by Paddy Kelly
The corner pay phone finally rang and before he had the receiver to his ear the senior agent heard his partner yelling, “There they are! The bastards are back!”
Pointing at them, he threw the remainder of his lunch into the street and drew his service revolver. His partner yelled into the phone. “We got them! East on Central Park South! We’re rolling!”
Slamming the phone down, he ran to the car as his partner fired three rounds at the passing truck. The first two shots buried themselves in the wooden bed of the vehicle, but the third shattered the small rear windshield, spraying glass all over Lanza and Frankie. Lanza went straight to boiling.
“Dem crazy bastards! Shootin’wild in the streets like that! Did you see that shit?” Without waiting for an answer, he put the bag on the floor and reached into his shoulder holster. Frankie gradually accelerated after turning south onto Fifth Avenue and slowly smiled as he watched Socks do a quick functions check on the .45 Colt.
He gradually reduced his speed to allow the FBI agents to close the gap between vehicles.
“Hold her steady, kid. Don’t make no sudden moves.” Breaking out some residual glass in the rear window and bracing himself against the frame, Lanza fired two rounds into the grill of the sedan, which by now was only two car lengths behind, and one into the windshield between the two agents.
Radiator fluid gushed from the grill and the fan could be heard whacking the engine.
As steam hissed out of the grill through the bullet holes, the two agents, panicked by the shots, lost control of the car, which snaked back and forth across first three, then all six lanes of Fifth Avenue traffic. A Canadian tour bus swerved to miss the sedan and climbed halfway up a Sunshine taxi parked on the north bound side, before coming to a halt.
The agent driving the sedan struggled against the uncontrollable momentum of the huge vehicle, but managed to regain steering long enough to avoid hitting the parked cars on his right. However, the serpentine pattern continued and they quickly ran out of road. Only a few seconds later, they slammed through the wrought-iron fence surrounding the public library at 42nd Street.
Pedestrians, as well as visitors walking to and from the busy building, were thrown into pandemonium as the momentum of the large vehicle sent it careening up the granite stairs and crashing violently into one of the Corinthian columns adorning the entrance.
Socks turned back around in his seat and replaced his weapon as they continued down the avenue.
“Dopy bastards!” He turned back and yelled out the window. “This ain’t Chicago, ya know!!”
“Where to, Socks?”
“What time is it?”
“Twelve-twenty”
“Go to Tompkins.”
Tompkins Square Park was a small park which occupied about three square blocks. The centre of the park was dominated by a large grassy field surrounded by a paved walk and benches spread out around the footpath and other areas. Tompkins provided visitors with a refuge from the urban landscape by virtue of the tall trees and assorted foliage dominating the entire perimeter. Due to its small size, only four gates were available to enter or leave the park, one at each corner.
Socks had Frankie drop him off at East Houston and Essex and told him to wait at the Tenth Street entrance. He then began to stroll slowly north on Avenue A with the bag tucked under his arm. Within one block of the park, he noticed a man following him.
At exactly twelve-thirty the party started.
Socks appeared and made his way across the brown grass towards the north west corner of the park, waving in an exaggerated manner to an old man sitting on a bench, feeding the pigeons. Lanza sat down next to him and slipped him a small container which he removed from the brown bag.
Three of Hoover’s men, inconspicuous in their gray suits, and black shiny shoes, worked their way past the crippled beggar in the grass, the old lady on the bench and four old men sitting at a table playing chess
The three agents had slipped around behind Lanza and the man, and remained out of sight in their imaginary stealth. Fedoras cocked at just the right angle, arms outstretched with snub-nosed .38’s pointed at the ready, they sprang forth precisely as Lanza was helping the old man loosen the lid on the jar of heart medicine he had removed from the brown paper bag.
“Get your hands up and drop your weapons!” The crippled beggar stood behind one of the agents and held a pistol to the nape of his neck as he spoke. Turning slowly towards the right to look at his assailant, the agent saw the four chess players now had their military issue .45’s aimed straight at his two partners.
