The Hoods

by Grey, Harry

  “Okay, Chicken Flicker,” Maxie continued interrogating the witness, “what were you guys doing that day?”

  Chicken Flicker appeared a shy and shamefaced witness as he admitted, “We were playing pinochle behind the stack of beer boxes.”

  “And drinking beer?” Maxie prompted.

  Chicken Flicker nodded guiltily.

  One of the other guards cut in, “Herring gave us the O.K., Max. I remember he said, 'Go ahead and cop a sneak. The truck won't be ready for quite a while.' Herring said that.”

  “Yeh,” another one cut in, “now I remember—a couple of hours later I came in the office to take a leak. I asked Herring, is the truck ready? He said, it left already.”

  Maxie questioned, “Didn't you think it was funny, the truck leaving without a couple of you guys trailing it?”

  The guard appeared crestfallen. “To tell you the truth, Max, we were farcharret with the beer.”

  “Farcharret, balls,” Maxie said angrily. “If you guys drink and don't know what's going on and get farcharret, don't drink on the job!”

  “Okay, Max,” he mumbled, “we were drinking that goddamn Holland beer.”

  “Powerful stuff,” another guard commented.

  “Then stick to domestic stuff hereafter,” Maxie said drily.

  I was watching Herring as the incriminating evidence piled up. He knew he was on the spot and that Maxie was holding kangaroo court. He made a pitiful figure slumped in his chair. The right side of his face twitched nervously. His eyes traveled around the room in helpless terror, seeking an out. He reminded me of a cornered rat. Yeh, the guy knew he was doomed. He knew what we were here for. I felt sorry for the guy, but why the hell did he do it? He was getting three hundred bucks a week from the Combine. Why did he do it? Spendthrift wife? Did he need the dough for an expensive piece of chippy? Maybe horses? The hell with him. No use wasting sympathy. We got a job to do. The shmuck dug his own grave. We'll turn him over. Let the big guys do what they want with him.

  Maxie was trying to get my attention. “Hey, Noodles, day dreaming? I was talking to you.”

  I did not like his tone.

  I said wearily, “Yeh, Max.”

  “Get Cockeye in here and the surprise witnesses.”

  Maxie was enjoying his role of judge and prosecutor.

  I took Herring's searchlight and walked out of the office. I trudged through the warehouse, opened the door and called Cockeye. He came in with the two young guys. I escorted them back to the office.

  When Herring saw who came through the door, I thought he would drop dead, then and there. He stared at them, petrified with dread. He coughed, spit and almost puked.

  Maxie's voice was like acid.

  He asked, “Okay, punks, is that the guy who fingered the job?”

  “Yeh, that's the guy.”

  The answer struck Herring like a bull whip lashing across the face.

  He cried hysterically, covering his face. “No, no. I didn't, I didn't...”

  “You didn't? You rat bastard, they say you did,” Maxie goaded him.

  “I didn't, I didn't,” he moaned.

  CHAPTER 43

  Abruptly, a bell rang out in the warehouse, sharp and commanding. It was so unexpected that we remained quiet for a few moments with our mouths open. Somehow it had the same tone and it reminded me of the clanging bell in the sixth round of the Dempsey-Willard fight which we had seen a few years ago out in Ohio. There was the same thankful look on Herring's face as I saw on Willard's on that hot Fourth of July day.

  “What the hell was that?” Max said to nobody in particular.

  “That was the bell on the side street where the loading platform is,” Chicken Flicker said.

  “Pat, you go with Chicken Flicker and see who the hell it is.”

  Patsy picked up the searchlight. They went out.

  I said, “I better go along with that lead sprayer just in case.” I caught up with Patsy and the Chicken Flicker just as they were unlatching the side door. A strange burly truck driver was standing on the platform. He had his big over-the-road truck backed up to the door.

  Patsy said, “What's on your mind, Pally?”

  “Where's Mr. Herring?”

  “What d'you want with him?”

  “He said for me to pick up ten barrels of stuff for Baltimore.”

  “Ten barrels for Baltimore?” Chicken Flicker said. “We don't ship to Baltimore, we got trouble there.”

