The Heist

by Michael A. Black

  “Hey, baby, wanna play?” he said.

  She smiled and told him that she had to finish putting her makeup on.

  “I don’t have a lot of time before I have to get to the train,” she said, brushing away his playful fingers.

  “You look great to me, Miss Cassidy,” he answered, going to the phone. He picked up the receiver and punched in a number. After four rings there was a weak hello.

  “Rick? It’s Linc, man. How you feeling?”

  “All right, brother,” Rick said, but his voice sounded otherwise. “Where you at?”

  “I spent the night at Diane’s.”

  “You still coming by as planned?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be on my way soon,” Linc said. He hung up and went into the bedroom where Diane was now pulling on a white silk blouse.

  “I love the way silk feels against my skin,” she said. He reached under the front of it and cupped her breasts.

  “How’s this feel?” Linc asked, easing his fingers under her bra.

  “Will you stop,” she chided. “I have to get to work.”

  “We got time, baby.”

  “You gonna explain to my boss why I’m late?” she said, pushing his hands away and tucking the blouse into the top of her pantyhose. She went to the bed and grabbed her navy blue skirt. Linc leaned against the wall and watched as she slipped it over her well-developed ass.

  “You going to take Rick up to Hines?” she asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Good, then drop me at the Metro station on the way.” She reached out and placed her right hand on Linc’s shoulder for balance as she pulled on cotton socks and stepped into her shoes. They were white Nikes with the laces tucked in by the tongue. She stooped to pick up her heels, which were in a plastic tote bag by her purse, went through a final check to make sure she had everything, then turned and smiled at Linc. He gazed back at her dark face.

  “You sure do look great this morning,” he said.

  “Meaning what? That I don’t look great every morning?” He was almost taken aback, until she leaned forward and kissed him. She just used her tongue, he noticed, so she wouldn’t mess her lipstick.

  “You coming by the bank later, right?” she asked.

  “Yeah, after Rick picks up his medicine,” Linc said hesitantly.

  “I told you that he came yesterday, didn’t I?” she said. “Brought some fancy-looking lawyer with him. Put him on the box list, too.”

  “Un-huh.”

  “So, you guys are gonna check it out, like we planned, aren’t you?”

  “Just like we planned, baby,” Linc said, grabbing her and pulling her to him. He crushed his lips against her mouth, kissing her long and hard. At first her hands went to his shoulders to push him off, but stopped a millisecond later and just lightly rested on his muscular arms.

  It was close to eight as Tony pulled down the driveway to the underground parking at the Dirksen Federal Building. One of the security guards walked over toward him, waving his arms.

  “Building’s closed,” the guard said, his breath coming out in a frosty cloud.

  “I work in there.” Tony flashed his badge.

  The guard glanced at the Chicago star and gave a half smile.

  “Sorry, but there ain’t nothing I can do. No power. They can’t even raise the door.” He gestured toward the massive overhead door at the bottom of the sloping driveway.

  Tony frowned, but before he could speak Ray Lovisi appeared and knocked on the passenger side of the unmarked. Tony reached over and unlocked the door. Ray, who was hatless and clad in a tan overcoat, quickly slid in.

  “About fucking time you got here,” he said. His nose and cheeks were red. He’d obviously been standing outside for a while.

  Tony nodded to the guard, who stepped away as the car started to swing around to make a U-turn in the driveway.

  “What’s the matter,” Tony said, wrestling with the wheel, “this nice April weather too much for a tough guy like you?”

  He grinned as he said it, because Ray, who was only about five-nine, prided himself on being tough. He’d boxed Golden Gloves, and many a bigger man had fallen after underestimating him.

  “April, Jesus, it still feels like December, but at least...” Ray said, rubbing his hands together.

  “At least what?” Tony asked.

  “At least they’re predicting that it’s gonna warm up,” Ray said after a moment. But Tony knew Ray was probably going to say, “At least I ain’t old,” but had thought better of it.

  “Go on down the block to the Italian Village,” he said.

  The Italian Village was a restaurant on Clark, half a block east. Tony angled out into the traffic on Dearborn.

