The Heist

by Michael A. Black

  “You sound like you’d like to steal it.”

  She turned to look at him before answering, and when she did he saw something in her eyes. Something strange that he’d never seen there before.

  “Don’t you see? If there was a way we could get into that box. . . get that stash. . . he wouldn’t even be able to tell the cops.”

  “But I’m sure he’d tell somebody. Man like that got to have a lot of real bad friends that I sure as hell wouldn’t want on my black ass.”

  “If we had that kinda money they wouldn’t be able to touch us, baby.” Her eyes twinkled. “We could be on a beach somewhere in the Bahamas drinking rum punch.”

  And that was how it started. The plan. It began to take real shape when Linc was talking to Rick while they’d been working on the tunnel project. Rick had casually mentioned that he knew a little something about locks. Could he pick ‘em? Linc inquired.

  “Sure,” Rick said. “My uncle was a locksmith. He raised me after my parents died, and I used to work with him when I was in high school.”

  “Could you pick, say. . .” Linc asked with a smile, “a safety deposit box?”

  “There ain’t a lock made that can’t be picked if you’ve got the right tools,” Rick said. “But the biggest problem with something like a safety deposit box lock would be the time factor. It would take a while. Even the banks just drill them when you lose the key.”

  Linc let it go, putting it off as just a pipe dream. Something to fantasize about. Even after Diane came home with all that information on the box and the bank he remained skeptical. Then in mid-March Uncle Henry had them go assist on a special dig for a broken gas main in the North Loop. The city engineers met them and were very specific about where to sink the holes. When Linc asked them what the fuss was, one of them mentioned the tunnels.

  “Tunnels?” Linc said. “Around here?”

  “Sure,” the engineer said. He was a brother, too, an older guy who liked to talk. “You guys got a few minutes I’ll show you.”

  And he did. Linc and Rick went with him into the building where the broken main was, and went down into the sub-basement. At the bottom there was a long corridor that ended with a solid metal door. The building-guy pulled out a heavy key and used it to unlock the big, case-hardened security lock. When the door was opened the engineer shined his light into what seemed like an endless tunnel about eight feet high and seven feet wide. The walls were thick cement and angled up from the floor in sort of a bowed triangle.

  “Go ahead, feel those walls,” the old city worker said. “That’s craftsmanship. That there’s cement work. Over a foot thick.”

  Linc ran his hand over the cold wall.

  “How long these been here?” he asked.

  “They was built around the turn of the century,” the old guy said, pulling his pipe out of his pocket and packing it with tobacco. “Used to use ‘em for coal in those days, then when everybody went to gas. . . say, if there’s a gas leak maybe I ought not to light this, eh?” He chuckled. “Anyways, they been used for everything from mail delivery to cable TV.”

  “How far does it go?” Rick asked.

  “Hell, it goes all around under the whole Loop,” the old guy said. “More than fifty miles of tunnels. They run under every major building downtown.”

  Linc and Rick looked at each other, the germ of a shared idea suddenly gleaming in their eyes. That night Linc went to the library and found a book named Forty Feet Below by Bruce Moffat, that told all about the tunnel system. Linc was surprised to find that one of the branches went right under the bank where Diane worked.

  In that moment the plan began for real.

  Rick had been just as disgusted as Linc about being dropped from the Corps after the Storm. “The politicians trot us out when they need some blood spilled, then forget about us after the battle’s won,” he said. So it didn’t take much to sway him over. That’s when the plan started to take shape. Just like it was a military operation. They scouted the bank and the vault section, invisible in their construction cover-alls and dangling tool belts. It helped that Diane was working, which gave them the run of the place because she was the assistant in charge. She showed them exactly which box it was, standing guard as Rick slipped a blank key into the lock several times. They checked the door to the tunnel, descending into the sub-basement, which they estimated to be about forty feet down. Nobody paid much attention to two guys, one black, one white, who came back a few days later dressed in construction-type clothes and went down to check the basement.