“I suggest you comply, gentlemen.” It was the old man sitting on the bench, who had a remarkably young voice. As the revolvers were being collected, Lanza saw his cue and immediately stood and walked towards the exit in the north east corner of the park.
Two unmarked sedans pulled up to the gate, to a position just behind the assorted collection of Government agents and, as the last of the FBI agents was handcuffed and escorted into the back of the first car, they were driven away by the old woman. The Naval Intelligence Operatives piled into the second car and both vehicles U-turned and drove away from the park.
“Excuse me. I have a delivery for a Mr. D. A. Hogan.” The young Parcel Post driver consulted his clipboard as he spoke to the fat, red faced guard at the city court house behind the window.
“That’s DA Hogan, numbskull! You know, as in District Attorney of New York City DA!” the obese guard corrected.
“I’m impressed. You can spell.” The driver leaned forward and eyed the rotund stomach of the guard. “Guess I don’t have to ask why you’re not on active duty. Meanwhile, I still have a package for this guy Hogan. Where is he?”
“Some place you ain’t goin’. It’s restricted.” The guard smiled at being able to exercise what little power he didn’t have.
“Fine by me, lumpy. I get paid either way,” the driver said as he turned to walk away. “Tell him it’s a priority shipment from the Department of Naval Intelligence, and it’s marked Classified Delivery.” He was nearly out of the door. “He can pick it up between nine and five at the uptown… er… the North Bronx station.”
The guard had a noticeable change in attitude when he heard the classified part, and forcing himself out of the booth, which he normally did only twice a day, he waddled out to the street to the driver, who was already in his truck.
“You said there was a classified ticket on that package?” Trying to be humble while attempting to project authority was difficult.
“Yep.”
“Maybe you better get that upstairs. Ta the fourth floor.”
By now it was nearly three o’clock and after the DA’s secretary had signed for the package and the DA got around to opening it, it was four-fifteen. The three FBI agents had been in their cell at the Federal Holding Facility on Governor’s Island for nearly four hours.
The DA stood alone in his office behind his desk, hands on hips, staring down at the three badges, empty service revolvers and ID cards which lay in a neat stack on his desk, and his secretary was attempting to contact the New York office of the FBI.
Hogan knew the taps were now essentially useless, but could not bring himself to give the order to disconnect them. When a judge grants special permission to install a wire tap, he is very unhappy when he finds out it has been in place for several months, and nothing came of it. Most judges believe it reflects on the competency of the police work. Hogan had asked for two bugs, one for each of Lanza’s phones. The judges were justified in their beliefs.
“Which one’s Moe? Huh? Just tell me that. I want to know which one’s Moe?” It was now seven-thirty, and although it had only been an hour and a half since their release, the three FBI agents already missed the serenity of their cell, on Governor’s Island.
“Somebody’s got to be Moe because I know I’M LOOKING AT THE THREE FUCKING STOOGES!”
The three agents stood motionless in front of the desk. Hoover’s New York office at 6
9th Street and Third Avenue was only used by him on rare occasions. It was situated in a good part of town only three blocks off the FDR Drive and not far from Roosevelt Island. He hated New York. Mabel, the middle-aged secretary, could hear him through the sound-proofed door and decided it was a good time to call it a night. She quickly gathered her things and left.
“How in God’s name did you three ever get selected for New York branch? Did you know somebody? Did you have connections? Better yet, how the HELL DID YOU EVEN GET SELECTED FOR AGENT TRAINING?” Hoover paced behind the big desk while the New York Bureau chief sat quietly in the corner, hands folded in front of his face. He didn’t respond when Hoover addressed him.
“I hope ta hell this isn’t the best you’ve got up here!” He finally took his seat. The oversized desk made his small stature look clownish as he spoke again.
“Okay, ladies. Here’s what we’re gonna do. Have the secretary… what’s her name?”
“Mabel, sir. Her name is Mabel” the agent, answered quickly and mechanically.