  “Come in, come in,” I said. “Who's the stuff to be delivered to in Baltimore?”

  He showed me a card.

  If anything spelled curtains for Herring, this was it. He was shipping to a little mob the Combine was having trouble with.

  We walked back to the office with the driver.

  “So the stupid bastard didn't get rid of the stuff yet. It's still somewhere in the joint,” Patsy whispered.

  “Yeh, some shmuck, that Herring,” I said.

  “Will he drop dead when he sees the truck driver,” Patsy chuckled quietly.

  That was practically what he did as we entered.

  Max asked, “Who is this guy?”

  Patsy whispered in his ear. Maxie nodded his head grimly.

  “Okay, driver, do you know who you are supposed to deliver to in Baltimore?”

  “Yes, sure, Mr. Herring already gave me the name and address.”

  Innocently the driver dropped the bombshell. He mentioned the rival outlaw mob.

  “What!” Maxie exploded. He jumped out of his chair. He clipped Herring on the jaw.

  “Okay, okay,” he snapped his fingers impatiently at the driver. “You beat it. We got nothing for you to deliver in Baltimore.”

  Patsy escorted the driver outside. Maxie barked out his orders with the staccato snap of a top sergeant.

  “Chicken Flicker and the rest of you guys, outside.” He turned to the guards. “All of you take the night off. Noodles, you show these two punks the hell out.” He snapped his fingers for their immediate dismissal. Max had a queer look on his face. I did not like it, but I did as he ordered.

  When I came back into the office, Pat, Cockeye and Maxie were standing over Herring. He was rocking himself back and forth in a numb horror-stricken manner. Maxie hit him. He fell. He started slobbering, sniveling and moaning piteously. He pleaded for mercy. Maxie cursed and hit him again.

  Finally he admitted, “I... hid the ten... barrels... under the bags of... sugar on the south end... of the warehouse.” Max and Patsy dragged the fear-stricken, half-conscious Herring out of the office into the warehouse proper.

  Cockeye walked ahead with the searchlight casting a thin, feeble, wavering light in front of us. I heard the slithering of rats scurrying among the huge, silent piles of merchandise. They loomed dark and immense all around us. Everything seemed unreal—as if we were making our way in some vague portentous dream.

  It was a bizarre and doleful procession. I was wondering what Maxie was going to do with Herring after he found where the whiskey was hidden. According to prescribed Combination procedure he could not or dared not do anything on his own. He had to follow the “code.” In an instance of this sort he delivered all evidence and the culprit to those higher up. I was getting a feeling, a vague feeling that Max was acting odd, that something was happening to him.

  Maxie roused me out of my reverie by his curt statement: “Here's the sugar, let's get going.”

  We had to handle fifty-one hundred pound bags before we uncovered the barrels. This unaccustomed exertion made Max wilder than before.

  “You miserable bastard. Take the staves off the head of that barrel,” Maxie addressed Herring.

  “I need a hammer and crowbar,” he whined hopelessly.

  “Where d'you keep your goddamned tools?” Maxie rasped viciously.

  “Over there in that shed.” He pointed with a shaking hand.

  “Cockeye,” Maxie screamed, “get them.”

  Herring could barely stand on his feet. I had to suppor
t him. He was trembling violently. He felt ice cold to my touch.

  Cockeye came back with the tools. He handed them to Herring. He tried, but they fell out of his nerveless hands. Cockeye held the light while Patsy took the job over. He started tapping on the top hoop to ease the staves on the head of the barrel. It made eerie echoes which resounded from wall to wall of the cavernous warehouse. After the hoop slid down a bit, the staves spread. Whiskey trickled out of the cracks. Patsy pried the remaining staves off the head of the barrel.

  Suddenly Max grabbed and began undressing the moaning and stupefied Herring. He stripped him naked. For a moment I was puzzled at Maxie's peculiar actions. Then I realized what he was up to. The thought chilled my blood. Cockeye put the spotlight on Maxie and his victim. It was like a grisly scene in a slow motion horror picture. With deliberate, unhurried movements, Maxie put one big hand on his victim's thin, hairy leg. With the other hand he forced Herring's moaning head forward. Then slowly, oh, so slowly, he pushed the top of his head into the barrel of whiskey. I could see his wild, staring eyes disappear under the amber liquid. Maxie pushed some more. The nose was covered. A little more pressure. Whiskey rushed into the gasping mouth. I heard an awful choking gurgle. I saw the stiffly upright skinny legs jerking violently.

