The Heist

by Michael A. Black

  “I’m Detective Cardoff and this is my partner, Detective Lovisi,” Tony said, holding up his badge-case. “You know why we’re here, right?”

  Linc nodded slowly.

  “You want to tell us your side of it, Lincoln?” Ray asked. “Cause if you do I gotta read you this.” He took out his Miranda-card and quickly recited the litany. When he’d finished, Ray asked, “You understand your rights?”

  Linc nodded.

  “So you want to tell us what happened?” Ray said.

  “How’s Diane?” Linc asked.

  “She’s okay,” Tony said. “She wasn’t hurt.”

  “Can I talk to her?”

  “Not right now,” Tony said, shaking his head. “Lincoln, I’ll be honest with you. We had to take her downtown. Like I told you, she wasn’t hurt, but I think you know that you both have an awful lot of explaining to do, don’t you?”

  Linc sighed and slowly nodded. “What do I get for talking?”

  “Depends on a lot of things,” said Ray. “Mostly on what you tell us. You see, we got a whole field full of dead bodies over on the East Side, and we gotta sort this whole shitbox out. We already know they were holding your girl hostage.”

  Linc looked up quickly.

  “How you know that?” he asked.

  “It ain’t for us to tell you how we know what we know,” Ray said. “You want to cooperate, we’ll do what we can for ya. But if you try running a game on us. . .” He left the threat implied.

  “What do I have to do to get out of this?” Linc asked. “And get Diane out too.”

  “We said we’d do what we could for you,” Tony said. “But we ain’t miracle workers.”

  Linc swallowed and then said, “Suppose I had something to trade?”

  “And what might that be?” Ray asked.

  “Well, it’s about this long,” Linc said, holding his two index fingers about seven inches apart, “and it’s about this thick,” he held his right thumb and forefinger about an inch away from each other, “and I guess you don’t even need to ask me anymore whether it’s Beta or VHS.”

  “Wait a minute,” Tony said. “Don’t try to bullshit us. We recovered the tape already.” He held up the burnt VHS cassette inside the plastic bag.

  “Not the right one, you didn’t,” Linc said.

  “Which one’s the right one?” Ray asked.

  “The one with that crazy old white dude doing those two cats with the baseball bat,” Linc said. He leaned back on the pillows, tried to raise both his arms behind his head, and grimaced suddenly.

  Tony and Ray exchanged a quick glance.

  “You want me to talk to the doctor to get you something for the pain?” Ray said quickly. His concern-level had immediately gone from one of significant indifference toward Linc, to one of extreme solicitousness.

  “Huh-un,” Linc said, shaking his head. “What pain I got, I earned. Besides, I got to keep my head clear. Now, how soon can you have somebody down here to put this deal in writing?”

  “What deal is that?” Ray asked.

  “Where Diane and me, and anybody else on my side who’s still alive, gets off if I give you the tape.”

  “We’ll get somebody from downtown to discuss it with you,” Tony said. “But we’re gonna have to see the tape before we finalize anything.”

  “You really got the tape, Lincoln?” Ray asked, leaning closer to the gurney. “You wouldn’t be bulljiving me, now would you?”

  “No, sir,” Linc said. “All I need to do is make a couple of phone calls. But, like I said, no disrespect intended, I gotta have this deal in writing from a lawyer first.”

  “I’ll go see if I can get a hold of somebody,” Tony said. “But like I told you, we’ll have to go downtown to discuss it further.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Friday, April 17, 1992

  10:24 A.M.

  After getting released from the emergency room Linc was driven downtown to Eleventh and State, by Tony and Ray. They escorted him in the back way and took the elevator to the fifth floor. Then, after sending out for coffee and donuts, the interview began. It was euphemistically called an interview now, but the old term, interrogation, was more applicable: a tedious process of re-advising Linc of his rights, having him sign a rights-waiver form, and then asking him to tell his side of it, going over it again and again. Tony and Ray periodically shot questions at him, balancing their inquiries against facts that they knew to gauge his truthfulness. Occasionally they would make him repeat things, making him think that they knew more than they actually did.

