Caper

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Smiley?” he said. “Smiley is a villain.”

  I was about to quote Shakespeare on the same subject and clicked my mouth shut just in time. To cover my fluster I made a long guess.

  “You owe him?” I asked.

  He nodded. Stolid expression. “Almost five big ones.”

  “What will happen to you if you don’t pay?”

  “At best? Two busted kneecaps.”

  “And at worst?”

  “They’ll squash me,” he said with a flimsy grin. “Don’t happen to be carrying that kind of loot, do you?”

  I shook my head.

  He grinned, this time with genuine mirth.

  “Just a joke,” he said. “Not to worry. I’ll work it out.”

  “Can’t you just take off?”

  “Not really. They’d find me. Eventually. As somebody said, ‘You can run, but you can’t hide.’”

  “Is it worth all that to them? Five thousand? To go to that much trouble?”

  “It’s not the gelt,” he explained patiently, “it’s the principle of the thing. They let a small fish like me welch, the word gets around. Next time it might be a big fish. They can’t afford that. So they run a tight ship. You said you had an idea for a campaign?”

  The sudden question stopped me. I put the half-gnawed rib back on my plate. Jack Donohue was staring at me with stony eyes. I began to understand his pride. He wouldn’t show his hope. It would be weakness.

  “I have something going, yes,” I told him. “It looks good.”

  “How much?” he said hoarsely.

  “Plenty,” I said. “Your five thousand is chicken feed. This means big money. Big.”

  “So? Tell me.”

  I shook my head. “Can’t,” I said, “without getting the okay from my friend.”

  “Your friend? The Tooth Fairy? Why him?”

  “I owe him.”

  It was language he could understand.

  “All right. Let’s meet and talk about it. Set it up.”

  “Finish your ribs. Have another drink. On me.”

  “Sure,” he said, flashing his teeth. “Why not?”

  “I’m sleeping alone tonight,” I said, staring into his eyes.

  He shrugged. “You’re the boss, Bea.”

  I actually believed it.

  BUSY, BUSY, BUSY

  WRITING IS A LONELY business. Hardly an original observation, but true. I mean, it’s you, a typewriter, and a blank sheet of paper. I’m not talking about plays or movie scripts. Those are communal endeavors, writing by committee. But novelists and poets are recluses. And after you spend a few years at this anchoritic occupation, you lose the sense of the great big world out there. You forget how to act, how to do. The universe is condensed on that blank sheet of paper.

  That was the way I had been living, like a goddamned hermit. A few friends, a little sex now and then to reassure myself that I was still alive. But generally I had been living an inactive life, sedentary, chained to the secondhand oak swivel chair.

  But now—presto!—I found myself living not only one, but two full lives. I was Jannie Shean, crafty girl-novelist, plotting a cockamamie scheme to get more realism in my writing. And I was Beatrice Flanders, the big-titted doxy, flaunting her padded ass and planning to rip off a swanky midtown jewelry store.

  And you know what? I loved every minute of it! The best thing was that I wasn’t flummoxed or reduced to gibbering ineptitude. I handled both identities, adroitly I thought, and did everything that had to be done. Take that Monday for instance …

  It occurred to me that as Bea Flanders, driving a rented car, I could continue my surveillance of Brandenberg & Sons with lessened risk. I could double-park a “new” car on East 55th Street, and I could spend more time at my observation post in the luncheonette across the street, a stranger to the staff.

  So I did exactly that early Monday morning. The routine was what I had teamed to expect: Brandenberg employees arrived about 8:45 A.M., the commercial cleaning truck and crew showed up around 9:00, departed at 9:45, and the store opened for business at 10:00 A.M. It was comforting to know that the daily routine appeared to be unchanging.

  I drove slowly around the neighborhood for almost an hour. Dick Fleming had reported that he could spot no definite schedule for police patrol cars or foot patrolmen. They seemed to wander by at irregular intervals, and we guessed that was deliberately planned.

  When I returned to East 55th Street to pass the jewelry store a final time, I saw one of those slick-looking gents exiting. He was carrying the usual black attaché case, and manager Jarvis escorted him to the door to shake hands and bid him farewell.