  It was too much even for me. I lunged and knocked Max and the barrel over. Herring lay gasping with his mouth wide open. He floundered and groveled on the floor like a fish out of water. Then he jumped in the air, and ran naked and screaming, as if the devil was pursuing him.

  Maxie sat on the floor in a puddle, splashing his hands in the whiskey like a kid. He was laughing and shouting hysterically. “I wanted to pickle him. I wanted to pickle him.” He repeated over and over, “I wanted to pickle him, I wanted to pickle him. I wanted to pickle Herring.”

  Patsy, Cockeye and I stood in a semi-circle watching Maxie in amazement as he continued repeating, “I wanted to pickle Herring.”

  I swung back, and slapped him hard across the face. The sound bounced and echoed. My hand stung. Max barely grunted, but it stopped that crazy refrain, “I wanted to pickle Herring.” We picked him up and carried him into the office. I wiped him with the towel.

  Max looked at us as if he had just awakened from a deep sleep. He looked down on his filthy clothes, and in a normal quiet voice said, “Jesus, am I dirty. I got to get cleaned up. I got a date with Betty.”

  We heard a crash out in the warehouse. I whispered to Patsy, “Go ahead, you and Cockeye take care of Maxie. Take him home.”

  “What about Herring? Out there?”

  “I'll see,” I said. “I'll take care of him.” I watched as Maxie, between Patsy and Cockeye, walked out of the warehouse.

  I found Herring shivering and almost out of his mind with fear. I told him to get dressed and to get out of town.

  I called the main office and gave them the story in brief. I omitted the part that I found Herring, and just mentioned casually that Maxie suddenly got ill and left with Patsy and Cockeye.

  “Well, we can't have that guy Herring wandering around. He knows too much,” the office answered.

  I said, “Send somebody down to relieve me.”

  I waited about three hours. I had a hell of a time getting a cab on West Street. It was raining.

  I went straight to the hotel. I was tired and miserable. I threw myself into bed, without supper, without bathing, without anything. Alone.

  CHAPTER 44

  For weeks I watched Maxie's conduct. He became more and more unpredictable. Most of the time he acted completely normal, but, at other times, Patsy and I would watch his eccentric behavior with fear and amazement. Peculiar thing about Cockeye: he was absolutely unconscious of the fact that Maxie had changed. At least he acted that way. Sometimes, when Maxie was at the peak of one of his tantrums, Cockeye behaved in a slightly irrational manner himself.

  As far as I could understand, Maxie appeared to be at the beginning of some form of megalomania, in the first excitable stage. Everything he planned to do or was doing was big. Nothing but great enterprises were in his mind.

  He was terrifically lucky one day. Out of a clear sky he bet twenty thousand on a horse. He won about forty. Then he began frequenting big crap games. From the stories he told us he won a fortune every day.

  If I differed with him on anything, no matter how trivial, he would fly into a rage. Cockeye's actions at these times were just as amazing. He would take his harmonica out and play some wild crazy tune to fit Maxie's mood. Pat and I would sit and watch them both and it was really something to watch. Maxie would talk big, pacing the floor, a raving wild man, and there was Cockeye, alongside of him, playing a tune to fit his fit.

  One thing I observed: the more he associated with that masochist bitch, Betty, the more deranged he seemed to act. I discussed it with Patsy. I suggested we might try to get Max to visit a doctor. Patsy thought it would be futile. Maxie would never bother with doctors. I mentioned to Max that he seemed to spend a lot of time with Betty. He flew into a rage and accused me of being jealous.

  Finally the time drew near for a payroll heist: a two hundred thousand dollar one that John had “fingered.” Max never discussed it with me. Patsy did. A week before it was to take place, I wished them all luck, and left for Eve and North Carolina. I was gone three weeks.