  “How does your uncle fit into all this, Lincoln?” Ray asked him. “You want us to call him and tell him where we towed the Olds?”

  “How much did Jem Dandy charge you for the M-16?” Tony asked casually.

  When Linc’s head shot up in surprise his gaze was met by stony stares. We know the whole story, son, they seemed to be saying. So don’t try, don’t even try, to bullshit us, ‘cause if you do. . .

  The process did as it was designed to do, for the most part. It distilled the truth from what he told them. Not that Linc was a total stranger to interrogation tactics, having been in charge of POWs in both Panama and the Gulf. But that had been different, in those instances, none of them even spoke English, so there wasn’t any real attempt to obtain information. And Linc was weary. The strain of the past few days, coupled with the trauma he’d sustained and the loss of blood, made his mind fuzzy. In the end, he decided to stick to the truth, making his judgment on the apparent honor he sensed in the two men before him. He’d served with such men in the Corps, and he believed them.

  By the time Arlene arrived with a representative from the State’s Attorney’s Office and a stenographer, Tony and Ray knew virtually everything. The only thing that Linc had consistently managed to leave out was Uncle Henry’s involvement in the final, bloody confrontation. He stuck to his story that his uncle was nothing more than a wheel-man who was supposed to pick them up afterwards.

  When they’d finished taking his statement and explained to him that any agreement was contingent on the immediate surrender of the tape, Linc only nodded wearily and told them that he’d need to make a phone call.

  “But first, you said I could talk to her, right?” he asked.

  They hastily arranged a somewhat unorthodox visit between Linc and Diane in a fifth floor interview room. Tony and Ray stood outside, looking through the glass window at the two young lovers and drank their umpteenth cups of stale coffee. Although they couldn’t hear the words, it was obvious that all was not going well inside the room. Linc was on his feet, gesturing emphatically with his good arm, using his index finger as he spoke. Diane merely sat on the chair by the table, leaning forward dejectedly with her head in her hands.

  “Don’t look like the reunion of Romeo and Juliet, does it?” Ray said.

  Tony shook his head. He brought the cup to his lips once more, only to be disgusted by the bitter-tasting, lukewarm liquid.

  “I sure hope they don’t start fighting in there,” Ray said. “I don’t feel in the mood for no domestic at Headquarters.”

  Just as he said that, Linc moved forward to the thick glass window and tapped on it twice. Tony opened the door.

  “We’re finished,” Linc said. He glanced back at her. “If I can make that call now.”

  Tony nodded. He held the door open for Linc, then told Ray to call the matron to escort Diane back down to the women’s floor. Tony led Linc over to a small office and indicated that he should sit at the desk. Linc grabbed the phone, then looked up at him.

  “The agreement stands, right?” he asked.

  “As long as we get the real tape,” Tony assured him.

  The agreement they’d worked out with Arlene and the representative from the State’s Attorney’s Office had laid it all out for him. He was to get an offer of immunity to testify before a Grand Jury, detailing his acquisition of the video cassette, and the subsequent events that led up to the confrontation at Wisc
onsin Steel. Diane and Uncle Henry were not to be involved in any testimony, nor would either one be charged in connection with the incident. This was all contingent upon the government obtaining control of the video cassette immediately. Linc felt comfortable with the deal. He also felt strangely comfortable with Tony and Ray. These two honkey cops had played it straight with him, getting him quickly to the hospital from the battle-site, and letting him talk privately to Diane, and all. Even before they’d interviewed him, he’d pretty much made up his mind to give them the tape. It seemed like his only chance. Besides, the fucking thing had brought him nothing but trouble anyway.

  “You mind if I make this private, sir?” Linc asked Tony, adding the polite salutation as much out of sincerity as guile.

  He waited till Tony stepped out of the room and then dialed Uncle Henry’s office number. He answered on the first ring.

  “Yeah, it’s me,” Linc said quietly.

  “Linc? Where you at?”

  “I’m in jail. Eleventh and State, but never mind that. I can’t say much right now. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. How ‘bout you?”

  “I been better, but I been a lot worse,” Linc said.