  Just for the hell of it I trailed the tall, somberly clad messenger, but not for very long. On Fifth Avenue he slid into the back seat of a chauffeur-driven black Mercedes. They pulled away from the curb and headed southward. I watched them go. It was, I thought, a nice way for a jewelry salesman to make his rounds.

  In Jannie Shean’s apartment I brought my journal up to the minute, including the significant dinner with Jack Donohue at Fangio’s the night before. Then into the shower, followed by the careful donning of my favorite Halston, a black crepe cocktail dress that suggested there was more underneath than actually existed. God bless Halston!

  I took a cab down to Park Avenue and 54th. I was a few minutes early, and watched from across the avenue. I didn’t have long to wait; in a few moments manager Jarvis and escort came striding around the corner from 55th Street. I went darting across Park Avenue, through the traffic, against the lights. Horns blasted, tires squealed, cabdrivers shouted two words at me. They were not Happy Birthday.

  I watched Jarvis make his night deposit. The two men talked a moment, then separated. Jarvis came toward me. I started walking purposefully, directly toward him, eyes down.

  “Why, Miss Shean!” he said, smiling, taking off his bowler. “This is a pleasant surprise. Noel Jarvis, manager of Brandenberg and Sons.”

  “Oh?” I said, puzzled. “Oh, of course! How are you, Mr. Jarvis? Nice to see you again. Finished for the day, are you?”

  “Ah, yes,” he said blithely. “Ready to relax after the chores are done. I must say you do look smashing. Big evening ahead?”

  “I hope so,” I said. “Eventually.”

  We had been exchanging these civilities in the middle of sidewalk traffic, buffeted by pedestrians rushing homeward. Noel Jarvis took my elbow lightly, politely, and drew me back to the building line, out of the scurrying stream.

  “I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is,” he said, “meeting you like this. I was hoping against hope I might see you again.”

  He did have a tendency to speak in italics, but the effect wasn’t as phony as you might think. Probably because the man was physically impressive and unmistakably masculine. He might have had a paunch, but the shoulders were wide, the chest admirable.

  It was the first time I had really looked at him, close up. He had the ruins of a very handsome face, gone to seed a bit now but still showing what had been hard, craggy features. I estimated his age at fifty-two to fifty-five, in that range, and I guessed that thirty years ago he had been a very sexy lad indeed. Now there were burst capillaries in the meaty cheeks and nose, but the mouth was still tight, teeth his own and good, the smile secret and knowing.

  The only thing about him I disliked, I decided, were the small eyes of a washed-out blue. Too innocent to be true, those eyes.

  “ … a little fun bar across the avenue,” he was saying. “Just to relax for a few moments. If you have the time, of course.”

  “What?” I said, confused. “Oh. Well … yes, just one. Then I’ll have to run.”

  “Of course,” he said. “Understood.”

  So there we were, three minutes later, tucked into a cozy booth in a Park Avenue bar-restaurant. I remembered it vaguely as having five different names in as many years. On the evening I had my first fatal drink with Noel Jarvis, it was called Lucifer’s. Was fate trying to tell
me something?

  It didn’t take long to realize I was in the presence of a very, very heavy drinker. I was just finishing my first glass of white wine when he was sipping on his third martini, straight-up with a twist of lemon. As far as I could see, though, he could have been drinking ice water for all the difference it made in his speech and deportment.

  He was good company too. Glib, witty, intelligent and informed, and very fast with a gold Dunhill to light my cigarettes. He recognized my dress as a Halston. He told me scandalous stories of a few of his more famous customers. And he made me feel that at that moment he wanted nothing more from life than to be sharing a comfy, after-work drink with little ol’ me.

  I don’t mean he came on heavy. There was no knee-rubbing, no hand-grabbing, no “accidental” touches, no leers—nothing like that. He just made me feel I was important to his happiness.

