That Old Gang Of Mine

by Leslie Thomas

  'I think so too,' she said with elegant modesty. Then her voice changed. 'Even so, we're bound to get some bitchy remarks from some people, the Costellos for sure. Have you ever seen a woman take a bite out of anything - but anything - making the face she makes? You'd think the whole goddamn world was out to poison her. That look of suspicion.'

  'Maybe the world is,' he sniffed. He looked around thoughtfully. 'Baby,' he said, 'these old folks we've invited. They're going to be okay are they? I mean ... okay?'

  'Sure, sure,' she said, understanding at once what he meant. 'I told the welfare authorities that we wanted them clean and civilized - and quiet. We don't want them making a fuss or drinking too much. But at the same time it's no good having them too well turned out. They've got to have just a suspicion of poverty, darling, otherwise, you know what people are, they'll just wonder why they're giving money to people who are okay anyway.'

  'And that's no way to get the biggest subscription for any charity in Palm Beach,' he smiled fondly. 'No way at all.'

  'It's fixed,' she said confidentially. 'I told them to send half a dozen senior citizens who look a bit sad and just a little threadbare. They know what I mean.'

  'Right,' he nodded. 'It's no good having the merchandise looking better than the people who are paying for it.'

  They did not consider there was any lack of charity in their observations. To them they were practical, basic economics, the sort of considered thinking that had made both families rich and powerful and the givers of the best benefits in South Florida. Charity was proverbially cold. It was no good being sentimental about it.

  When the tame old folks arrived an hour later Teresa Van der

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  Vatt had planned it so that there would be a sufficient number of guests present to give them heartfelt applause as they trooped through the house and on to the lawns, but not so many that the demonstration would put a brake on the more pleasurable events of the evening.

  The six dowdy old people had been carefully selected by the welfare office, who were particularly pleased with the pair who had come forward (not many old folks wanted to volunteer) and who seemed to have all the steadfast humility that was required by the occasion. This pair had also been recommended by that nice young lady from St Petersburg who spent so much time helping the elderly of South Miami Beach pass the time of day.

  Ari the Greek and K-K-K-Katy were almost bursting with the excitement of their mission. As they walked with the other selected tame old people, two men and two modest women, through the ranks of the guests at Casa Velentia, Katy performed a short stagey shuffle, which brought a patronizing burst of extra applause from the watchers.

  'Now wasn't that just cute, Wilbur? Did you see? She did a dear little dance.'

  Ari, not to be left out, suddenly broke into his running-and-sparring routine which delighted the audience further. 'Wow, that old guy's fitter than me, Audrey. Just look how he moves. What a mover. Real great!'

  A group of the guests waylaid Katy and asked her name, squeals of delight coming from them as she told them what it was with an embroidered version of her celebrated stutter. "They d-d-didn't call me after the song,' she added to their enchantment. 'They c-c-c-called the song K-K-K-Katy after me. I'm that a-a-ancient!'

  Just then Ari caught the eye of Loose Bruce the bogus waiter, balancing a difficult tray and trying to send out warning signals about becoming too conspicuous by their antics. Ari got the message and moved closer to Katy. 'Cool it Katy,' he whispered. 'We don't want to get too much attention. We don't want them to remember us after tonight. Not to remember us too well.'

  Katy simmered down and walked more sedately. Ari was about to begin shadow boxing again, something he did without thinking, when Bruce's gaze found him once more across the

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  heads of the guests and he dropped his fists and slowed his feet.

  A worrying photographer and a bleak lady journalist materialized through the crowd, and the tame old people were halted while photographs were taken of Mr and Mrs Van der Vatt posing smiling with their guests and then with the old people themselves. The columnist agitated her pencil, whirling it around like an epee, jabbing at each of the elderly folk in turn to demand their names.

  Then the short procession corralled into the house for photographs with the giant iced cake surmounted by the two miniature figures. There was no doubt about it that this was the centrepiece of Mrs Van der Vatt's dreams of making her evening as spectacular as possible. It was a cake like a castle, four tiers, carved, embossed, finished with great art. It was so tall that its summit was only two feet below the centre crystal of the fine and famous chandelier.