  Linc gave him the news about Rick, and told him that a deal had been worked out to take them all off the hook. After speaking for a few minutes more, Linc said, “Yeah, I trust ‘em. Now just do what I asked you, please.” He saw Tony glance his way and figured he’d overheard, but that was cool.

  He hung up the phone and stood.

  “I guess I’m ready to wait on it,” Linc said.

  Tony nodded and motioned for him to step back into the hallway. As they walked toward the holding cell, Ray came ambling down the corridor pouring a can of orange juice into a Styrofoam cup. He stopped in front of them and handed the cup to Linc.

  “The doc said you gotta drink a lotta liquids ‘cause of all the blood you lost,” Ray said.

  “Thanks,” said Linc, taking the cup. “I appreciate it.”

  “Hey, us ex-gyrenes have to stick together,” Ray said and grinned.

  It was forty-five minutes later when the phone rang. Tony picked it up as Arlene came over and he covered the mouthpiece and said, “It’s Kent. He’s still at the Federal Building.” Faulkner told him in short order that a Dunkin’ Donuts bag had been dropped off to the desk sergeant at the twenty-second district with one of Tony’s cards stapled to it. Upon investigating, the sergeant opened it and found a video cassette and a hand-printed note saying: GET THIS TAPE TO THE MAN ON THE CARD RIGHT AWAY. Faulkner was laughing as he told Tony about the desk sergeant’s disappointment.

  “Apparently he thought some guy was bringing in some donuts, Tony,” Faulkner said. “Maybe he wanted to grab a few for himself.”

  “Kent, call him back and tell him to make sure nothing happens to that tape,” Tony said. “Tell him to guard it with his fucking life, and that we’ll be there in twenty minutes to pick it up.”

  “Roger-wilco, Tony,” Faulkner said.

  Arlene cocked her head slightly to the side and asked him if that was the call.

  “That was it,” he said, standing up and slipping on his jacket. “You wanta come with us?”

  “Are you kidding?” she said. “You’d have to lock me up to keep me away.”

  They took the Dan Ryan to 111th Street and were at the Morgan Park Station inside of twenty minutes. The desk sergeant gave them a curious glance when they walked in.

  “The bag,” Ray said in a low growl.

  “I’m Tony Cardoff. Somebody drop something off here for me?”

  “Oh, yeah. Lieu,” the sergeant said, bending over and coming up with the white paper sack. “Here it is.”

  “What did the guy that dropped it off look like?” Tony asked, studying his card, which was still stapled to the outside of the bag.

  The sergeant leaned back and rubbed his chin.

  “It was a big black guy,” he said.

  “Bald?” Tony asked.

  “I don’t know. He was wearing dark glasses and a hat.”

  “That Henry sure likes his donuts, don’t he?” Tony said with a grin, holding up the card for Ray to see. The lower right-hand corner had been cut off, but the card itself was stained with dark splotches. Coffee stains.

  “You know who dropped it off?” Arlene asked. “How?”

  “It don’t take Charlie Chan to figure that one out,” Ray said. “Come on, let’s take this baby down to the office so we can watch it.”

  “The hell with the office,” Tony said. “My place is closer.”

  1:34 P.M.

  They’d watched it so many times, frame-by-frame, that when the chief prosecutor from the U.S. Attorney’s Office failed to show much emotion at seeing it for the first time, Ray asked him if he wanted it re-played.

  “No, I’m just going to pinch myself a couple of times to make sure I’m not dreaming all this,” he said. “Then I’m going to get a specially-convened grand jury set-up. Once we indict Costelli we’ll get a warrant for him.”

  Tony envisioned how Vino’s face would look when they grabbed him. The heavy jowls, the flushed, scarlet birthmark, the mocking smile fading. . . It took him back all those years, to the time he’d slugged the gangster under the streetlight. Finally, there’d be a reckoning. There’d be some measure of justice.

  “And we want to serve it,” Tony said. He looked at Ray whose grin was a mile wide. “Right, partner?”

  In the hallway Tony and Arlene gathered around the doorway and exchanged enthusiastic predictions. Ray, who’d gone for more coffee, came back with Kent Faulkner in tow, each man carrying two cups.

  “Hey, guess what?” Ray said, handing one of his cups to Tony. “They just found another body, and guess whose it is?”