  My first day back, I stayed away from Delancey Street. I wandered around town by myself. The next day I went downtown with a feeling of apprehension. I wondered how they had made out on the heist. I speculated on what sort of welcome I would receive. This was the first time I had ever gone down to Fat Moe's feeling uncomfortable, as if I didn't belong. I felt I had let them down because I hadn't taken part in the heist. Would Max carry a grudge? Well, what the hell, what will be, will be.

  I entered the back door of Fat Moe's.

  The first thing I was aware of was the welcome sound of Cockeye's harmonica, then Maxie's not so reassuring, cold stare.

  Then my eyes fell on it. It was a chair. Yeh, Max was sitting in a strange, immense, richly carved chair, at the head of the table. Cockeye and Patsy were in ordinary chairs on either side of him. By comparison they appeared to be sitting on the floor. I stood there speechless, looking at the incongruous sight. Cockeye's eyes above his harmonica were following my every movement. He continued his playing.

  Patsy smiled and said, “Hello.”

  Maxie in a deep frigid tone asked, “How you like it?”

  Evidently he referred to the chair. I walked all around it, feeling and looking at the ornate carving that covered every inch of the tremendous chair. It was like a throne, a royal relic of some sort. I examined it more closely. The keynote of the carved design was the royal flag of Rumania which appeared among icons and all sorts of royal insignia and armorial bearings.

  It looked absurd in the back room of Fat Moe's with an East Side hood slouched deep in its seat.

  I couldn't help asking, “How did you get it? Where did you get it?”

  Maxie asked a question of his own. “Do you know whose it is?”

  I shrugged. “How should I know?”

  “It used to belong to a baron, an old time Rumanian baron, hundreds of years ago.”

  I repeated, “How did you get it?”

  “How I got it?” Max asked with a superior smile. “How do I get everything I want? By the muscle. How does everybody get big dough? By stealing. How did the old time nobility get theirs? This bastard of a baron who owned this chair, for example? I'll bet you anything he got his millions the same way. By stealing. And that's what I'm going out for—for millions, and all in one grab, too. To hell with this petty racket crap, a few grand here and a few grand there. I'll show them how a real robber baron operates.”

  I guessed the heist came out okay from the general air of success.

  I wondered what else he had in mind. Max gave a peculiar laugh.

  “Ain't I the boss of the East Side?” he demanded. “Ain't the East Side my baronial domain? Ain't my word law d
own here?”

  While Max was delivering his angry tirade, Cockeye continued playing. There was the same odd relationship between his music and Maxie's jabbering. Was Cockeye putting Max deeper into these strange moods with his music? I wondered. It was hard to believe this was the same Maxie. Was it possible that excesses with a degenerate woman could weaken a man mentally? I had heard a man could develop softening of the brain by that sort of perversion. And was this thronelike chair one of the manifestations of his delusions of grandeur?

  I looked at Patsy. He was quietly smoking a cigar. He answered my look with a shrug and a raise of his shaggy eyebrows.

  Max took a sheet of paper out of his pocket and held it out to me.

  He said with pride, “What do you think of this?”

  I took it and tried to figure out the meaning of the diagram. It was a rough, penciled sketch of the Wall Street area showing the streets, the entrance and inside of what appeared to be a large building.

  I handed it back to Max.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  He said sarcastically, “A smart guy like you can't figure it out?”

  Cockeye stopped playing and looked speculatively at me.

  I shrugged and repeated, “What is it?”

  “This is it,” Max pounded the arm of the chair dramatically.

  “This is it?” I repeated vaguely.

  “Yep, this is it—the biggest heist in history. Ten times bigger than the Rubel heist. Instead of heisting one armored truck we take ten at one clip.” Maxie was all excited. “There's millions in it. I got it all figured out. This is the plan for the Federal Reserve heist.”

  “What?” I exclaimed. “You still got that bug in your head? To clip the Federal Reserve bank?”

  “Why, you got any doubts about it?” Maxie raged. “Wise guy? Know-it-all guy?”

  I said dubiously, “That Federal Reserve building? It's supposed to be heist proof; it's a tough nut to crack.”

  “Not the way I see it, maybe you ain't got the—”

  Max looked at me. He knew better than to finish saying, I didn't have the balls.