“Have Mabel contact the DA’s office in the morning and your three… agents, will go over there and collect their government issue service revolvers. You know. The ones you swore an oath NEVER TO RELINQUISH! And then you will camp out on top of Socks Lanza. Not in the same neighborhood, not in the vicinity, ON TOP! He stops short, I want you up his ass! Somethin’ is goin’ on down on the waterfront and I intend to get to the bottom of it! Are we clear?”
No one was in a hurry to speak. Finally, the tallest of the three agents mustered the courage.
“Ahh, Director, we can’t go over in the morning.”
“And why the hell not, Moe?”
“Sir, the city offices are closed on Saturday.”
Hoover was heating up again. He yelled through the soundproofed door for the secretary.
“Mabel! MABEL! Find out how to get a hold of the DA on a Saturday morning and book me a flight to Washington, for first thing Monday!”
Mabel didn’t answer.
Chapter Twelve
Doc was different from the average working class individual. Other than being willing to take a risk, a contributing factor to the financial mess in which he now found himself, he liked Monday mornings. It’s not that it was any easier for him to get out of bed at the irritating sound of the alarm clock, but he always looked on Mondays as a time to start over. Another opportunity to keep that promise to himself he’d been breaking since New Year’s Day. Or to do some little thing he put off all last week.
Louie, on the other hand, had a much more practical view towards these things. Every year Louie made the same New Year’s resolution, which was not to make a New Year’s resolution. And he never broke his resolution. Not once. This way, he significantly reduced the amount of personal anguish he would put himself through in the following 364 days.
Now, with the new glass panel on the front door, the office cleaned up, and a new table in the right hand corner of the room for Louie to work at, Doc felt a sense of renewal as he entered the office on this peaceful Monday morning. Adding to his sense of satisfaction was another case closed. Better than that, a potentially ugly divorce case with a happy ending. Very rare. Doc felt good about it, he liked the Birnbaums.
It was nine thirty-five and Louie was late. He was always late on Monday mornings, but there wasn’t that much to do. Doc played a game of mental darts with Louie’s good excuse calendar. The subway was late, the alarm didn’t go off, or Doris was sick and he had to drop the kids off at school.
Doc sat down at his desk after setting the coffee pot on the hot plate, and opened the folder someone had placed squarely in the middle of the blotter so he wouldn’t miss it. He opened it and saw it was the client report on the Birnbaum job. Louie must have done it to impress, and maybe to make up for losing track of Birnbaum last week. Just as he began to read it, the door opened and Louie came in.
“Hey, Doc! Got the new window in, huh? When are we gonna get it lettered?” Louie sounded extra chipper. He offered no excuse. Zero points on the dart board.
“I got Redbone working on it. Hey, Louie?”
“Yeah, Doc?” Louie hung his coat up and was making his way over to his table when Doc held up the report with two fingers like a used handkerchief.
“What’s this?”
“Pretty good, huh? That’s the Birnbaum case. Makes ya proud, don’t it?”
“Louie, that’s not a report. I’ve seen reports, they don’t look like this.”
Louie was impervious to insults. He took a magazine out of his back pocket, sat at his table, put his feet up and began to read.
“Come on, Doc. That’s a completely usable report.”
“Yeah. For the bottom of a bird cage.”
“Tell me one thing that’s wrong with it?”
“‘Followed subject as he disembowelled himself from the station’.”
“That’s right! Disembowelled! It means to remove. I looked it up! Hey, Doc, look at this! Five acres of land for only 500 bucks! What a deal!”
“Yeah? Where? Siberia?” Doc crumpled the report and threw it in the trash.
“No, better, Southern Florida,” Louie related. “Some place called Coconut Grove.” He circled the article with his pencil.
“You ever been to Southern Florida, Louie?”
“No. But you have. Just recently, too, haven’t ya?” Louie laughed. Doc didn’t.
“You better get on the ball, Bonehead. If I’m not mistaken, you got about three weeks to your State Board exam. You screw it up because you’re trying to describe the ‘ambulance of a room’ on your final test report, and you’re gonna be back haulin’ garbage with ya cousin Guido!”
