It was not going to be a problem, Marion thought. He habitually took a little walk after dinner to settle his stomach. He would take one now, and was certain to come across someplace where he could get a cup of coffee.
On his way through the lobby to North Broad Street, he saw that the bulletin board in the lobby announced,"Sacred Harp Singing, Main Ball Room, 7:30. All Welcome!"
He wondered what in the world that meant.
When he returned from his walk, which included two cups of coffee and a very nice piece of lemon meringue pie at a Bigger Burger, the lobby was full of pleasant voices, singing, a cappella, "We Will Gather at the River."
He followed the sound of the voices, passing and noticing for the first time an oil portrait of a white middle-aged woman, wearing the whateveritwas these people wore on their heads. He wondered if that was Mrs. Father Divine, and then if she was called "Mother Divine."
He found the source Of voices. It was in the main ballroom. A neatly dressed black man put out his hand, said, "Welcome, brother. Make yourself at home. Praise the Lord."
"Praise the Lord," Marion replied, and went into the ballroom and took a mimeographed program, which included the words to the hymns and spirituals on the program, from a folding chair.
He was a little uncomfortable at first but the music was lovely, and the sincerity and enthusiasm of the singers rather touching, and after a few minutes, he was quite caught up in the whole thing.
He had always liked "Rock of Ages," and other what he thought of as traditional hymns, and he had never before had the opportunity to not only hear Negro spirituals, but to join in with the singers.
Afterward, when he went to his room, he wondered if perhaps somehow the last two hours, which certainly could be interpreted as worship, would now give him an insight into Haggai 2:17.
He read it again, standing up at the desk where he had left the Bible open to it: "17.1 smote you with blasting and with mildew and with hail in all the labours of your hands; yet ye turned not to me, saith the Lord."
He thought perhaps he had an insight. Viewed from one perspective, it was possible, even likely, that it was what the Lord might be saying to the Vice President, rather than directed to him.
That made a certain sense vis-a-vis "blasting," but while one might be smitten with "blasting" and "hail," being smitten with mildew made no sense. Mildew was what grew in the grouting around the tiles of a bathroom.
He undressed and took a shower, and then took the Bible to bed with him. But even after praying for insight, Haggai 2:17 made no sense to him at all.
Marion Claude Wheatley dropped off to sleep, propped up against the headboard, with the Holy Bible open on his lap.
****
Mr. Vincenzo Savarese, Mr. Paulo Cassandro, Mr. Gian-Carlo Rosselli, and Mr. Ricco Baltazari were seated at a table in the rear of Ristorante Alfredo. A screen had been erected around the table, to keep the customers from staring. No place had been set for Mr. Baltazari, the proprietor, who thought it might be considered disrespectful to break bread with Mr. Savarese uninvited.
"I like your Chicken Breast Alfredo," Mr. Savarese said to Mr. Baltazari, "how is it made?"
"It's really very simple, Mr. S.," Mr. Baltazari said. "Some oregano, some thyme, some chervil, a little sweet paprika for color, you grind them up, then add maybe a half cup olive oil; you marinate maybe an hour, then you broil, and then, at the last minute, a slice of cheese on top, and that's it."
"Not only is it nice, I see by the price on the menu that it probably makes a nice profit."
"Absolutely, chicken is always good that way. I'm pleased that you're pleased."
"Ricco, I have to make a decision," Mr. Savarese said. "I want your advice."
"I'm honored that you would ask me, Mr. S.," Mr. Baltazari said.
"You understand that I am under an obligation to some friends in Baltimore," Mr. Savarese said. "An obligation that I would like to meet."
"I understand," Mr. Baltazari said.
"They telephoned me just before I came here," Mr. Savarese said. " They are very anxious to make the shipment we talked about. Their man is waiting word that it's all right to come to Philadelphia."
Mr. Baltazari nodded his understanding.
"Gian-Carlo and Paulo tell me that they think everything is arranged with our new friend at the airport," Mr. Savarese said. "And on one hand, I trust their judgment. But on the other hand, I am a cautious man. I am always concerned when things seem to be going too easily. You understand?"
