by Behn, Noel;
“So I ask Barney, ‘What can you handle?’” Pino stated.
“‘An inch of snow’s okay,’ he told me. ‘Two or three inches of snow could be trouble going up and down them hills.’”
Jimmy Costa looked out the Harbor Motor Terminal office shack window and saw a snowflake. He grabbed up the phone and called McGinnis’ store.
“Gimme Tony,” he said when Banfield answered. Pino got on the line. “Hey, Tony, it’s snowing.”
“Whaddaya mean it’s snowing?”
“I’m telling you I’m looking out the window and I seen snow coming down. Coming down from dark clouds.”
“We got dark clouds over here, too. Only they’re drizzling on us.”
“Well, what the hell we supposed to do?”
After a pause, Pino reached a decision. “Keep watching the clouds till they make up their mind.”
11 A.M.
Jazz Maffie showered, ate, and walked out on his porch. A telephone call brought him back to the living room.
“We still ain’t sure,” Pino said.
“Oh, sure. Sure of what?”
“Whether we’re off or on.”
“Off and running?”
“Yeah, we ain’t sure.”
“Why not?”
“Because we don’t know if it’s gonna drizzle or snow.”
“Well, it ain’t gonna snow.”
“Sez who?”
“I said it’s not going to snow.”
“It’s doing both right now. And some places it ain’t doing either.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. It’s not going to keep on snowing.”
“How the hell do you know what the weather bureau don’t know?”
“Oh, somebody gave me a present.”
“What did you say? Did you say ‘present’?”
“Yeah, I got a present. For my birthday.”
“A birthday present?”
“Yeah, that’s when I got it.”
“What the goddamn hell has all that got to do with snowing, for Jesus goddamn Christ?”
“Well, this present is one of them barometers. And I just looked at it. And I just went out on the porch and looked at my thermometer, too. My thermometer says thirty-four degrees, and my barometer says it’s gonna stay pretty much like that. How the hell much snow you think you can get when it ain’t freezing out?”
Pino walked into the Harbor Motor Terminal office and found an unexpected visitor.
“Morning, Ben,” he told Tilly, “how’s the pick-pocketing coming?”
“About as good as your plans over in the North End, Tony.”
“Been over eating spaghetti in the North End, have you, Ben?”
“Yes, sir. And every time I do I keep bumping into that kid of yours.”
“Which kid is that, Ben?”
“Your fair-haired Polack one.”
“Oh, yeah, I know that kid. He loves good food, so I been recommending him restaurants.”
“If you want to do business with the Polack and the creep pal of his, go ahead. Only the next time you rat up to Crowley, don’t mention my name.”
“The next time you talk to Conaty, don’t mention mine!” Pino suggested.
Ben shook his head. “Those two bums of yours talk with their mouths full. Everyone in town knows you sent them over to the Statler.”
“If I did that, Ben, they sure hell beat me outta the receipts.”
“Tony, I had cops on my butt all night and all morning. I got the same thing after your work in Hyde Park, and I’m sick and tired of it. When I have something substantial going, I give you the courtesy of not being caught by surprise. I expect the same back.”
“You never gimme nothing. I always know what you’re gonna do before you do it and act accordingly. If it makes you feel better, I’ll give you a piece of advice. Keep on your toes for the next month. I feel my energy rising.”
“About when?”
“Starting from the minute you walk outta here and stop pestering me about nothing. See you, Ben.”
“See you around North End, Tony.”
