There seemed to be nothing, Tony Bear had come to believe, that Danny couldn’t print successfully—money, postage stamps, share certificates, checks, drivers’ licenses, Social Security cards, you name it. It had been Danny’s idea to manufacture thousands of fake bank credit cards. Through bribery and a carefully planned raid, they had been able to obtain blank plastic sheets from which Keycharge cards were made, and the quantity was enough to last for years. Profit so far had been immense.
The only beef about the old man was that once in a while he went back to hitting the sauce and could be out of business for a week or more. When it happened there was danger of him talking, so he was kept confined. But he could be crafty and sometimes managed to slip away, as happened last time. Lately, though, the lapses had been fewer, mostly because Danny was happily stashing away his share of the dough in a Swiss bank account and dreamed of going there in a year or two to pick up his loot, then retire. Except that Tony Bear knew that was one move of the old drunk’s which wouldn’t happen. He intended to use the old man as long as he could function. Also Danny knew too much ever to be let go.
But while Danny Kerrigan was important, it had been the organization which protected him and made the most of what he produced. Without an efficient distribution system the old man would have been like most others of his breed—small time or a nothing. Therefore it was the threat to the organization which concerned Tony Bear most. Had it been infiltrated by a spy, a stool pigeon? If “yes” from where? And how much had he—or she—learned?
His attention swung back to what was happening on the other side of the one-way glass. Angelo had the lighted cigar. His thick lips were twisted in a grin. With the side of his foot he shoved the two chairs so the Núñez woman and her brat now faced each other. Angelo puffed on the cigar until its tip was glowing. Casually he moved to the chair where the child was seated and bound.
Estela looked up, visibly trembling, eyes wild with fright. Without hurrying, Angelo took her small right hand, lifted it, inspected the palm, then turned it over. Still slowly he removed the glowing cigar from his mouth and ground it, as if into an ashtray, on the back of her hand. Estela cried out—a piercing shriek of agony. Opposite her, Juanita, frantic, weeping, shouting incoherently, struggled desperately against her bonds.
The cigar was not out. Angelo puffed it into fresh redness then, with the same leisureliness as before, lifted Estela’s other hand.
Juanita screamed, “No, no, déjela quieta. I will tell you.”
Angelo waited, the cigar poised as Juanita gasped, ‘The man you want … is Miles Eastin.”
“Who’s he work for?”
Her voice a despairing whisper, she answered, “First Mercantile American Bank.”
Angelo dropped the cigar and ground it out with his heel. He looked interrogatively at where he knew Tony Bear Marino to be, then came around the screen.
Tony Bear’s face was tight. He said softly, “Get him. Go get that fink. Bring him here.”
21
“Milesy,” Nate Nathanson said with unusual grouchiness, “whoever your friend is keeps phoning, tell him this place ain’t run for the staff, it’s run for members.”
“What friend?” Miles Eastin, who had been away from the Double-Seven for part of the morning taking care of club errands, looked uncertainly at the manager.
“How in hell would I know? Same guy’s phoned four times, asking for you. Wouldn’t leave a name; no message.” Nathanson said impatiently, “Where’s the deposit book?”
Miles handed it over. Among his calls had been one to a bank to deposit checks.
“Shipment of canned goods came in just now,” Nathanson said. “Cases in the storeroom. Check ’em against the invoices.” He handed Miles some papers and a key.
“Sure, Nate. And I’m sorry about the calls.”
But the manager had already turned away, heading for his office on the third floor. Miles felt some sympathy for him. He knew that Tony Bear Marino and Russian Ominsky, who owned the Double-Seven jointly, had been leaning hard on Nathanson lately with complaints about running of the club.
On his way to the storeroom, which was on the main floor at the rear of the building, Miles wondered about those phone calls. Who would be calling him? And insistently. As far as he knew, only three people connected with his former life were aware that he was here—his probation officer; Juanita; Nolan Wainwright. The probation officer? Highly unlikely. Last time Miles made his required monthly visit and report, the p.o. had been rushed and indifferent; all he seemed to care about was that he wouldn’t be caused trouble. The probation man had made a note of where Miles was working and that was that. Juanita then? No. She knew better; besides, Nathanson had said a man. That left Wainwright.