"Yes, Mr. Savarese, I understand."
"There are two things that concern me here," Mr. Savarese said. " One may be as important as the other. We think we have this policeman' s cooperation.Think. It would be very embarrassing for me if he changed his mind at the last minute. And costly. If the shipment was lost, I would, as a man of honor, have to make good the loss. You understand?"
"I understand, Mr. S."
"The second thing that concerns me is the possibility that if he is not what Paulo tells me he believes he is, that, in other words, if he went either to the Narcotics Division or to the Federal Narcotics people… You understand?"
"Mr. S.," Mr. Rosselli said very carefully, "that word never even came up. Narcotics."
"Mr. S.," Mr. Cassandro added, "he thinks the shipment is money."
"So you have told me," Mr. Savarese said. "My question is, would he be tempted by that much money? We certainly could not complain to the authorities that we had lost a large sum of money, could we?"
"He's not that smart, Mr. S.," Mr. Rosselli said.
"Yes. He is not smart. That worries me. He is a fool, a fool without money. Fools without money do foolish, desperate things."
"I see what you mean, Mr. S.," Mr. Rosselli said.
"We could test him," Mr. Savarese said. "That is one option. I could tell my associates in Baltimore that in the interests of safety, we should have nothing of interest to the authorities in the bag, just to be sure."
"That's an idea," Mr. Baltazari said.
"But that would make me look as if I don't have things under control here, wouldn't it?"
"I can see what you mean," Mr. Baltazari said seriously.
"Or, we can take the chance. I will tell Gian-Carlo to telephone Baltimore and tell them everything is in order. So my question to you, Ricco, is what should I do?"
Mr. Baltazari thought it over for a very long moment before he replied.
"Mr. S.," he said carefully. "You asked me, and I will tell you what I honestly think. I think we have to trust Gian-Carlo's and Paulo's judgment. If they say the cop is going to be all right, so far as I'm concerned, that's it."
Mr. Baltazari felt a flush of excitement.
I handled that perfect, he thought. If I had said, "I go for the test," that would have meant that I thought Gian-Carlo and Paulo were wrong, that they were going to get Mr. S. in trouble. That would have really pissed them off. This way, they set it up, it fucks up somehow, it's their fault, and I'm out of it.
Mr. Savarese nodded, then put another piece of Chicken Breast Alfredo into his mouth and chewed it slowly.
"I thank you for your honest opinion," he said, finally. "So this is what we're going to do. I'm going to have Gian-Carlo call the people in Baltimore and tell them to go ahead."
"There's not going to be a problem with the cop, Mr. S.," Mr. Rosselli said. "He needs to get out from under them markers, and he needs the cash so bad, he's pissing his pants."
"Give Ricco the information," Mr. Savarese said.
Mr. Rosselli handed Mr. Baltazari a sheet of notepaper. On it was written, "Eastern 4302. 9:45."
"That's from San Juan," Mr. Savarese explained. "Tomorrow night, it arrives. The shipment will be in a blue American Tourister plastic suitcase. On both sides of the suitcase will be two strips of adhesive tape with shine on it."
Mr. Baltazari then asked the question foremost in his mind. He held up the piece of paper with "Eastern 4302" on it. "Mr. S., what am I suppose
d to do with this?"
"I value your judgment, Ricco," Mr. Savarese said. "I want you to give that to the cop. Tell him about the tape with the shine on the blue American Tourister suitcase. Look at his eyes. Make up your mind, is he reliable or not? If it smells like bad fish, then we do the test. It'll be a little embarrassing for me to have to call Baltimore, but there'll be plenty of time if you see the cop when he gets off duty, and better a little embarrassment than taking a loss like that, or worse. You agree?"
"Right, Mr. S.," Mr. Baltazari said.
His stomach suddenly hurt.
"You go see him after midnight, at that woman's apartment, and then you call Gian-Carlo. If you make the judgment that everything will be all right, then that's it. If he sees something wrong, GianCarlo, then you call me at the house, understand?"