  But there were three major stumbling blocks to the plan. One was the constant stream of people who were always coming and going by the vault. Rick said that he would need at least fifteen to twenty uninterrupted minutes to make the impressions and file the replacement key. There was way too much traffic during business hours. It might be possible after hours, but there were all kinds of sophisticated alarms that detected motion in the area. Even if somehow they could neutralize the alarm system, the vault itself was locked with a time-lock.

  So the plan kind of faded into that realm of fantasy, where they kept planning it, but in their hearts knew that they’d never really be able to pull it off. Still, they went through all the various phases: scanning the top of the bank building from the roof of the taller structure next door, finding out which windows were the washrooms, figuring where they could tie off if they had to rappel down to the roof of the bank. But those three blocks: the people, the alarms, and the time-lock seemed insurmountable. Diane kept harping on it, like it was all she could think about. Linc more or less humored her, pretending that he was really serious about it. And deep down in his gut he also had the feeling, after all the shit he’d been through in the Corps, that somehow there really was a way to do it. Some kind of way.

  Linc was lost in his daydreams when the passenger door of the pick-up opened and Rick slid in. He was wearing his Desert Storm field jacket, just like Linc was, but it hung much looser on Rick. He was about the same height as Linc’s six-two, but not as big through the shoulders. His pale skin had lost all the tan he’d acquired in the Gulf and now had an almost sickly pallor. He grinned at Linc as he slammed the door.

  “Shit, that was quick,” Linc said. “What’d they do?”

  “Another shot of antibiotics,” Rick said. “Just like when you catch the clap.”

  “You want to stop for coffee?” Linc asked.

  Rick shook his head.

  “Might as well get going then,” Linc said, starting the truck. “Anyway, we got plenty of time. I told Uncle Henry we’d be a couple of hours. Sure didn’t take you long.”

  Rick nodded quickly.

  “I caught that same nurse I met last time and she got me in and out.”

  “How’d you manage that?” Linc asked with a grin. “You fucking her or something?”

  “Better hope not. I wouldn’t have been in and out so fast then, partner,” he said. Rick leaned back and stretched out, putting his head against the back of the seat. Linc noticed that his buddy was still sweating profusely, just like when Linc had picked him up.

  “You want me to turn down the heat?” Linc asked, reaching for the dash control, although it wasn’t really hot in the truck.

  “No, it’s cold,” Rick said. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

  This boy’s still sick, Linc thought. It was just another reason why the plan would probably never come together. He turned on to Roosevelt Road and headed east toward First Avenue and the Eisenhower. When they got to the expressway he got on and headed east again, toward the Loop. Linc was amazed at the traffic coming west from downtown. Usually it was heavier going into the city this time of morning, but this looked like afternoon rush hour, and it was barely ten o’clock. He got off at Halsted and made his way up to Chicago Avenue, careful to stay off any of the boulevards with the truck. But as he drove toward Wabash, he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The whole street was teeming with cars, taxis, buses, and trucks. They we
re all heading for the expressway entrances. And there were cops everywhere directing traffic. People were crowding on buses. Big yellow Streets and Sanitation trucks rumbled north on Canal Street. Cops directing traffic made quick, jerking gestures for drivers to get out of the way as fire engines worked their way through the traffic toward Michigan Avenue.

  Linc looked at Rick, who’d opened his eyes and was also staring in disbelief.

  “Would you look at this,” Linc said. “Ain’t this a trip?”

  A cop on the corner of Wabash and Randolph waved for him to go west with the rest of the exodus. Linc rolled down the window as he crept through the intersection.

  “What’s going on, man?” he asked.

  “Keep going,” the cop yelled. “Head for the expressway.”

  “But we got a delivery to make,” Linc said.

  “Not today you don’t,” the cop yelled back. “The Loop’s being evacuated. Now move it.”

  Linc fell into place with the rest of the traffic. He and Rick looked at each other.