But Wainwright wouldn’t call either … Or would he? Might he not take the risk if it were something truly urgent … like a warning?
A warning of what? That Miles was in danger? That he had been exposed as a spy, or might be? Abruptly, icy fear seized him. His heart hammered faster. Miles realized: Lately he had assumed an invulnerability, had taken his safety for granted. But in reality there was no safety here, never had been; only danger—even greater now than in the beginning, for now he knew too much.
Approaching the storeroom, as the thought persisted, his hands were trembling. He had to steady himself to put the key in the lock. He wondered: Was he becoming frightened about nothing, reacting cravenly to shadows? Perhaps. But a sense of foreboding warned him—no. So what should he do? Whoever had telephoned would probably try again. But was it wise to wait? Miles decided: Risk or not, he would call Wainwright directly.
He had pushed the storeroom door open. Now he began to close it, to go to a pay phone nearby—the one from which he had called Juanita a week and a half ago. At that moment he heard activity in the club’s front lobby at the other end of the main floor corridor which ran from front to rear. Several men were entering from the street. They seemed in a hurry. Without knowing why, Miles reversed direction and slipped into the storeroom, out of sight. He heard a mix of voices, then one ask loudly, “Where’s that punk, Eastin?”
He recognized the voice. Angelo, one of Marino’s bodyguards.
“Up in the office, I guess.” That was Jules LaRocca. Miles heard him say, “What’s with …”
“Tony Bear wants …”
The voices faded as the men hurried upstairs. But Miles had heard enough, knowing that what he feared had come true. In a minute, maybe less, Nate Nathanson would tell Angelo and the others where he was. Then they would be down here.
He felt his entire body quaking, yet forced himself to think. To leave by the front lobby was impossible. Even if he didn’t encounter the men returning from upstairs, they had probably left someone on guard outside. The rear exit, then? It was seldom used and opened near an abandoned building. Beyond that was a vacant lot, then an elevated railway arch. On the far side of the rail line was a maze of small, mean streets. He could try dodging through those streets, though the chance of eluding a pursuit was slim. There could be several pursuers; some would have a car or cars; Miles had none. His mind flashed the message: Your only chance! Don’t lose more time! Go now! He slammed the storeroom door closed and took the key; perhaps the others would waste precious minutes battering the door down, believing him to be inside.
Then he ran.
Through the small rear door, fumbling first with a bolt … Outside, stopping to close the door; no sense in advertising the way he had gone … Then down a lane beside the disused building … The building had been a factory once; the lane was littered with debris, old packing cases, cans, the rusty skeleton of a truck beside a caved-in loading dock. It was like running an obstacle course. Rats scampered away … Across the vacant lot, stumbling over bricks, garbage, a dead dog … Once Miles tripped and felt an ankle twist; it pained him sharply, but he kept on … So far he had heard no one following … Then as he reached the railway arch, with comparative safety of the streets ahead
, there were running feet behind, a shout, “There’s the son of a bitch!”
Miles increased his speed. He was now on the firmer ground of streets and sidewalks. He took the first turning he came to—sharply left; then right; almost at once, left again. Behind him he could still hear the pounding feet … These streets were new to him but his sense of direction told him he was headed for the city center. If he could only make it there he would disappear in midday crowds, giving him time to think, to telephone Wainwright, perhaps, and ask for help. Meanwhile he was running hard and well, his wind good. His ankle hurt a little; not too much. Miles’s fitness, the hours spent on the Double-Seven handball court, were paying off … The sounds of running behind him receded, but their absence didn’t fool him. While a car could not travel the route he had come—down the blocked lane and over the vacant lot—there were ways around. A detour of several blocks to cross the railway line would create delay. Not much, though. Probably, even now, someone in a car was trying to outguess him, head him off. He doubled left and right again, hoping, as he had from the beginning, for any kind of transportation. A bus. A taxi better still. But neither came … When you needed a taxi badly, why was there never one around? … Or a cop. He wished the streets he was passing through were busier. Running made him conspicuous, but he could not afford to slow down yet. A few people whom Miles passed looked at him curiously, but citizens here were used to minding their own business.