"Right, Mr. S.," Mr. Rosselli said.
"I feel better," Mr. Savarese said. "Now that we've talked this over. I think I might even have a little cognac. You got a nice cognac, Ricco?"
"Absolutely, Mr. S.," Mr. Baltazari said, and got up from the table.
In the kitchen, he put a teaspoon of baking soda in half a glass of water, dissolved it, and drank it down.
Then he went and got a fresh bottle of Remy Martin VSOP, which he knew Mr. Savarese preferred, and carried it back to the table.
****
At about the same time that his reliability was being discussed in Ristorante Alfredo, Corporal Vito Lanza told Officer Jerzy Masnik, his trainee, that he was going to take a break, get some coffee and a doughnut, get the hell out of the office for a few minutes, he was getting a headache.
He made his way to the Eastern Airlines area of the airport, and used his passkey to open a door marked CLOSED TO THE PUBLIC-DO NOT ENTER.
It opened on a flight of stairs, which took him down to the level of the ramp. He walked to the office from which the Eastern baggage handling operation was directed, and asked the man in charge if it would be all right if he borrowed one of the baggage train tractors for a couple of minutes.
"Help yourself," the Eastern supervisor told him.
Vito drove slowly among the airplanes parked at the lines of airways, watching as baggage handlers loaded luggage into, and offloaded it from, the bellies of the airplanes. Twice, he stopped the tractor and got off, for a closer examination. Once he actually went inside the fuselage of a Lockheed 10-11.
No one questioned his presence. Cops are expected to be in strange places.
The way to get a particular piece of luggage off a particular airplane, Vito decided, was to stand by the conveyor belt and watch for it as it was off-loaded from the airplane, seeing on which of the carts of the baggage train it had been placed.
Once he knew that, he would drive his tractor to the door where luggage was taken from the baggage carts and loaded on the conveyor belt that would transport it, beneath the terminal, to the baggage carousel.
Taking it from the airplane or the baggage carts at the airplane would look suspicious. But with the baggage handlers busy throwing bags on the conveyor belt under the terminal, no one would notice if he removed a bag from the other side of the cart.
And if they did notice him, and someone actually asked him what he was doing, he would say that it was his mother's, or his sister's, and he was just saving her a trip to the baggage carousel.
Nobody questioned what a cop did. And he was only going to do this once. If he did it all the time, somebody might say something about it.
Vito told himself that there were laws and laws. Everybody broke some kind of law, except maybe the pope. And screwing the IRS was something everybody did. And that's all he was going to be doing, was keeping the IRS from making a pain in the ass of itself. It wasn't like he was smuggling drugs or jewels. He wouldn't be able to do that.
What he was doing, Vito convinced himself, was helping a friend, repaying a favor.
It wasn't anything worse than some chief inspector fixing a speeding ticket for his next-door neighbor.
The reason Gian-Carlo Rosselli, or really the people who own the Oaks and Pines, are willing to come up with ten big ones, the four I owe them on the markers, and six besides, is like them buying insurance. It's the cost of them doing business. It's not like they're bribing me or anything. They want all that money to arrive safely so they can pay that coal-mine guy-that lucky sonofabitch, he probably doesn't even need it-what he won.
It was just lucky. They knew me, and I needed the money. That fucking plumber is going to want his money, and with my luck lately, I just don't have it. So this way, everybody is happy. The plumbers, the people who own Oaks and Pines, and especially that fucker with the coal mines who hit his number four times in a row.
And my run of bad luck can't keep on for fucking ever!
Vito drove around the aircraft parking area a few minutes more, trying to figure the best way to get the suitcase, once he had taken it from the baggage cart, out to his car. That turned out to be simplicity itself.
There was a gate leading from the work area under the terminal to the outside. There was a rent-a-cop working it. No rent-a-cop was going to stop a real cop and ask him what he was doing.
I'll just drive one of these goddamned tractors out the gate, go to the parking lot, put the suitcase in the trunk of the Caddy, and drive back in and give them their tractor back.