Banfield and Richardson arrived at the Harbor Motor Terminal some fifteen minutes after Tilly departed, about 12:30 P.M. A long-standing debate regarding transportation was continued with Pino and Costa. Several innovations had been tried during their last five trips into Brink’s, and the four men in the terminal office were content with pickup locations for crewmen. But Barney hadn’t been happy with the return arrangements—particularly having to make a stop at South Station so soon after they left the joint. And what if they ran into trouble and had to shift their getaway route and bypass South Station altogether? What would that do to Geagan’s plans? Mike had to be out first and at South Station or his alibi wouldn’t work. Jimmy Costa had suggested that should they go into the joint, Mike ride back with him in the follow car. Tony had said if you could work out the costume change, that was fine with him. Costa and Mike had worked out how the shedding of the costume and change back into civilian clothes could be effected in the car, so that was set. Now, as the four conspirators talked in the terminal office, Faherty’s request also to leave in the follow car was examined. Barney was for it. The fewer stops he had to make, the better. Tony couldn’t see any benefit, but Costa could. Simply assigning Faherty to him—that would kill two birds with one stone. Faherty, whose postrobbery time was limited, could help Jimmy with his chores and then be dropped off by Jimmy when they were completed. That would get both Costa and Jimma out of there faster. The same logistics applied to Geagan could apply to Faherty in regard to costume change after the haul. Sandy thought it was a good idea. Tony agreed.
Starting time was a far more relevant problem. The crew had made a run at Brink’s once before on a Tuesday night, had reached the joint at approximately seven-ten—just as the light in the fifth window was going off. Should they go tonight, they not only had to allow for an earlier arrival, but had to make allowances for possible bad weather. Heavy rain or light snow could not only cut down their travel time, but also delay the normal rush traffic and lead to a jam-up or so. Tony suggested leaving at six and then adjusting forward wasn’t too bad an idea. Barney felt a six-fifteen jump-off would get them there in good time.
McGinnis called in at approximately twelve-forty with the latest from the weather bureau. Barometric conditions indicated the chance for snow was remote. The Boston area could, however, expect an afternoon and early evening of overcast, intermittent drizzle or rain, and possibly patches of fog. In short, perfect crooking weather.
Jimmy Costa got on the phone and began alerting crewmen that as of 6:10 P.M. Paul Revere would be off and running.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Tuesday, January 17, 1950
12:45 P.M.
Pino and Richardson drove away from the Harbor Motor Terminal not having been inside Brink’s for a full week, but aware that Tuesday was different from all other evenings in one major respect—the portable metal box containing the General Electric payroll was made up and waiting on the premises; perhaps the very same metal box Tony had seen back in 1944 and which was solely responsible for him and the regular crew making a near career out of robbing the armored car concern.
“The box had a metal swing top that was held down by a padlock,” Sandy relates. “We therefore assigned our best lockman to open it—Henry. Henry was also responsible for going in the joint first and opening the three doors. He was the man with the three keys, and if the keys didn’t work or the locks had been changed, he was the best we had for getting them open anyway.
“But on Tuesday night he had to carry the bar to open the box. Holding the bar under his jacket was trouble enough, so on Tuesday Specky was given the doors. He’d go in first with the keys and open up for the others.”
On the previous Tuesday’s run into Brink’s Henry had been provided with a pry bar. After the aborted attempt he strongly urged Pino that the lock be snipped off with a pinch bar rather than the lid forced up by a pry
, should they ever return on a Tuesday. Early this same day he reminded Richardson of this. Now, as Tony and Sandy went over the detailed check list driving across South Boston, a pinch bar was given high priority. No one, however, was assigned to obtaining one.
1 P.M.
William Paul Piveronas arrived at the Harbor Motor Terminal to begin his nine-and-a-half-hour shift as gas station attendant. Costa was free to leave, and he did.
1:20 P.M.
Barney entered the garage at Blue Hill Avenue, carrying two five-gallon cans of gasoline. The three-quarter ton canvas-backed green Ford pickup truck required only two and a half gallons before its tank was filled. Barney started the engine, opened the hood and was in the process of a tune-up when Tony and Sandy entered. The pair climbed into the back of the truck, took out the flashlights and beamed them down. Seven bulging white laundry bags stood aligned in the middle of the floor. Tony went to the first and, under Sandy’s beam, began examining the contents. The pea coat was on top as it was supposed to be, a .32 caliber revolver in the pocket. A rubber pull-down mask, a replica of Captain Marvel’s, was under the coat. Under the mask was the chauffeur’s cap. Under the cap was a pair of rubbers. Pino moved on to the next sack.
1:40 P.M.
Costa took the pry bar, canvas gun satchel and key ring out of the cabinet in the Savin Hill garage and loaded them in his own car.