  The musicians in their pen began playing their spidery waltz and down by the shore the Cuban guitarist sang calypsos from the West Indies, where he had never been. The lights eased through the flowers and trees, the palms slyly nudged each other: the sound of conversation, polite laughter, touching greetings and touching glasses mingled with the insinuating music. The night was airy and warm. There was a strong possibility of a moon.

  Loose Bruce looked at his watch as he attempted to serve drinks without drenching everyone. The movement of turning his wrist emptied a glass of champagne wastefully on to the ground and he grinned with wry embarrassment at the astonished lady who was holding out her hand in readiness to receive it.

  Ari and Katy were holding court by the swimming pool. Ari, who told a good tale when given the opportunity, had the men grave faced and the women reaching for their handkerchiefs as he related some touching but completely fictitious episode of his younger life. Katy, her face suitably subdued, listened too and realistically reached out and held his gnarled hand. The society ladies blinked, the men swallowed visibly.

  Three hundred yards away, in a concealed grove, the other members of the Ocean Drive Delinquent Society quietly left

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  two cars. Everyone knew where to go and what to do when they got there. Ossie, Lou the Barbender and Sidewalk wore tuxedos and smiles. Gabby was in a long and rippling evening dress below which she wore a set of overalls. Molly appeared modest and becoming in her gown. Her hood was in her handbag.

  Molly, with Sidewalk as her escort, went first, strolling surely through the front gates of Casa Velentia, producing stolen tickets for the perusal of the security guard. 'Gee, honey,' Molly said loudly, unable to resist embroidering the occasion, 'I feel like tonight we're doing something in a real good cause.'

  'For folks not as fortunate as ourselves,' echoed Sidewalk. It was a far cry from the old New York hoodlum days.

  Gabby, on Ossie's arm, followed two minutes later. Lou strolled alongside them like a large keeper. They produced the tickets and Gabby smiled brilliantly at the gateman. He blushed under his lamps and smiled back. 'It looks like Mrs Van der Vatt's done it again,' mentioned Gabby to Ossie, squeezing his arm.

  'There's nobody throws a benefit like the Van der Vatts,' agreed Ossie.

  Gabby turned to Lou. 'Come on Daddy, we're going to miss all the fun.'

  Lou's face became crammed with surprise because he was not the most facile of men. Then he grinned and said: 'Okay, daughter, I don't want to miss it neither.' The gateman's pleased smile took in all of them and he waved them on.

  Loose Bruce saw them right away. He turned his face to where Ari and Katy were holding court and latched on to Ari's eye. They both nodded.

  Gabby eased herself through the crowd. Inside the house there were people sitting on the fine staircase and others moving up and down between them. Gabby saw the grand iced cake with its symbolic figures and winced. Ossie took a glass from the tray offered by Bruce. He handed it to Gabby who looked coolly around before sipping it. 'The rooms upstairs are all open,' said Bruce quietly. 'Room "A" as we had it on the plan is the place to change. It has a door directly into room "B" and the door is unlocked, but I still don't know where the safe is.'

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  'It's in room "B". We'll have to find it,' said Ossie quietly
over the rim of his champagne. His voice made furrows on the surface.

  'Okay Gabby, let's move.'

  Lou took a glass from Bruce's tray and emptied it quickly. He caught the younger man's warning look, took another and lifted it more sedately to his large lips. 'Room "A",' muttered Bruce. 'Pass it on to Sidewalk.'

  'I got it,' said Lou with more confidence than either he or Bruce felt. 'Everything's going to be fine.' He moved away, to where Sidewalk, his back to the room, was admiring an obtuse drawing. 'Room "A",' he said from the corner of his mouth, standing behind the old New Yorker and looking in the other direction. 'The door's open. In one minute.'

  'Okay pal,' said Sidewalk. He was apparently absorbed in the picture. Within himself he felt the warmth of danger, the twist of excitement in his gut that he had been missing all these years. This was true therapy; better than poker any day.

  At the side of the grounds Molly stationed herself among the guests, patrolling a path that gave her a view both of the front and rear entrance of Casa Velentia.

  She was observing the gate near the beach, ostensibly standing and admiring the profile of the Cuban guitarist against the creamy sky. His proverbial song floated through the trees. She smiled, suddenly pleased to realize the words.