  “We gonna catch breakfast?” Tony asked.

  “Nah,” Ray said. “Believe it or not, half the fucking buildings around here are without power. Some kinda flood or something.”

  “Flood? I don’t see any water.”

  “Me either,” Ray said. “But then again, we been going to court for near onto three months on this fucking case and I ain’t seen no justice, neither.” He looked over at Tony and grinned. Despite his “boxer’s nose,” Ray had a rugged handsomeness about him. “Anyway, Arlene and Faulkner are waiting for us at the restaurant. Supposed to meet Johnny the Mink and his mouthpiece there at nine-thirty.”

  “Oh yeah?” Tony said. Now it was his turn to grin. “You think he’s gonna cut a deal?”

  “I’d say so,” Ray said. “Probably realizes he’s outta options.”

  “I hope so,” Tony said. “I certainly hope so.”

  When Johnny Osmand and Reginald Fox arrived at the restaurant they were uncharacteristically clad in hats, which nonetheless did little to disguise who they were. Osmand’s short, square body next to the lanky Fox made them look like a real-life version of the old comic strip characters Mutt and Jeff. The Mink’s head twisted back and forth warily as he eyed his surroundings. The restaurant was unusually crowded for this hour. It looked more like a lunchtime crowd than a mid-morning one. Fox spied the four legal eagles sitting at a table and pointed them out to Johnny, who pulled away and went to a vacant booth in the smoking section. Fox followed.

  “Looks like the Mink wants to sit by himself,” Ray said, following Fox’s progress toward the booth.

  “We got more time than money,” Tony said. He smiled at Arlene. She was dressed in a conservative black suit, with a pale yellow blouse. Her brown hair was spread over her shoulders today. In court she usually kept it pulled back in a severe French-braid. Tony always thought she looked like a kid when she had her hair pulled back.

  Faulkner, who was also watching with obvious interest, leaned over and whispered, “Should I go over and see if they want to talk?”

  “They want to talk, all right,” Tony said.

  “Otherwise they woulda told us to go scratch our asses,” Ray said. He grinned as he glanced at Tony, who frowned on using rough language around Arlene.

  Tony glanced at Faulkner. God, he looks like a stuffed-shirt, he thought. Blue suit, white shirt, Florsheim shoes. . . . You think he’d have the guts to at least wear a red tie, or something. He took a deep breath and smiled to himself. The fed’s tie was a bland looking blue and gray.

  “But if we sit over here, and they’re over there,” Faulkner said with growing bewilderment, “how’re we going to accomplish anything?”

  “Just wait,” Tony said. “Let ‘em order some coffee first. They’ll make the sign.” He picked up his cup and then set it back down, realizing it was now empty and he’d already gone beyond his three-cup-a-day limit.

  When the waitress came to refill their cups about ten minutes later she set the pot down and dug into her pocket.

  “The gentleman in the booth wanted me to give this to you,” she said, placing a folded napkin on the table. She picked up the pot and left. Tony unfolded the napkin. On it was scrawled: Only Cardoff and the broad can come over. Tony felt Arlene leaning against his arm to rea
d it. He glanced at her surreptitiously, seeing her fine profile and catching a whiff of her perfume. Ray reached over and took the napkin from Tony’s fingers.

  “Who the fuck does he think he is, writing something like this?” he said angrily. He crumpled the napkin in his fist.

  “Take it easy, Ray,” Tony said. “Maybe this’ll work out better. You and Kent can watch our backs while we talk to them.”

  Ray grunted an agreement.

  Tony stood, and he and Arlene walked over to Osmand’s booth. The inside of the restaurant had become even more crowded, especially in the smoking section where a cloudy haze hung in the air. There were no windows in this area and lighting was subdued, causing an almost clandestine ambience. At the booth the Mink extended his hand, but Tony didn’t take it. Realizing this, Osmand twisted his palm upward, pointing it toward the seat across from him. Ignoring the gesture, Tony slid into the booth next to Osmand. Arlene sat beside Fox.

  “You thought things over, Mink?” Tony asked.

  Johnny smiled as he bit into a big Italian pastry. With his mouth full, he said simply, “Yeah.”

