by Behn, Noel;
For the better part of the last twenty-one years it hadn’t been particularly unhorrible in the United States. America had reeled under a great depression and been attacked at Pearl Harbor and fought an arduous war it came close to losing, and now suddenly it seemed to have lost the peace—or at least seen the consolation of victory dissipated.
Many of the people gathered at Times Square and other places around the country this December 31 were relieved to see out the old year. The economy wasn’t all that bad, consumer’s goods were plentiful, the newest gimmick on the market was television, and the hottest book by far was the Kinsey Report. But a chill had benumbed the nation—that of a very cold war. China had fallen to someone called Mao and Life magazine in its current editorial stated the nation’s number one priority was to resist the Communist threat, reminded readers of what Churchill had warned some time before: that America was going to inherit the naked threat of Soviet power. Russian might never loomed greater. Russia now had the A-bomb.
Harry Truman’s red herring had come a cropper, and by New Year’s Eve; 1949, a healthy percentage of Americans were truly frightened of all that the media was cranking out on the peril. Ever since Vassar graduate Elizabeth Bentley—whose efforts to turn herself in were ignored by the FBI for six and a half years—had managed to confess to the bureau the fact of her being a Communist and had implicated some thirty former government employees, “spy” had become a household word and a near national mania. A loyalty oath was in effect. The FBI had increased its manpower—and funding—and was checking to see which federal employee was linked to what un-American organization. Ex officio loyalty boards had sprung up. Red Channels was the unofficial official blacklist for the allegedly deceitful. Congressional committees were looking into subversive activities. The most publicized incident of the moment, the Hiss-Chambers affair, was latched onto by an obscure congressman from California by the name of Richard Milhous Nixon.
The worst was yet to come. North Korea was about to invade South Korea. The defection of Igor Gouzenko, a Soviet cipher clerk, had led the FBI to England’s Scotland Yard and a scientist named Klaus Fuchs. Bureau men would soon be embarking on one of the largest manhunts in their history—tracking down Fuchs’ American contact, Harold, who had helped steal the secret of the atomic bomb.
Nor had the pinnacle been reached in public hearings. Whittaker Chambers and Alger Hiss were scheduled for a face-to-face confrontation in the early part of January, 1950.
No one had openly accused top administration officials of being traitors—only because a near alcoholic, giggling, surly, pathological lying hack politician from Harry Houdini’s hometown in Wisconsin hadn’t stumbled on communism yet. But he was poking around to find some way to win an election most experts predicted he would lose. After all, you can’t fart and belch and sip booze from a bottle in a paper bag on your side of the aisle and show up at your desk unshaved more often than not and be publicly selected as the worst of all United States senators serving on Capitol Hill and still expect the electorate to return you to office. You’re pretty well sunk—unless, of course, you come up with a gimmick.
As the glowing white ball atop the Times building touched down and the year 1950 officially began, Americans had had just about as much reality as they could tolerate. If ever the nation needed a brief respite, was ripe for a diversion—any kind of diversion—now was the time.
In Boston four obscure thieves who were just as Irish and drank just as much as and probably more than Joseph M. McCarthy and seven equally obscure confederates—ten of whom were not even known to the FBI and seldom credited with more than ten to fifteen grand heists by the local cops—were inadvertently attempting to provide just that. They went back to Brink’s for a fourth and fifth time in early January but again found the lights in the windows unsuitable. They argued among themselves about when to try again. Then the fat little one broke his own strict rule and took three or four of the others and robbed a joint he promised the majority he would keep away from. He used the Chevrolet his brother-in-law had swiped for the Big Haul for this job, so the brother-in-law had to go out and grab another car. Then the little fat one took the same boys out again, and they pulled another job and used the second car his brother-in-law had stolen. So now he told both his brother-in-law and one of the others in on the grab, told them at different times, to go out and grab another car. The brother-in-law stole another Chevrolet. The other went and got his lisping buddy, and they grabbed a Ford. And when on Monday morning, January 16, 1950 he and his buddy put on masks and went into the Statler Hotel and stuck up the cashier for $47,627, they didn’t bother telling the others on the Big Haul team where they’d been or what they did. But the other nine knew something had gone on.
The cops turned up the heat.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Tuesday, January 17, 1950
6:15 A.M.
The house was chilly, the kitchen outright cold. Frost lay thick on the window. Sandy Richardson stood in his undershirt and heavy charcoal gray iceman’s pants inspecting two sandwiches. One was liverwurst, lettuce and Swiss cheese, and the other roast beef and lettuce. He took out the bread box, went to the refrigerator, retrieved two jars and a covered dish and made himself a butter, peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He poured a cup of coffee into the sink, rinsed out the cup and set it upside down in the rack.
“Getting a late start this morning, huh?” Richardson’s son, Young Tom, commented on entering.
“Seem to have overslept. Can’t understand why.”
“Maybe you had a bigger bag on than you thought,” Young Tom dispassionately suggested, reaching for the electric percolator.