2 P.M.
Jazz Maffie arrived at Jimmy O’Keefe’s restaurant near Massachusetts Avenue to begin his day of socializing and bet taking. Jimma Faherty was belting them down fifteen blocks away.
3:30 P.M.
The seven bulging white laundry bags were all checked out and aligned in the middle of the truck floor. The gun satchel was resting just behind the cab. Beside the satchel were extra large bags and the envelope-sized bags. The ten large sisal coffee sacks were double folded and lying in two stacks near the front right-hand corner of the truck. Also laid out on the floor were about forty strands of window sashing knotted at the ends and several rolls of adhesive tape. A utility box held several extra pairs of gloves should any of the robbers forget his own.
“Now the last thing I put on there was my Coca-Cola box,” said Pino. “The box I’m gonna sit on. And I put the pry bar right next to that. I sent Jimmy out for some towels, and when he gets back, I put them on, too. That’s for the fellas’ faces ’cause we got drizzle outside.
“Okay, now let me tell you about the rest of the plant. We got a plywood table set up over by the wall. And we got four or five folding chairs next to that. That’s where they’ll do the count. Over on the floor there, we put a General Electric radio Barney boosted. That’s so the fellas can have music while they count their millions.
“So now we got all that done, and we go over everything we gotta do after. Barney, Sandy, Costa and me is there. When they come back in here, Costa and Jimmy will strip off all the software. They take the bags and costumes. They take the gun satchel, too. Sandy and his fellas take off the four million. Now I wanna make sure Barney got it straight ’cause he’s been drinking pretty good all day. Barney ain’t to do nothing till the back of that truck is clean as a whistle. Then he takes off. Ditches her where he’s supposed to. The other fellas unload the money and take off, too. Only Sandy and Henry stay and fast count a couple of million. Barney comes back and takes the millions over to Joe. Jazz comes over, too. Now if he gets there before Barney does, Sandy and Henry’ll tell him how much they counted and get out and set their stories. Jazz is supposed to wait for Barney, and then he can go. Depending on the heat, I’ll figure out who stays there overnight.
“So all of this takes time, see. We’re probably over there two, three hours doing this. I don’t want all the fellas going outta there till it’s dark out.”
4:39 P.M.
The sun set just as the almanac and Boston Herald had predicted. As the weather bureau had predicted to Joe McGinnis, drizzle was coming down and patches of fog were drifting along the harbor shoreline.
4:50 P.M.
Jimmy Costa checked out the black ’49 Chevrolet in the Savin Hill garage, put two laundry bags under the front seat, drove home in his own car, bathed, put on dark trousers, a dark turtleneck sweater and went down to have dinner with his wife and children.
5 P.M.
Jazz Maffie called his wife from Jimmy O’Keefe’s, learned that her brother-in-law had arrived and suggested they both meet him here at the restaurant at 7 P.M. sharp. Sandy Richardson dropped Tony Pino off at Egleston Square and went to have a drink. Jimma Faherty, who had been seen drinking heavily all afternoon, had barhopped himself back to the Uphams Corner area where he lived. Barney Banfield was nipping away pretty good in the rear of Joe McGinnis’ package liquor store.
5:30 P.M.
Brink’s cashier, Joseph L. Heinmeyer, completed his day’s duties putting up payrolls in the money room cage and proceeded to make a premises’ inspection. Five men were busily working in the vault room. Nobody was in the payroll room. Heinmeyer turned off the payroll room lights. No one was working in the counting room. The counting room light went off.
Heinmeyer started from the back of the offices overlooking Prince Street. Lights were shut off in the girls’ locker room, girls’ washroom, sales office, supervisor’s office, manager’s office and general office. Lights went off in the front hall. Heinmeyer locked the metal door leading into the offices, descended the front steps and turned off the stairwell. He stepped outside into the street, locked the metal door bearing the Brink’s shield and numbered “165” and started for home.
5:30–5:40 P.M.