  “Let me say that we’ve taken your offer under advisement,” Fox said. “We’re willing to talk particulars, if we get an informal agreement worked out as a matter of record.”

  “Neither of you are wearing a wire, are you?” Osmand said, while continuing to chew. It was one of those elongated, hard pastries with lots of icing on the top.

  “Huh-un,” Tony said derisively. “Why, you wanta search us?”

  “Nah, your word’s good enough,” Osmand said. “You I know, Cardoff. Shit, we’ve known each other for what? Ten, fifteen years now? I know you ain’t gonna fucking lie to me. We’re cut from the same cloth, you and me. Just different suits, that’s all.”

  Tony didn’t say anything. Neither did Arlene. Her eyes moved from Osmand to Tony. The Mink took another bite, then looked at her and smiled. There was dough wedged into the gum-line around his upper teeth.

  “Run it by me again,” Osmand said, reaching for his coffee.

  “The standard deal,” Arlene said. “You plead to three of the fourteen counts, and serve eighteen months. Of course, you could get a suspended sentence in exchange for your cooperation and testimony.”

  “You got any idea how long I’d last if the word got out that I was gonna spread my cheeks for you?” Tony looked at him sharply, and Osmand shrugged. “Sorry, Miss, I guess I ain’t used to talking to no lady.”

  “That’s okay, Mr. Osmand,” she said. “But you do understand that we would be offering you refuge in the Witness Protection Program.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know,” Osmand said.

  “I have a problem with pleading to three counts,” Fox interjected. “Can’t we go with a blanket of immunity if my client does decide to cooperate?”

  Before Arlene could answer, Osmand cut her off. “Just shut the fuck up, will ya?” he said to Fox. Then, turning back to Arlene, he apologized again. “Sorry, Miss. I know my manners ain’t the best in the world. But before we make any final decisions. I’d like to run one other thing by you.”

  Arlene nodded.

  Osmand leaned back against the cushion of the booth, folding his hands in a steepling gesture on the table in front of him. He exhaled before he spoke.

  “Suppose I had a way for you to nail somebody. . . big. Real big.” He said the last words quickly. “Then maybe there’d be a way for me to just kinda disappear on my own, without having to testify at all.” It was more of a statement than a question.

  Arlene looked at him with steady eyes. “I’m not sure I know what you’re saying, Mr. Osmand.”

  Osmand seemed to think for a moment, before choosing his words.

  “You know, some kinda evidence. . . rock-solid evidence that somebody did something.”

  “I’m afraid your vagueness has me a bit confused.” Arlene glanced at Fox for clarification. Fox only shrugged and looked up at the ceiling.

  “Johnny, without knowing what this evidence is,” Tony said, “we can’t really evaluate it.”

  Osmand worked his tongue over his upper teeth while he considered Tony’s last statement. Then he reached in his inside coat pocket and took out a thick cigar. Unwrapping it, he rummaged in his pocket for his lighter, flicked it, and held the flame to the end.

  “Cardoff,” he said, after exhaling a prodigious mouthful of smoke, “you remember back when Campo and Volpone got their skulls smashed in?”

  Tony nodded.

  “Who you figure done ‘em?” Osmand asked, drawing on the cigar again.

  “Who do you think? Vino.”

  Osmand licked his lips. “So tell me. Why ain’t you never arrested him for it?”

  “You know as well as I do,” Tony said. “Knowing something and proving it are two different things. Why, you willing to finger Vino for doing them?”

  A wide smile spread across Osmand’s mouth. He leaned forward, and spoke in a low whisper.

  “Suppose I tell you that I got the whole thing on videotape,” he said. “Recorded by a pro. Better than you guys coulda done it.”

  Tony’s eyebrows raised reflexively. Flashes of Costelli on TV wielding the proverbial blunt object danced through Tony’s mind. Vaguely, he became aware of Arlene saying that she’d have to discuss this new development with the chief federal prosecutor.

  “And naturally, we’ll have to see a copy of the tape first to prove its authenticity,” she added.

  “Huh-uh,” Osmand said, shaking his head. “If I give you the tape first, then you don’t gotta do nothing for me.”