The nature of the area, though, was changing as he ran. Now it was less ghetto-like, showing signs of more prosperity. He passed several sizable stores. Ahead were larger buildings still, the city skyline coming into view. But before getting there, two major intersecting streets would have to be crossed. He could see the first one now—wide, busy with traffic, divided by a center boulevard. Then he saw something else—on the far side of the boulevard a long black Cadillac with dark windows, cruising slowly. Marino’s. As the car crossed the street which Miles was on, it seemed to hesitate, then speeded up, passing quickly out of sight. There had been no time to try to hide. Had he been seen? Had the car gone on to switch lanes and come back, or had he stayed lucky and been unobserved? Again fear struck him. Though he was sweating, Miles shivered but kept on. There was nothing else to do. He moved close to buildings, slowing his pace as much as he dared. A minute and a half later, with the intersection only fifty yards away, a Cadillac—the same car—nosed around the corner.
He knew that luck had run out. Whoever was in the car—most likely Angelo, for one—could not fail to see him, probably had already. So was anything to be gained by more resistance? Wouldn’t it be simpler to give up, to allow himself to be taken, to let what was going to happen, happen? No! Because he had seen enough of Tony Bear Marino and his kind, in prison and since, to know what happened to people who incurred their vengeance. The black car was slowing. They had seen him. Desperation.
One of the stores Miles had noticed moments earlier was immediately alongside. Breaking his stride, he turned left, pushed open a glass door and went in. Inside, he saw it was a sporting goods store. A pale, spindly clerk, about Miles’s own age, stepped forward. “Good day, sir. Is there something I can show you?”
“Er … yes.” He said the first thing that came into his head. “I’d like to see bowling balls.”
“Certainly. What kind of price and weight?”
“The best. About sixteen pounds.”
“Color?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Miles was watching the few yards of sidewalk outside the street door. Several pedestrians had gone by. None had paused or looked in.
“If you come this way, I’ll show you what we have.”
He followed the clerk past racks of skis, glass cases, a display of handguns. Then, glancing back, Miles saw the silhouette of a single figure, stopped outside and peering in the window. Now a second figure joined the first. They stood together, not moving from the storefront. Miles wondered: Could he get out through the back? Even as the thought occurred to him, he discarded it. The men who were after him would not make the same error twice. Any rear exit would already have been located and guarded.
“This is an excellent ball. It sells for forty-two dollars.”
“I’ll take it.”
“We’ll need your hand measurement for the …”
“Never mind.”
Should he try to phone Wainwright from here? But Miles was sure if he went near a phone the men outside would come in instantly.
The clerk looked puzzled. “You don’t want us to drill …”
“I said never mind.”
“As you wish, sir. How about a bag for the ball? Perhaps some bowling shoes?”
“Yes,” Miles said. “Yes, okay.” It would help postpone the moment of returning to the street. Scarcely aware of what he was doing, he inspected bags put in front of him, chose one at random, then sat down to try on shoes. It was while slipping on a pair that the idea occurred to him. The Keycharge card which Wainwright had sent through Juanita … the card in the name of H. E. Lyncolp … H-E-L-P.
He motioned to the bowling ball, bag, and the shoes he had chosen. “How much?”
The clerk looked up from an invoice. “Eighty-six dollars and ninety-five cents, plus tax.”
“Listen,” Miles said, “I want to put it on my Keycharge.” He took out his wallet and offered the LYNCOLP card, trying to stop his hands from trembling.
“That’s okay, but …”
“I know, you need authorization. Go ahead. Phone for it.”
The clerk took the card and invoice to a glassed-in office area. He was gone several minutes, then returned.
Miles asked anxiously, “Get through?”