  Doing my Mata Hari number, I got him talking about his trade. It wasn’t hard at all; he was delighted to jabber on about diamonds, the controlling cartels, how price was determined, where the main cutting centers were located, how important the Israelis were to the business, how an increasing percentage of the sales of Brandenberg & Sons was now in unset diamonds, sapphires, emeralds, and rubies. For investment.

  “Oh yes,” Noel Jarvis said. “Investment. At the moment, I can assure you, diamonds are generally overpriced. But if you believe, as I do, in a continued inflation rate of seven to eight percent, I suggest you put all your loose change in gemstones. You do have some loose change, don’t you, Jannie? I may call you Jannie, may I not?”

  “Of course,” I said automatically. “Yes, I have a few odd pennies. But wouldn’t I do better to buy set pieces, especially antique necklaces and chokers and things of that sort? I’ve been reading stories of the fabulous prices they bring at auctions.”

  “Um … well,” he said thoughtfully. “Not necessarily. Some pieces have an antique value, a historical value. Tiaras and brooches owned by this queen, this and that duchess, and so forth. If you’re a collector, that might be of some interest. But what you must look for, beyond the provenance of a particular item, is its intrinsic worth. The cut of the stones, their color, weight, brilliance, and so on. I really think you’d do better with individual stones. So small, so easy to conceal—for safety’s sake, of course. So easy to take across the borders in case—God forbid—you might have to travel suddenly with a good portion of your wealth. In addition to the sale of cut but unset gems for investment, there is another trend these days, and that is to have very valuable stones mounted in extremely simple settings. For instance, just the other day we designed and produced a pendant for a movie star whose name I shall not mention. The white gold chain was worth three hundred. The eighteen-carat, pear-shaped diamond suspended from it was worth half a million.”

  “My God!” I gasped. “What’s the point—a rock like that hanging from a little chain?”

  “Several points,” he said, smiling benignly. “The finished item is very simple, very elegant. Can be worn with a variety of gowns at a variety of functions. Marvelous with Halstons, for instance. Nothing ostentatious about it. And, most important perhaps, it never seems to occur to thieves that a simple chain-and-stone-necklace could be so valuable. So in addition to selling individual stones for investment, we also do a very good business indeed in valuable gems in quiet settings. Something you might care to keep in mind. Can you have dinner with me?”

  The sudden question caught me off-balance.

  “Uh,” I said. “Well … no. I’m sorry. I do have plans.”

  “Of course you do,” he said. “I wouldn’t have thought otherwise. Do you suggest I ask again—or is the hope hopeless?”

  He looked at me with such quizzical charm, with such a graceful shrug, that I couldn’t resist him.

  “I hope you do ask me again,” I said firmly. “Do call me. I’m in the book.”

  “I know,” he said gently. “I looked.”

  I thanked him, shook his hand, prepared to leave Lucifer’s. Noel Jarvis wanted to go with me, to deliver me by cab to wherever I was going. But I insisted he stay, and he agreed, ordering his fifth martini.

  When, at the doorway, I glanced back, he was still sitting upright in the booth, still smiling, very steady, a hand raised in farewell.

  THE DUEL

  “I UNDERSTAND YOU’RE GETTING hairy around the heels,” Dick Fleming said.

  Jack Donohue shrugged. “When you’re hot, you’re hot; when you’re not, you’re not. Where did you say you were from?”

  “I didn’t,” Fleming said. “Does it matter?”

  “Oh …”Donohue said vaguely.

  “Kansas City,” Dick told him. “Originally. A little here and a little there since then.”

  “And what are you doing now?”

  “Anyone I can,” Fleming said, and the answer seemed to satisfy Donohue.

  We were sitting in a back booth at Fangio’s. The pleasing thought occurred to me that maybe I was the bone of contention. These two dogs were sniffing around what they considered to be a bitch in heat. No wonder there were snarls, snaps, and growls. It had gone on all during dinner.

  “I can’t work with the Tooth Fairy here,” Donohue said finally, glowering at me. “I’ve got to have guys at my back I can trust. No insult intended, Fleming, but the chemistry is wrong.”

  “Suits me,” Dick said. “You don’t impress me as being the kind of brainy pro we’re looking for. Let’s split, Bea.”