  Some folks buy and some folks pay. Some folks come and steal it away. Whatever you got, you won't have long. This is the story of this song.

  She put her hand in her handbag and felt the hood and the shape of the pistol.

  It was ten o'clock. The Van der Vatts' exquisite Boule wall clock chimed its exquisite chimes, attracting as many glances as if it had produced a cuckoo. For the members of the Ocean Drive Delinquent Society it was Zero Hour.

  Gabby slipped into the small ante-chamber they had designated room 'A' in their plans. There was a cool excitement about her,

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  a sensation trapped burning in her stomach and showing nowhere in her outward calm. At least she too was doing something. The room was furnished as a dressing room with two subdued lights and an illuminated mirror. She undid her long dress, forcing herself not to hurry, and folded it carefully before putting it into a plastic bag. She was not going to leave that behind. Now she was wearing the dark overalls that her clever grandmother had made. She turned to the mirror, approved of the fit around her bottom and tidied her hair. The door opened carefully behind her and Ossie came in. He grinned when he saw her at the mirror. Lou and Sidewalk Joe were just behind him. Sidewalk locked the door.

  'Nice party,' said Ossie finishing a glass of champagne. He put it unhurriedly on the dressing table. There was no need of conversation. Each took out his hood and put it on. Lou found himself sweating and made two attempts before he could locate his head. Sidewalk took a piece of gum from his mouth and casually parked it on the side of the dressing table before easing on his hood. It is difficult to chew gum under a hood.

  Each had a gun. Gabby had the one with the bullet. She had insisted on that and they had not argued. The girl glanced around her through the eye-holes of her hood. Her large eyes filled the spaces. She nodded at Ossie. He had a strange feeling that she had taken command.

  Bruce had said the communicating door was open. Now, the others watching, Ossie turned the handle anxiously. It opened soundlessly and they crept like thieves into the gloom of a generous library. Sidewalk and Ossie had the torches. Lou checked the window. Below in the shrubbery he could see the upturned face of Molly. He waved without hurry as though he were on the street. Molly acknowledged the signal then swung the lightly weighted rope and threw it like a sailor. Lou grabbed for it wildly. He was a strong man but with no finesse. He caught it awkwardly and pulled it in, hand over hand. The other end was attached to a nylon handle. Lou secured it clumsily but safely to the pipe of an air conditioning duct. He waved confirmation to Molly who sank into the shrubbery like a lady sinking into a lake. Then Lou turned into the room. They were searching for the safe. Gabby looked towards him and he patted

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  the knot that held the ladder. She lifted her hand in acknowledgement and waved him to help find the safe. It was Lou who saw the bump in the floor below the table.

  'I got it I think,' he said close to Ossie's ear. He pointed. Below the table there was a smooth, regular bump under the carpet.

  Ossie crouched and went below the table. Sidewalk dropped down too. He ran his hand over the carpet like a man stroking a cat. 'Could be,' he nodded at Ossie.

  Lou lifted the heavy table by himself and placed it gently aside. Ossie knelt close to the carpet and felt the swelling again. He glanced sideways and Sidewalk wordlessly handed him a knife. He pushed it into the carpet and made a slit. The gleam of brass came through as he eased the carpet aside. 'Looks like it is,' he whispered tensely, running the knife crossways. He pulled the segmented carpet clear. Beneath it, now revealed, was a round brass plate like a small hill. He glanced up at Lou. The strong man bent and felt the plate. He nodded. Ossie looked towards Sidewalk. He nodded too.

  The mound was about the size of a large dinner plate but Lou's outsized hands spanned it without difficulty. He placed his powerful fingers against the metal and pressed before turning the pressure to the right. Nothing happened. He turned the force left and then right again. The plate moved.

  The others eased back to give him room. Beneath the hoods they were all set-faced and sweating. Gabby glanced towards the door. The sounds of the party drifted through to them. She looked back at Lou.

  The Jewish Barbender was carefully turning the plate and it was obediently rising from its setting. 'It's just the cover,' muttered Sidewalk. 'The safe's underneath. Watch it ain't wired, buddy.'