  “Come on, Ray,” Tony said irritably. “I been up all night, and half the day and I ain’t in any mood for any more Charlie Chan bullshit.”

  Ray smirked, then said, “Reginald D. Fox. He was in a convenience store lot on the East Side, all neatly folded up in the trunk of his Jaguar.”

  “He’s dead?” Arlene said, stunned. “Not Reggie?”

  “Yep, Reggie,” Ray said. “And we ain’t gonna need Dr. Kenney from the morgue to do a dental-ID this one. Five shots to the head with a twenty-two.”

  “The classic mob-style execution,” Faulkner added, not to be outdone. “Looks like old Vino’s getting panicky now that we got him on the ropes.”

  “Oh, my God,” Arlene said. She quickly turned away.

  Tony gave Ray and Kent a harsh look, then put his hand gently on her shoulder.

  “He was mixed up with the worst kind of people, Arlene,” Tony said. “It was bound to happen sooner or later.”

  “Exactly,” Ray said. “He brought it on himself.”

  “I know you’re right,” she said, quickly wiping her eyes. “It’s just. . . it seems like such a shame. He really was a fine lawyer.”

  “Ain’t no such thing,” Ray said, then grinned as he caught Tony’s look of disapproval.

  “Don’t over-generalize now, Ray,” Faulkner said in his good-old-boy drawl. “After all, Arlene and myself are both lawyers.”

  “Yeah, okay,” said Ray, his grin widening as he nodded his head at Arlene. “I’ll make one exception to that.”

  4:15 P.M.

  Tony and Ray sat in their unmarked squad car down the block from Vino’s River Forest home. The radio squawked that the FBI SWAT was in position. Ray grinned and shifted the car into drive.

  “You ready for this?” he asked.

  “I’ve been ready for a long time,” Tony said. “Let’s go.”

  He radioed the SWAT team leader that he and Ray were going to the front door.

  The unmarked jerked to a stop and they calmly opened the doors and got out. Tony took the time to straighten his coat, and then checked to make sure his pistol was secure in its holster. Ray was already holding his down by his leg, has Chicago star in the other hand.

  Two guys in
black BDUs, holding MP-5 machine guns, appeared at each side of the house. Tony nodded to them and headed for the door. There was no way he was going to miss the expression on Vino’s face. He reached out and pressed the doorbell several times, waited, and pressed it again.

  “Hold your horses, goddammit,” a gruff voice called from inside.

  Tony smiled. It was here. It was really here.

  The door popped open and a big lug with an oily pompadour and black beard stubble glared with an expression he must have thought was ferocious.

  “Whaddaya want?” His voice was a growl.

  “Where’s Vino?” Ray said, holding up his star. He started to push his way inside, but the unctuous hood put a hand on Ray’s chest and shoved.

  “Hey, this ain’t Chicago, asshole,” the thug grunted. “You got no right to ---“

  Tony punched the man in the gut with his left, then brought a straight right across that twisted the guy’s greasy head. He collapsed in a heap.

  “Not bad,” Ray said, stepping over the fallen bodyguard. “Maybe you’re the one that should be entering the Police Olympics.”

  But Tony was already moving inside. He took out his gun and held it in front of him as he yelled, “Police. Vino, get your ass out here.”

  Vino emerged from his den with a look that was somewhere between outrage and amazement. He was dressed in a blue silk bathrobe over some tan pants, and had a glass tumbler filled with amber liquid in his hand.

  “Don’t you look cute,” Tony said, putting on the malevolent grin he could muster.

  “Cardoff,” Vino said. “What the hell you think you’re doing in my house?”

  Tony looked at the other man’s face, the heavy jowls, the flushed, scarlet birthmark, the mocking smile . . . A scene flashed through his memory once more and he was back with the gangster under the streetlights.

  Finally, he thought.

  “You eat yet, Vino?” he asked. “Because you’re not gonna get any linguini downtown.”

  The sets of darkly clad SWAT team members came through the door, pausing to handcuff the fallen punk in the doorway, and then spilling past them into the various areas of the house. Vino’s head bobbled back and forth.