“Maybe in about an hour,” Jimmy Costa—wearing a dark leather jacket and seaman’s cap—said into the phone as a response to a call from Tony’s cousin and one of the four partners in the Harbor Motor Terminal about when he could be expected over at the office. “I gotta take care of a few things first,” Jimmy revealed and then left home. Sandy Richardson again found a parking spot near the corner of Wales and Harvard streets in Dorchester, locked his wristwatch, wallet and change into the glove compartment, got out, locked the Pontiac door, walked over to the plant, where Barney was already waiting with a fifth of rye. Sandy took a long, hard swig from the bottle. Tony finished dinner and, while Mary was still in the kitchen, moved the living-room clock back forty minutes, shouted he was going over to Joe’s for a few minutes, left the apartment building by the back door which brought him over to Imbescheid’s Package Liquor Store in less than a few minutes and agreed to call McGinnis as soon as he returned from the run.
5:45–5:50 P.M.
Costa parked his Buick on Rockmere Avenue, placed his wallet in the glove compartment, took out another wallet containing false identification and counterfeit driver’s license, walked two blocks to the Savin Hill garage, unlocked the door, went to the cabinets, took out two flashlights, checked to make sure the beams in both were strong, put them both in his pocket, took out the binoculars Pino had purchased at the Lloyd Company, got into the black 1949 Chevrolet, checked to make sure a .45 automatic was in the glove compartment, drove the car out, stopped, locked the garage and headed for Egleston Square. Jazz Maffie told the hatcheck girl at Jimmy O’Keefe’s to show his wife to the table he’d reserved when she showed up at 7 P.M. Then, as he’d been doing all afternoon, he slipped out of the restaurant without being noticed and without his overcoat and hat. Richardson let the trick brick wall fall back in place, hurried around and opened the garage door, waited for Barney to drive the humped-back Ford pickup truck through, locked the door, scrambled onto the canvas-rigged rear, moved forward and slapped the top of the cab. He held onto the overhead beams, anticipating Barney would start up too quickly—and Barney did—knelt down, found the first of the seven laundry bags and began changing into his robbery costume. Faherty staggered out of the barroom near Uphams Corner, immediately sobered up when he hit the street, strode down the block and got into the car Henry Baker was driving.
5:50–6:15 P.M.
Fir
er engines pulled out onto the street and stopped. Firemen piled off and raced for the curb. Costa reversed gears and tried to back out of the line of standing cars. A police cruiser pulled up beside him. The officer at the near window cocked a finger at Jimmy and shook his head. Pino stood in the darkness at the corner of Atherton and Amory streets, Dorchester, with the collar of his coat jacket turned up, wiping the drizzle from his face with a soaked-through handkerchief. By the time headlights were seen on Atherton he was sneezing. The truck pulled to a stop several yards beyond him. He made a run for the canvas door being pulled open in the back, jumped up, twisted around in midair, missed the floor edge and plopped splashingly onto the wet pavement. He bounded up again, and with Sandy’s help, scrambled under the canvas rigging. He simultaneously bitched about the truck being late and praised God for perfect crooking weather, then threw a minor fit when told Costa hadn’t yet appeared.
Jazz Maffie parked on Bickford Street, took out his gray suede work gloves from the glove compartment, put his wallet, money and change in and locked the compartment door. Instead of getting out on the street per instruction, he kept the motor idling, turned on the radio, lit a cigar and kept watching his rearview mirror.
Costa shot across Columbus Avenue, barely missing an oncoming car, skidded, accelerated and lurched into Atherton Street. He sped past the Arcadia and Copley streets intersection. He slowed as he neared Amory. The truck wasn’t there. He wheeled right onto Amory, raced along it for three short and one very long block, took a hard left across the viaduct and kept going until he turned right into Bickford. The truck was standing in the darkness and drizzle with its tail lights burning bright and somebody hoisting themself into the back.
6:15 and on
They had all gone through it before, five times before, worked it out to a point of perfection and, they hoped, monotony. But anticipation hadn’t allowed for much monotony in the past. This particular Tuesday night was colder and wetter and more uncomfortable in the truck than on any other evening, but that didn’t lessen the anticipation, merely made it colder and wetter and more uncomfortable.