  Lou nodded. He reached up and took Gabby's slim hand. She knelt beside him. He took her fingers and guided them towards the edge of the plate, now raised a quarter of an inch from its fitting. Gabby glanced at him. 'Wires,' he whispered. 'Feel for wires.'

  She fingered carefully around the edge of the brass and

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  eventually had made the full circle. 'Nothing,' she said. 'Can't feel any wires.'

  Lou nodded and went back to his task. Then someone tried the door and they stiffened as the handle turned and turned again. Gabby unhurriedly drew her gun. The others saw her and stared through the eye-holes of their hoods. Ossie's eyes met hers. She lowered the weapon. Someone laughed outside the door and then went away.

  They breathed and crouched again. It was very tight and hot under the hoods. Lou lifted his off his face. He was layered with sweat. His big hands went back to the plate. He turned again. Easier now. He turned it twice and felt it disengage from its thread. With extreme caution, like a man de-fusing a mine, he laid the brass disc aside. Beneath it was another brass plate, concave with a large nut of the same metal hugging a bolt. Lou looked quizzically at Sidewalk. Sidewalk scratched his chin through his hood. 'It's another goddamn cover,' he said quietly. 'Try it.'

  Lou began turning the nut, about the size of a coffee cup. The brass slid beautifully around on its thread. Gabby had a passing thought that it was an elegant safe, if inconvenient. The nut came away easily. Lou had it in his hand.

  At that instant they knew they had done something wrong. There was an eerie creaking below them and the floor trembled as if in an earthquake. Alarm jumped to the faces below the masks.

  Then, suddenly, convulsively, the projecting bolt from which the nut had been taken shuddered and disappeared before their eyes. There was a terrible crash below and many cries.

  In the room beneath them, the great chandelier, made specially by Claudio Picci in Florence, descended from the ceiling and crashed through the giant ice cake with the little elderly figures on its summit. The miniature candy man shot from the top like a high diver. The thousand crystals and their curved ironwork decimated the cake and thundered into a cascade across the table, scattering delicacies and drinks over every edge.

  The people all around reeled back in horror, the men shout-

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  in
g and cursing, the women howling hysterically. Peter Van der Vatt and his wife stood immobilized. K-K-K-Katy, remembering her instruction to have a heart attack at the first sign of any emergency, threw herself backwards with an awe-inspiring cry. Ari caught her and shouted for assistance. Nobody answered.

  "That ceiling's coming down next!' shouted the society columnist, filling her pad gleefully. 'Everybody scram!'

  There followed a disgracefully mad scramble towards the safety of the open air. Several heavy men actually stood on poor prostrate Katy, pushing Ari aside in his efforts to protect her.

  Ari got her to her feet. 'B-B-Bastards!' she cried. 'Kick an old lady when she's down!'

  T don't think the heart attack routine is going to work,' suggested Ari in a whisper. 'They've screwed it. We'd better get going.'

  Above them the would-be robbers looked down through the massive hole in the floor like people peering down a well. 'Jesus,' breathed Ossie. 'We've fucked it up. Let's blow.' They blew.

  At both gates there was a rush of people to get away from Casa Velentia. Many believed the whole house would explode any second. Others in disorder cried: 'Terrorists! Cuban terrorists !'

  At her watching post Molly Mandy witnessed the panic. She knew what had happened. 'They blew it,' muttered Molly to herself. She joined the running crowd.

  In five minutes the house and grounds were almost deserted. The police and fire brigade arrived to find Mr and Mrs Van der Vatt standing amid the wreckage of their extravagant cake and their expensive chandelier. Down by the ocean the Cuban calypso singer, who had witnessed much in his life and remained unimpressed, and anyway was paid by the hour, leaned back against an equally imperturbable palm tree and sang: People they come, and people they pay. There come a big bang - people go away.

  It seemed to Detective Salvatore that the chief looked like God in a bad mood. Hubert Morriston sat, heavy and hunched, behind the extensive desk at Miami Police Headquarters, his eye-

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  brows brooding, his mouth a tight line, his chin a deep police blue. From hand to knuckled hand he tossed a viciously honed dagger which had once been an exhibit in one of Florida's most carnal crimes and which he now used as a paper knife.