“That’s enough of that,” Richardson counseled. “No coffee. You’ll drink coffee after you’re eighteen.” He watched the youth shrug and start for the refrigerator. “And what may I ask are you doing up at working-man’s hours?”
“Have to cram for a test.”
“If you were in at night studying like you should be, you wouldn’t have to worry about that.”
“Pop, I’m not five years—”
“Don’t ‘Pop’ me, young man. I think it’s time you show some respect for your mother and the rules of this house. I don’t want you carousing around when you’re supposed to be home. And I want you home for dinner. Dinner with the rest of the family—not when you feel like coming in. Home for dinner with the rest of us starting tonight. Is that understood?”
“Sure thing, Pop,” the youth said, bending into the refrigerator. “Who used all the butter?”
Richardson walked from the room leaving the roast beef sandwich behind on the counter. He stuffed the tails of the blue denim work shirt into his trousers, pulled on a gray wool sweater and lifted his heavy brown parka from the hall chair. Before stepping outside, he slid a knit seaman’s cap down over his ears.
Sandy searched the dark overcast sky, then walked to the garage and got in his Pontiac. He shifted into neutral, pulled the emergency brake, switched on the ignition and coaxed the sluggish engine to a roar. He removed a wool glove and held his fist to the windshield, then under the dashboard. The defroster and heater both emitted a semblance of warm air. He opened the glove compartment. The two pints of whiskey were there. So were his black leather robbery gloves.
Sandy snapped on the radio as he pulled from his house, WHDM’s Herald-Traveler newscast was in progress with a report on the $47,627 Statler Hotel stickup of the previous morning along with what sounded like a review of police efficiency by none other than the commissioner of the Boston Police Department, Thomas F. Sullivan. “Colonel Tom” assured that the massive dragnet mounted the day before would continue but strongly hinted that the unknown perpetrators would have already been in custody if all of Boston’s bridges had been barricaded in the few minutes immediately following the heist. Barricading the bridges would have made Boston into a virtual island, thereby trapping the gunmen. “Not if they were heading due south,” Sandy told himself.
R
ichardson wasn’t much concerned that the heat was on. Heat of this specific nature had worked to the gang’s advantage several times before. They pulled Sturtevant within twenty-four hours of the American Sugar caper. And Tony took a near diabolical pleasure coming in on the tail of a Ben Tilly job, seemed to know every big score Ben had lined up and would often pull one of his own as soon after as he could. Sandy wasn’t much concerned with the newscast revelation that not only had Boston Garden—three short blocks from Brink’s—reached its 14,000-person capacity the previous evening for Billy Graham’s farewell revival meeting, but 5,000 additional believers had been turned away. He didn’t doubt that Hull Street and Prince Street and Endicott Street and Commercial Street were swamped with believers parking their cars or looking for spaces at about the same time the vault in Brink’s was being closed—the crew had never gone over to the joint on Mondays. They had tried every other night of the week so far, had tried Thursday twice as a matter of fact, but had never bothered on Monday—never would.
Something was concerning Sandy this morning, or at least making him uneasy, and he wasn’t sure what. By the time he outran the overhead high voltage wires a musical commercial was playing.
He kept his hand on the dial, skipped between two other newscasts. The Police Department was quoted as saying its men had done a beautiful job in the Statler heist and the bridges were barricaded and the two suspects were in custody and the getaway car was either a dark late-model Oldsmobile sedan or Chevrolet sedan and other police officials felt the robbery might have been an inside job and the mayor of Boston felt the gunmen might have come from out of town.
On the weather front—and Sandy turned up the volume—a violent storm had swept across middle America from Texas to the Great Lakes, paralyzing the northern plains states with devastating blizzards, ice storms and sub-zero temperatures. New England could expect a fair and cold day with temperatures remaining in the low thirties and occasional snow flurries—barring trouble from the Appalachians.
Sandy was concerned over the effect continued delays would have on the crew. Specs was bellyaching about Tony and McGinnis and Costa and Banfield’s getting a full share and not taking any risk—not physically going into the joint. McGinnis had started calling O’Keefe the Rope Man—a derogatory aspersion to the fact that Specky’s main contribution to the score, as far as Joe could see, was swiping some rope, helping cut it into strands and knotting the ends to ensure easier and better binding of holdup prisoners. Richardson had never been alarmed by the McGinnis/O’Keefe mutual complaint society, but now some of the others were griping. Gus had taken to blaming Tony for the delays. Even Jimma had been dropping remarks about either taking Brink’s or forgetting Brink’s. Then there was Tony himself. More and more Tony was suggesting they hold off on Prince Street so they could go hit a few more joints to which Brink’s delivered money—or, better yet, hit a company armored car. Tony was becoming obsessed by the Brink’s truck that parked on the main drag in Danvers.
No, as far as Sandy could see, they had to try tonight—weather permitting. And if it didn’t work tonight, they’d go back tomorrow night and the night after that. Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday or Friday and then the following Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. This was the plan Sandy himself and Mike Geagan had forced Pino to accept. Keep going over every night of the week except Monday until the lights in the windows were right. Sandy suspected, but would never admit, that the light in the fifth window might never be right.