“Sure. Everything’s okay, Mr. Lyncolp.”
Miles wondered what was happening now at the Keycharge Center in FMA Headquarters Tower. Would it help him? Could anything help? … Then he remembered the second instruction relayed by Juanita: After using the card, dawdle as much as possible. Give Wainwright time to move.
“Sign here, please, Mr. Lyncolp” A Keycharge account slip was filled in for the amount he had spent. Miles leaned over the counter to add a signature.
Straightening up, he felt a hand touch his shoulder lightly. A voice said quietly, “Milesy.”
As he turned, Jules LaRocca said, “Don’t make no fuss. It won’t do no good and you’ll get hurt the worse.”
Behind LaRocca, their faces impassive, were Angelo and Lou, and a fourth man—another bruiser type—whom Miles hadn’t seen before. The four moved around him, seizing him, pinioning his arms.
“Move, shitass.” The order was from Angelo, low-voiced.
Miles considered crying out, but who was there to help him? The milquetoast clerk, watching open-mouthed, could not. The hunt was ended. The pressure on his arms tightened. He felt himself propelled helplessly toward the outer door.
The bewildered salesclerk ran after them. “Mr. Lyncolp! You’ve forgotten your bowling ball.”
It was LaRocca who told him, “You keep it, buster. This guy don’t even need the balls he’s got.”
The black Cadillac was parked a few yards down the street. They pushed Miles roughly into it and drove off.
Business in the Keycharge authorization center was near its daily peak. A normal shift of fifty operators was on duty in the semidarkened auditorium-style center, each seated at a keyboard with a TV-like cathode ray tube above it.
To the young operator who received the call, the H. E. LYNCOLP credit query was simply one of thousands dealt with routinely during a working day. All were totally impersonal. Neither she nor others like her ever knew where the calls they handled came from—not even which city or state. The credit sought might be to pay a New York housewife’s grocery bill, provide clothing for a Kansas farmer, allow a rich Chicago dowager to load herself with unneeded jewelry, advance a Princeton undergrad’s tuition fees, or help a Cleveland alcoholic buy the case of liquor which finally would kill him. But the operator was n
ever told details. If really needed later, the specifics of a purchase could be traced back, though it seldom happened. The reason: No one cared. The money mattered, the money changing hands, the ability to repay the credit granted; that was all.
The call began with a flashing light on the operator’s console. She touched a switch and spoke into her headset mike. “What is your merchant number, please?”
The caller—a sporting goods clerk attending to Miles Eastin—gave it. As he did, the operator typed the number. Simultaneously it appeared on her cathode ray screen.
She asked, “Card number and date of expiry?”
Another answer. Again, details on the screen.
“Amount of purchase?”
“Ninety dollars, forty-three.”
Typed. On screen. The operator pressed a key, alerting a computer several floors below.
Within a millisecond the computer digested the information, searched its records and flashed an answer.
APPROVED.
AUTH. NO. 7416984
URGENT … EMERGENCY … DO NOT, REPEAT DO NOT,
ALERT MERCHANT … ADVISE YOUR SUPERVISOR …
EXECUTE IMMEDIATELY EMERGENCY INSTRUCTION 17 …
“The purchase is approved,” the operator told the caller. “Authorization number …”
She was speaking more slowly than usual. Even before she began, she had flashed a signal to an elevated supervisors’ booth. Now in the booth another young woman, one of six supervisors on duty, was already reading her own duplication of the cathode ray tube display. She reached for a card index, seeking emergency instruction 17.
The original operator deliberately stumbled over the authorization number and began again. Emergency signals were not flashed often, but when it happened there were standard procedures which operators knew. Slowing down was one. In the past, murderers had been caught, a kidnap victim saved, disappearances solved, stolen art treasures recovered, a son brought to his dying mother’s bedside—all because a computer had been alerted to the possibility that a particular credit card might be used, and if and when it was, prompt action was essential. At such moments, while others took the needed action, a few seconds’ foot-dragging by an operator could help significantly.