  “Where’s it at, Johnny?” Tony asked.

  Osmand just looked at him and smiled while shaking his head slightly.

  “Don’t be stupid, Johnny,” Tony continued. “If Vino gets word that you’ve got something like that. . .”

  “It’s in a safe place,” Osmand said. “And that’s where it’s gonna stay, until we finalize the deal. You make any moves on me in the meantime, you’ll never see it.”

  “What about Vino?” Tony asked.

  “He tries to pull any shit, Fox’ll turn the tape over to you,” Osmand said. “But anyway, Vino don’t know dick about it. It was just like that old show Candid Camera, you know?” He grinned again. Some of the pastry still clung to his gum line. “So you go ahead and run it by the head man, but I want the deal in writing. You can work everything through him.” He pointed at Fox, then leaned back and puffed on the cigar some more.

  Fox leaned forward and said that they would be waiting to hear from them. As he and Arlene stood, Tony watched Osmand staring at him, a simpering grin still stretched on the Mink’s face, the big, partially-smoked cigar dangling from his thick lips. Tony leaned forward over the table and snatched it from Osmand’s mouth.

  “One more thing. Mink,” Tony said, bringing his face close to the other man’s. “Don’t you ever think that you and me are cut from the same cloth.” He straightened up and plunged the ash-covered end of the cigar into Johnny’s coffee.

  CHAPTER 4

  Monday, April 13, 1992

  Midmorning

  As Linc waited for Rick in the parking lot of Edward Hines Veteran’s Hospital he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel of the pick-up and felt bad about telling the lie to Uncle Henry. But it couldn’t be helped. He and Rick needed time to make another recon. And it wasn’t really a total lie anyway. Rick did pick up some kind of parasite or something during Desert Storm, and it was making him sick. And they were giving him medicine at the V.A. Hospital. It seemed to be working. So he wasn’t really lying to his uncle, just fibbing a little bit. After all, he could hardly go in and tell Uncle Henry that he and Rick needed the time off so they could put the final touches on their fantasy plan of breaking into a bank.

  He first got the idea for the heist about two months ago when he and Diane were in bed, watching the news. They showed this old gangster motherfucker walking out of the Dirksen Building after being indicted. All the newsmen
were running after him, following him down the street, filming him and asking him questions. But the dude was cool and just ignored them. Linc laughed out loud, and when Diane glanced at the TV to see what was so funny, she froze.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “That man,” she said. “I think I know him.”

  “Him?” Linc pointed at the screen as they flashed a blow-up of an old mug shot of Johnny “The Mink” Osmand while the anchorman gave more details of the indictment.

  “He’s got a safety deposit box at the bank,” Diane said. “Only it’s under a different name. I’m sure that’s him, though.”

  “Ain’t that a trip,” Linc said as he turned over on his side to grope her.

  But she wasn’t having any of it, her eyes still glued on the TV.

  “I wonder,” she said, “what he’s got in that box?”

  And it quickly developed into an obsession with her. She searched through all the card files until she was sure of the box number. It was one of the large ones. The man, who used the name Joe Orlando, had rented the box three months before she’d seen him on the news and had visited it twice a week for the past three months. Always in the morning, almost like clockwork. He never stayed in the examination room more than a few minutes. Sometimes he had a briefcase with him. Other times not. But the box always felt heavy when Diane pushed it back into the slot. And, each time she secured the door with the two keys, her belief of what was in it became stronger.

  “It’s got to be his stash,” she said one night to Linc. “I’ll bet he’s got a million dollars of dirty old cash in that damn box.”

  “So what,” Linc said. “You work around that kind of money every day, don’t you?”

  “It’s different,” she said. “That box’s got mob money in it. Collected from all the suckers they done hooked on that shit they sell.”

  Linc laughed out loud.

  “What difference does it make, anyhow?”

  “Honest folks don’t keep cash in a safety deposit box, for one thing,” she told him. “It ain’t allowed. He’s probably got it stashed under this false name so the government won’t find out about it. I bet he’s gonna make a run for it after he collects his cool million.”