He bypassed the road leading to South Boston and the waterfront.
Geagan paid the breakfast bill while Jimma picked up a morning paper that had been discarded. They walked out of the luncheonette and started down the street.
“Well, look at that,” Jimma announced once he had turned to the front page.
“Somebody got robbed?” Geagan suggested.
“Always. But look down here. Down here they talk about us.”
Geagan gazed over as they walked. “I don’t see anything about us.”
“It says right here that in the last nine months Boston has been plagued by eight major hijacking, safecracking and warehouse robberies. That’s two-thirds us.”
“Don’t exaggerate,” Geagan counseled, leading the way into a saloon. “We didn’t hit more than fifty percent of them.”
Phone calls were placed. Neither Tony nor Jimmy could be reached. Mike joined Jimma at the bar and ordered a whiskey.
“Not going to work today?” Faherty asked.
“No one will miss me.”
“What if they do?”
“What if your wife tells somebody you got up this early?”
“I snuck out of the house.”
“I’m always sneaking out of the house.”
It had been embarrassing. And when Crowley’s partner, Conaty, dropped by to see Tony, Tony let him know it had been embarrassing as hell. Hadn’t he, Tony Pino, always been friends and cooperative with the cops? Hadn’t he broken his back trying to figure out who was doing all the robbing in town and on those few occasions he did have a hunch, didn’t he let Conaty and Crowley know? What good was it being cooperative if a couple of cops he never saw SP’d him on the street like he was a common criminal? Why should he give his professional opinion on who pulled the Statler heist if he was going to be treated like that—taken down to headquarters and made to strip! That’s right, officer, made to strip down to the skivvies in front of strange people! Not even given the decent chance to go home and put on new skivvies. Made to strip down wearing old skivvies that had holes in them! No, no, don’t try apologizing. You get Crowley over here so I can tell him what I think about you and him! Oh, Crowley’s over seeing Joe McGinnis right now, is he?
“Not working today?” Henry said, leading Richardson to the rear of his vending machine storehouse.
“Mike’s signing me in.”
“Here it is,” Baker announced, rolling out a shopping cart.
“It’s too big for my car,” Sandy said.
“Just take the basket,” Baker suggested, removing the wire basket from the frame.
Sandy nodded and gazed around. “What are those?”
“Peach baskets.”
“For smash?”
Henry nodded. “Want a couple?”
Sandy nodded.
Henry selected four paper-lined bushel baskets and gave them to Richardson, asking, “When will we know it’s on?”
Sandy shrugged.
“If we go, don’t forget the pinch bar,” Henry reminded.
“I already told Tony.”
8:45 A.M.
“Terminal,” Costa said on picking up the office shack phone.
“Good weather?” Gusciora’s voice asked.
“Not so good,” Jimmy replied. “Maybe snow. Maybe worse.”
“I heard good weather.”
“Listen again. The Midwest is screwing up.”
“When will we know?”
“Call back in an hour.”
“Whatever you want.”
McGinnis joined. Pino in Tony’s living room, didn’t mention that Lieutenant Crowley had been by to see him concerning the Statler robbery, but did say not to worry, that he’d found out none of the crew had been picked up in the Statler Hotel dragnet. Tony didn’t mention that Crowley’s partner had been by to see him about the Statler job and had told him that Crowley was talking to McGinnis about the Statler job, but Pino did say to Joe that he already knew all but one of the fellows hadn’t been grabbed because they called in like they were supposed to. The problem as Pino saw it was strictly weather. The problem as McGinnis saw it was weather and why one crewman had not been heard from.
Jazz Maffie rolled back and forth on the bed. He finally opened his eyes.
“Oh, hi,” he said to his wife, who was rocking him by the arm.
“That man is calling,” she told him.
“What man?”
“The one who always keeps trying to change his voice.”
“Oh
, that man.”
Maffie flopped over on his stomach, brought a hand out from under the covers and picked up the receiver from the bedstand.
“Hello,” he said.
“Why haven’t I heard from you?” Pino asked confidently.
“Nobody hears from me when I’m sleeping.”
“Well, we might not be off,” Tony imparted.
“Oh. What does that mean?”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m never sure if off is on or on is off.”
“Off is the opposite of what it sounds like.”
“What’s on?”
“The opposite of that, goddammit.”
“Which are we?”
“I just mentioned.”
“You just mentioned both things—on and off.”
“We may not be off and running.”
“Then we’re on.”
“We ain’t anything until we know. We ain’t going to know for a while.”
“Then why the hell did you wake me up?”
Richardson parked near the corner of Wales and Harvard streets, Dorchester. Banfield drove up in a station wagon. The metal basket and peach bushel were transferred to Banfield’s vehicle. Sandy locked his Pontiac and got in beside Barney.
Joe McGinnis called the weather bureau from his package liquor store. Pino, Richardson and Banfield stood at the counter listening to the brief conversation. McGinnis hung up and told the trio two things could happen. Boston might be hit with 3 to 5 inches of snow or the temperature could rise, causing rain.