  I decided to crack the whip.

  “You shitheads,” I said coldly to both of them. “I’ve spent too much time on this campaign to blow it because you two can’t get along. I don’t expect you to like or trust each other. All I’m asking is that you work together just long enough to pull this off. Then you can go at each other with icepicks for all I care. But either you work together, or consider yourselves out, and I’ll find myself some other boys.”

  The two men stared stonily at each other.

  “I’ll go along,” Fleming said.

  “Strictly business,” Donohue said.

  “All right,” I said. “Remember that. I’m the boss lady, but we’re all in it together. One goes down, we all go down. So we work as a team. Agreed?”

  They both nodded.

  “Jack,” I said, leaning toward Donohue, “this is what I’ve got …”

  I spelled it out for him: all about Brandenberg & Sons, the address, size, number of employees, daily schedule—everything Dick and I had been able to learn.

  Black Jack listened intently, occasionally interrupting to ask sharp, one-word questions: “Cops?” “Alarms?” “TV?” “Customers?” I answered as fully as I could. I thought he was impressed but was trying not to show it.

  “When do you figure on hitting?” he asked.

  “About two weeks before Christmas,” Fleming said. “Early in the morning. Right after it opens. No customers in the store.”

  “Still,” Donohue said, “we can’t handle it, just the three of us. Need a wheelman. Maybe a peteman if that safe is locked. Also, you’re talking about six or seven workers in the place. Too many for us to keep an eye on and sweep the joint at the same time.”

  “Right,” I said, nodding. “I figure at least two more, maybe three.”

  “What take do you figure?”

  “A million,” I said. “At least. That means two, three hundred thousand from the fences or insurance company, depending on how we want to handle it. We can decide that later. What’s important right now is to get this thing rolling. Get it planned down to the last detail. Recruit the help we’ll need.”

  “How do you figure on splitting?”

  “We can work out the fine print later,” I told him. “But right now I’m planning a flat fee for the hired hands. As little as they’ll take. Their pay and expenses come off the top. The net we split forty-thirty-thirty. Me, you, and Dick.”

  “Mmmmm,” he said. “Well,” he said. “I’ll tell you,” he said, “I know
you don’t expect a yes-no answer right here, now, this minute.”

  “Why not?” Fleming said hotly. “It’s a good deal.”

  “Who for?” Donohue said. “Let me decide. It’s my cock on the block. I’ll take a look at the place, Bea. Mosey around. See how it feels. There’s a lot I like about it, and a lot I don’t like.”

  “Such as?” I said.

  “Such as early-morning customers wandering in or street cops strolling by. Such as hidden alarms you don’t know about. Such as those two repair guys in the back room slamming and locking the door the minute we come barreling in from the street. A lot to think about. Let me look the place over. Give me a couple of days. Then I’ll get back to you. Okay?”

  I looked at Dick. He looked at me.

  “A couple of days,” I agreed. “Then if you’re in, you’re in. If you’re out, you’re out, and no hard feelings. But don’t stall. I want to get this show on the road. I want it so bad I can taste it.”

  Black Jack looked at me admiringly.

  “You’re something else again,” he said. “I won’t stall. Two days, three at the most. If it’s as good as you make it sound, then we can go right ahead. I know a couple of heavies who might be just right for a job like this. Smart—but not too smart. And all the balls in the world.”

  “Sounds good,” I said. “Let’s see—you figure two, three days to make up your mind? How about Friday night in my place at the Harding?”

  “Friday night is fine,” Donohue said, grinning. “But why not make it my place? More chairs. And ice.”

  We stood up to leave. I paid the tab. Neither of the men objected. Being a mob boss was becoming an expensive proposition.

  Jack and I walked Fleming over to Broadway.

  “Where you kipping?” Donohue asked casually.

  “The Village,” Dick said, just as casually. “A crummy hotel. If this thing clicks, I figure on moving up.”

  “It’ll click,” I assured him. “You can take that to the bank.”

  “We shall see what we shall see,” Jack Donohue said.

  We put Fleming in a cab. He wasn’t too happy at leaving the two of us together.