“Come on, Doc! Don’t I always pull through?” Louie opened the manual and started to idly flip through the pages. “Hey! Speakin’ of screwin’ up, you called that broad down on Church Street yet?”
“She’s not a broad, Louie. She’s a good kid that’s had a tough break.” Doc removed a blank Client Report form from the files and began to fill out a new Birnbaum report.
“Sorry, Doc. You called that nice broad that’s had a tough break down on Church Street yet?” Louie lowered his magazine. “How the hell you know she’s had a tough break? She spill her guts to you already?”
“Louie, what do private detectives do?”
“Well, in this town one of two things. They pay the cops or the judges to get work or… they starve. Which is probably why that prick Sammon is doin’ so good uptown.”
“They detect. That’s what they do. Now get your head outta yer ass, Louie, ’cause you’re PISSIN’ME OFF!”
Louie never saw it coming. Doc blindsided him by flinging a copy of the New York State Private Investigators’ Regulations at him and nearly knocked him off his chair.
“Jesus, Doc! What the hell was that for?” He sat up straight and started to pay attention. Exactly the intended effect.
“Louie, you got a lotta potential. But you piss me off with your nonchalant attitude. You better start payin’ attention! Because someday, when your ass is draggin’ in the dirt and you least expect it, some asshole cop, some irate husband, or just some punk off the street is gonna put one in your back! Doris and the kids ain’t gonna make it on what their handin’ out downtown, god-damn it!” The part about Louie’s family was unexpected, by Doc as well as Louie. Doc realised he had recently developed an uncontrollable gut reaction to images of kids and family.
Louie looked down at the manual. It was impossible to find
the right words. “Jesus, Doc, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you cared. I’ll…”
“Don’t say it! Just do it! Be a detective, god-damn it!”
“Christ Doc! Don’t you think I wanna be? I try my ass off to figure stuff out. Get clues, find traces. Nuthin’! And then there’s you! You look at a god-damned piece of dust and give me the history of the room! I can’t do that. Honest ta Christ, Doc, I don’t know how you’re not rich! You should’a stayed on the force. Yo
u’d’a made Chief by now.”
Louie’s retort was disarming, but Doc wouldn‘t be thrown off the track of trying to focus his best friend.
“I couldn’t stay on the force because most of those guys are in it for the steady pay check and the pension. Half the shit they solve gets solved because some guy rolled over for them, the other half gets solved because the crook screws up. Look, Louie, you gotta feel it. Here, in your gut. You gotta eat it, sleep it, breathe it and shit it. You gotta want it! It’s not about the money. It’s about doin’ somethin’ you love. Somethin’ you’re good at. Somethin’ you’re passionate about!”
“Yeah, but Doc. I ain’t no good at nuthin’! Hell, I nearly lost that old Birnbaum guy last week and he’s older then Methuselah!” Louie looked down at the desk. Doc guessed what was coming. “And there’s something I gotta tell ya. I broke a rule. A rule of tailing.”
“Yeah, I know. He saw you.” Louie’s head snapped to the upright position, and he looked at Doc like a dog seeing its own image in a mirror for the first time.
“Now see, damn it! How the hell did you know that?”
“I pay attention.” Louie continued to stare. Doc felt compelled to explain. “You told me you and Birnbaum came downtown on the same train, that means you got off the train at the same time, at Wall Street. I saw you were in the phone booth before Birnbaum was through the door. And, since the phone is further up the street than the door, that means at some point you had to cross in front of or by him. So I had to assume that you were made.” Louie was relieved Doc hadn’t deduced the screw-up on the platform.
“The important thing is, that he didn’t see you in two separate locations during the tail. That’s a dead giveaway.” Louie was exasperated. He threw the book on the desk and himself back in his chair, looked up at the ceiling and closed his eyes.
“Look, I’ll help you. Teach you everything I can. But you gotta work with me here, Louie. Louie!” He looked back at Doc. “Focus, will ya?”