  “Maybe the Russians are coming,” Rick offered.

  “Naw, we’s their asshole buddies now,” Linc said. “Gonna put their whole country on general assistance.”

  As the traffic inched along, he turned on the radio, switched from WGCI to one of those AM all-news stations, and listened. The announcer was repeating the same message about every ten seconds or so: Due to an unexpected series of water-related emergencies, all business in the Loop was being canceled today. He went on to advise all commuters and drivers to stay clear of the downtown expressways because of major gridlock. Linc tuned through the channels until he got one where two guys were just talking. One of them was asking the other guy questions about the cause of the emergency and how long it was expected to last.

  “Well at this time we’re unsure of the extent of the flooding,” the guy being interviewed on the radio said. He sounded like some sort of city spokesman. “We have crews down at the river now trying to assess the problem.”

  “What are they planning to do?” the interviewer asked.

  “It’s our plan at this time to try to plug the leak with sand bags, however, it’s unknown exactly how long this will take, or even if it will be effective.”

  “And coming so close to the Easter shopping holiday, how badly will some of the downtown businesses be hurt?”

  “I estimate it will hurt some, but I’m confident that the problem will be corrected shortly,” the city official said, “and we’ll be able to get back to normal business soon.”

  The radio reporter thanked him and then gave a quick summary update.

  “Once again, many stores and offices in the downtown section of the Loop have been closed due to a water-related emergency. All persons are being asked to stay away from the area until further notice, and the police department has issued an emergency parking ban for the entire downtown area. Many buildings are without power, so if you don’t have business down here, or even if you do, stay away.”

  “Looks like we gonna be late for work anyway,” Linc said, inching the truck forward.

  Rick looked over and saw a policeman by a squadcar, hooking a leash onto his K-9.

  “Yeah,” he said. “But now at least we got an excuse.”

  Vino had been watching the squirrels chase after the peanuts he’d been throwing in his back yard, when Tommy Del Bianco opened the gate. Tommy was one of his lieutenants who’d worked his way up the ranks. A relatively young guy, he did what he was told and didn’t ask questions. Vino liked that. He also liked the fact that Tommy wasn’t the sharpest pencil the box, because when somebody was too bright, then you had to start worrying about them.

  “Mr. Costelli,” Tommy said. “Bobby’s back.”

  “Take him into the den,” Vino said. “I’ll be right in.” He tossed a couple more peanuts toward the squirrels and watched them scurry. Then he turned and went up the back steps. Inside the house he stopped and sipped a spoonful of the sauce that his wife had left simmering on the stove. Not totally satisfied, he added a pinch more salt before going into the den. Bobby Mallory, Vino’s number one surveillance man, was seated in front of the desk. Tommy stood off to one side.

  Vino nodded to him as he walked in.

  “Get us some coffee. Tommy,” he said.

  Tommy’s dead-pan eyes showed no expression as he left the room. Vino sat behind the big mahogany desk and turned his attention to Mallory.

  “So what you got for me, Bobby?” Vino asked.

  Mallory flipped up the top of his little notepad and read off the following: “At seven o’clock he left his house in his white Lincoln and headed downtown. He arrived at—”

  “Cut the shit,” Vino said. “What I want to know is, what happened in court. Did he meet with the Feds?”

  “Yes and no,” Mallory said, starting to smile then quickly losing the grin. “The court got canceled. All the court. The whole building’s closed down. So is most of the Loop.”

  “Huh? How come?”

  “There’s some kind of flooding problem downtown,” Mallory said. “It seems that there’s a leak in the tunnel system over by the Kinzie Street Bridge—”

  “I don’t give a fuck about that,” Vino said, cutting him off again. “Did he meet with the Feds?”

  “Un-huh,” Mallory nodded, flipping through his notes. “At the Italian Village Restaurant. They set this up through Fox’s answering service. Met there at nine o’clock.”

  “So tell me what happened.”

  Mallory smiled.