He decided to try it. It worked like a jewel. He went out of the gate, drove to the parking lot, went in the trunk of the Caddy, got back on the tractor, and drove back through the gate. The rent-a-cop didn't look at him twice.
Why should he? I'm a police corporal. If I'm riding around on an Eastern Airlines tractor, so what? What business was that of a rent-acop?
Vito drove the tractor back to the Eastern office and told the guy he'd returned it.
"Anytime," the Eastern guy said. "Support your local sheriff, right?"
****
Starting at fifteen minutes to midnight, within minutes of each other, automobiles carrying Chief Inspectors Matt Lowenstein and Denny Coughlin, Supervisory Special Agent H. Charles Larkin of the Secret Service, and A-S AC (Criminal) Frank F. Young of the FBI arrived at the headquarters of the Special Operations Division.
The building, and especially the corridor outside Peter Wohl'swhat had been the principal's-office, and the office itself were crowded with senior police officers. All the participants in the earlier meeting in the commissioner's office, except Mayor Carlucci, were present. In addition, the commanding officers of Central, North Central, and Northwest Detective Divisions; the commanding officers of Ordnance Disposal and Stakeout; and Captain Jack Duffy, the special assistant to the commissioner for inter-agency liaison, had either been summoned or had naturally migrated to the Schoolhouse as the center of the operation.
Three inspectors, who had been neither summoned nor invited, were also in Peter Wohl's office when Chief Lowenstein marched in. They were the commanding officers of the South and North Detective Divisions and the Tactical Division. Their subordinates had made known to them the orders they had received from Chiefs Lowenstein and Coughlin, and they wanted to know what was going on.
Lowenstein ordered everyone out of Wohl's office but Coughlin, Wohl, and the three inspectors and the federal agents.
"Peter and I decided to hold this here, rather than in the Roundhouse," Lowenstein began, "for a couple of reasons. First of all, it's on my way home…"
He paused for the expected chuckle.
"Peter and I decided"? Wohl thought. Inspector Peter Wohl is not only outranked by you, but, until very recently, by everybody else in this room. Despite his reputation within the Department as a real hard-ass, Lowenstein sometimes can be very gracious and kind.
"…and for another, all these white shirts showing up at the Roundhouse at midnight might give the gentlemen of the press the idea that something's going on. Charley Larkin thinks, and I agree, that the less the press is involved until we catch this guy, the better."
"The less the press
is involved, the better, period," Inspector Wally Jenks said.
There were chuckles and grunts of approval.
"There's a real nasty copycat aspect to something like this," Charley Larkin said. "A lunatic who has been sitting around harmlessly studying his navel sees another lunatic is getting a lot of attention in the papers and on TV, and promptly decides the thing for him to do to get some attention is also blow something up. If I had my druthers, not a word of this would appear in the papers."
"Sometimes, Charley," Frank F. Young of the FBI said, "it's a good idea to let the taxpayers know where their money is going."
"Let me bring everybody up-to-date on where we stand," Lowenstein said, cutting off what could have been an argument about dealing with the press.
He went on: "We had ninety-six Wheatleys on the list. Eighty-nine of them have been contacted, and are off the list, which means we are down to seven. These are Wheatleys who were not at home when we rang doorbells. Or didn't answer the doorbell.
"We have detectives in unmarked cars sitting on the seven, backed up by Highway RPCs. If anyone leaves those seven houses, we will talk to them.
"Of the seven, two look more promising than the others. One is listed under the name of Wheatley, Stephen J., in the 5600 block of Frazier Avenue, and the other is Wheatley, M. C, in the 120 block of Farragut. Both these houses are in middle class neighborhoods, which fits in both with somebody owning property in the sticks in Jersey and with the psychological profile we have of this guy. He's well educated, and it would figure he's making a decent living.
"Inspector Wohl believes, and Chief Coughlin and I agree, that taking either of these doors tonight would probably be counterproductive."
"Can I ask why?" Inspector Jenks asked.
"Worst case scenario, Inspector," Wohl said. "He's in there. He's got explosives. He sets them off, and takes half the neighborhood with him."
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