tommy get his headset turned on and adjusted so he could see more clearly. I had a rough idea where the door to the basement stairs was located, and I found it and opened it almost instantly. There was even a rubber doorstop to hold it open while we carried the milk crates filled with explosive loaves down to the basement. They were surprisingly heavy.

  First things first. Tommy and I went down the stairs into the basement to check it out. What a mess. Crates of beer and wine were stacked up haphazardly and, behind them, old wooden chairs and tables, and a number of cardboard boxes filled with God knows what. There was even an old-fashioned foosball table standing on three legs and a battered old sofa standing on end and leaning against the wall.

  “Where do you want to stack them?” I asked Tommy.

  “It don’t matter. I got enough blocks of C-4 to level this here place no matter where we put them.”

  “Well, we gotta hide the crates so no one comes down here for booze and finds them. Let’s move some of this stuff out of the way and then bring your crates down here and stack them against the far wall over there in the corner. When you’re finished and set the timer, we’ll stack this crap back in front of them so they can’t be seen.”

  ******

  We worked together to move the junk in the basement out of the way. Then Tommy began carrying the crates down the stairs to the basement while I finished moving some of the cardboard boxes filled with what looked like clothes and personal stuff. That’s when everything changed.

  Suddenly the single light hanging down from the ceiling came on and there was a man standing at the top of the stairs with a pistol pointing at me, a big beefy guy of about forty years old wearing a white tee shirt with some kind of picture on it. My initial reaction, after being surprised and whipping off my night vision goggles, was that he didn’t look too bright. Another guy was standing behind him at the top of the stairs pointing his gun in another direction, probably at Tommy who’d been upstairs getting the last of his milk crates.

  “Well, don’t just stand there, goddamnit,” I said as I took off my night vision headset and tossed it on a crate of beer. “Put that thing down and help me move this shit out of the way. We ain’t got all night.”

  This was definitely not the response the guy pointing the pistol at me had expected.

  “What the hell is going on? Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

  “I’m Frankie from Montreal. Didn’t Joey Dollar send you to help us?”

  “No he didn’t; Bobby saw you drive in the alley so we come to see who youse is.”

  “Well you two better start helping us and keep your goddamn mouths shut or Joey’s gonna be pissed and you’re gonna be in big trouble. No one’s supposed to know about this shit.”

  By now the big beefy man with the gun pointed at me had walked down the wooden stairs, and his friend was coming down behind him as Tommy walked down in front of him with his hands in the air. The guy I’d been talking to was still holding his gun on me as he walked down the stairs and reached the cellar floor, but he was uncertain and so was the guy behind Tommy who’d heard the whole exchange.

  I just stood there under the bare light bulb hanging down and waited while everyone came down the stairs. The two men who had surprised us still had guns in their hands and were nervous and ready, but they were uncertain and no longer pointing them directly at us. My response and mentioning Dollar Joe had set them on their heels and confused them.

  “Tommy, you get up there and get the rest of the stuff. And you,” I said as I moved my arm to point at the big beefy guy, “had better get over... Boom, boom.”

  I fired one round from my derringer right into Beefy’s face and then, a split second later, my second shot into the chest of the guy who sort of had his gun pointed at Tommy. My ears began ringing; the noise was deafening and Tommy’s mouth had popped open in stunned disbelief.

  The face on the first guy I shot exploded into a red pulp and he went over backwards like he’d been hit in the face with a baseball bat. A .38 round with its tip clipped off to make it a dum-dum will do that to you every time. The look on the face of the other guy, the one I shot in the chest, was one of pure astonishment. The impact of my dum-dum shot had backed him up a few paces, and he was looking down at his chest as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Then he grabbed at his chest, started to say something, staggered backwards, and sat down with his back against a tattered, old sofa that had been leaning against the wall. It went over with a crash.

  ******

  “Holy shit,” said Tommy. His eyes were as big as saucers in the glare of the light bulb hanging down from the ceiling and his face was white. I thought he might faint.

  “Get going on wiring up the explosives. I’m going to check out upstairs. We need to know if anyone heard the shots. I’ll bring down the crates that are still up in the club.”

  “Yes, but....”

  “No buts; get going.” And with that I went up the stairs two at a time. I left the cellar light on but closed the door to the main floor of the club so the light couldn’t be seen.

  It was
dark in the club, and I couldn’t see very well once the cellar door was closed. There was only the faintest sliver of light coming in around the edge of the boarded window that faced Arthur Avenue. I felt my way to it and looked out the crack. I could see Arthur Avenue. Nothing. No one was parked or walking in the street in front of the club.

  I called Norm. He hadn’t called to warn us. I wanted to know why he hadn’t. Was there trouble?

  “Hey, it’s me. You see anything or hear anything on the scanner?”

  “Nada. Not a peep. How’s it going? I been listening on my cell phone and heard some noise. Sounded like a bunch of guys talking and then some shots. What happened?”

  “We had a little problem, but I fixed it. I’ll tell you about it later.”

  ******

  It took Tommy and me more than an hour to get things cleaned up and organized. I carried the rest of the explosives-filled milk crates downstairs and Tommy wired them up. While he was doing that and setting the timer, I dragged the two stiffs back into the corner and put them next to the milk crates Tommy had stacked up four high into a little column. Then, after Tommy had twice assured me that everything was wired up and the timer properly set for a little more than eighteen hours, so it would go off a few minutes before ten this evening, we began rearranging stuff from the basement so the crates and dead men couldn’t be seen if anyone came down into the cellar.

  Our big and unexpected problem, of course, was the two big puddles of blood and the stuff that got splattered when I offed our two visitors. Tommy and I did our best; we used some old clothes from a couple of the boxes to soak it up and clean off the splattered stuff as good as we could. Then we tossed the clothes on top of the bodies along with a couple of the more splattered boxes and one of the chairs. There was no way to move the sofa because it was too damn big.