  “I can do better than that,” he said. “The joint was so packed I got in the booth next to them. I taped the whole fucking conversation. Got a lot of background noise, but you can make out most of it.” He reached in his pocket and took out a small recorder. After setting it on the desk. Mallory handed Vino the earplug and set the recorder up to play. Vino listened to the tape, his face hardening into a scowl the more he listened. Then suddenly, he jerked, like somebody’d pinched his gut. He punched the stop button and pulled out the earpiece.

  “You listen to this?” Vino said, his voice soft, almost inaudible.

  “Yeah,” Mallory said.

  “You think he was fucking with them?” Vino asked. He was starting to sweat. “About that tape?”

  Mallory shrugged.

  Vino pressed his fingers to his temples and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath and exhaled.

  “Bobby, what’s the name of that guy in New Orleans?” he said. “You know who I’m talking about? The one they call The Regulator.”

  “Germaine,” Mallory said. “Vincent Phillip Germaine.”

  “Yeah,” Vino said. “Go make some phone calls. I want him up here right away. And keep the tails on both of them. I wanna know if either of ’em even farts too loud.”

  “Okay, boss,” Mallory said, and started to get up. Tommy walked in with two cups of coffee on a tray. Mallory sat back down and reached for one of the cups. Vino was around the desk in an instant, raking his right hand across the tray, scattering the cups over the carpet.

  “I said go make them calls!” he screamed. “What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

  Mallory’s mouth drew into a thin line and he was up and moving toward the door without a word. Vino turned his gaze on Tommy.

  “Clean this shit up,” he snarled. He stormed back to the desk and sat down again, putting his head between his palms. It felt like some big hand had closed over his balls and was just starting to squeeze.

  Early Afternoon

  When Linc and Rick finally got to the construction site it was well after noon. They parked the truck and tried to hurry to the dig, but everybody had broken for lunch. Henry stood there, arms akimbo, looking down his nose from under his yellow hard hat, watching their approach. Linc smiled but the expression on his uncle’s face told him that there’d be hell to pay.

  “And just where the fuck you two been?” Henry asked, making an exaggerated display of looking at his watch.

&nb
sp; “Sorry,” Linc said. “We got held up in traffic. The whole Loop’s been shut down. It’s just like rush hour.”

  “I don’t give a shit about the motherfuckin’ Loop,” his uncle said. “We been running short-handed the whole morning on this dig ‘cause I expected you two would be here sooner, rather than later.”

  “Sorry,” Linc said. Rick echoed the sentiment and started to say it was all his fault, but Henry cut him off.

  “No, it ain’t your fault,” he said. “It’s mines.” He gave them both a few more seconds of the evil eye, then said, “Everybody else is on lunch. You two get your asses down there and start laying pipe.”

  Linc and Rick both hustled over toward the big pit, its sides reinforced with wooden planks. As they were getting their hard hats and equipment belts on, Henry ventured over toward them and asked softly, “You feel up to this, Rick?”

  “I’m okay, Henry,” Rick said. “Thanks.”

  Henry just nodded and walked over to his on-site trailer. He glared at the group of workers, who were still sitting around on the empty wooden cable spools, then stepped inside and closed the door. As soon as the door had swung shut, several of the men sauntered over to Linc and Rick. Booker Cole led the group. He was a huge black man, with the massive shoulders and arms of someone who’d spent his life doing laborer’s construction work. When he wasn’t in jail.

  “Want some?” he asked Linc, holding out a brown bag with a bottle inside.

  Linc shook his head. Cole didn’t offer any to Rick.

  “My uncle find out you drinkin’ that shit around this heavy equipment—” Linc started to say.

  “Your uncle ain’t shit,” Cole spat. “He know I do mo’ fucking work than you and this honkey buddy of yours put together.”

  “You better watch what you be sayin’,” Linc said.

  “Why, you gonna do something about it, nigger?” Cole took another swig and stepped in closer. Linc just stared at him.