Sicilian Defense (21 page)

“Two. Two big
tutzones
. The miserable bastards. What's supposed to happen now?”

“After we make the payoff, they'll let you drive away.”

“You trust those no good bastards?” Sal asked.

“We have no choice. At least you're in a car by yourself,” said Gianni.

“I ought to put on the brakes and let them crash into me.”

“Sal, don't start going crazy,” Gianni cautioned. “If they don't let you go, you can start doing things like that. Right now, let's play it straight.”

“Whatever you say,
compard' ou me
.”

Curtis walked casually into the bowling alley. It was a huge open place, with 35 lanes, side by side. About six lanes were being used. To the right was a snack bar. To the left was a supply shop which was now closed. Directly in front of Curtis was a counter with a man seated at a cash register.

“Bowl?” the man asked.

“Not right now,” replied Curtis. He walked to the left, where the active lanes were. Behind the alleys were three rows of spectator seats. Curtis stood behind them, watching a black ball drone down alley 3, crashing for a 7-10 split. He could feel Frankie the Pig and Bobby Matteawan staring at him from alley 5. Angie the Kid was getting set to roll.

“Maybe that's one of the niggers?” Bobby Matteawan whispered to Frankie the Pig.

“I just wish I knew,” Frankie the Pig whispered. “I'd strangle the son of a bitch right here.”

“There's another nigger bowling by himself on alley 3. Maybe he's another one,” said Matteawan.

There was a crash of pins. “Hey, I got a strike, I got a strike,” Angie the Kid exulted, hopping back to the scoring table.

“Fuck the strike, Kid. Keep bowling,” said Frankie the Pig.

“But I just did. It's your turn,” said Angie the Kid.

“Yeah, maybe you'd better, Frankie,” said Bobby Matteawan.

“No, you go next,” Frankie the Pig said. “I don't even know how. Besides, I want to watch those niggers.”

Curtis noticed the colored man bowling by himself in lane 3. He wanted to get out from under the eyes of Frankie the Pig. He moved down toward lane 3.

“Hey, how you doin'?” asked Hartley, seeing Curtis standing behind him. He was glad for a little cover himself.

“How you doin'?” replied Curtis. “You got a game?”

“No,” replied Hartley. “I'm just throwing a few balls. Want to join me?”

“Sure,” said Curtis. He walked up to the main desk and rented a pair of shoes. He went back to lane 3 and put them on.

By this time Frankie the Pig was moving awkwardly toward the foul line, the bowling ball dangling heavily from his three fingers. He lumbered across the line and released it. It traveled through the air halfway down the alley and landed with a crunch on the polished wood.

“Alley 5,” said the main desk over the loudspeakers. “A little easier on the woodwork, please.”

“
A fongool
,” said Frankie the Pig, walking back to the bench, giving the main desk a deadly side glance.

“Hey, you've got another turn, Frankie,” said Angie the Kid.

“Stuff it up in your ass,” said Frankie as he sat down.

“I'm Frank Smith,” Hartley said, shaking Curtis' hand.

“Burton Shaw,” Curtis replied. He began trying his fingers in the bowling balls on the rack behind him.

Hartley rolled a ball and took down all but one pin.

“Nice shot,” said Curtis walking forward.

“Thanks,” said Hartley. “You from around here?”

“No, Long Island City. I was supposed to meet some guys here,” said Curtis. “But I don't see them.” He noticed that Hartley was carefully watching Frankie the Pig and the others. Hartley took down the other pin with the second ball. Curtis bowled a six on his first ball. His second ball took down one more.

“How the hell long do I have to keep driving?” Sal complained into the phone.

“
Pazienza, compard
',” said Gianni, “it won't be long until the payoff, then you'll be free.”

“I think we're in Long Island somewhere, but I'm not sure,” said Sal.

“They still behind you?”

“Right on my ass.”

A phone began to ring behind them. Frankie the Pig leaped up. The phone kept ringing. The man from the main desk started toward the three booths. So did Frankie the Pig. Frankie made it first. But none of those phones was ringing—Frankie the Pig could still hear the sound coming from somewhere in back. The man from the main desk pushed open the door of the men's room. The phone stopped ringing. The man came out.

“Is there a Larry Fields here?” he called out.

“Yeah, that's for me,” said Frankie the Pig. He rushed into the men's room. The phone was on the wall, the receiver dangling, making a slow circle through the air. Frankie snared it.

“Hello?”

“You ready to move?” asked Bull.

“Ready.” Frankie's lips curled in hate.

“This isn't the same voice,” said Bull.

“No. I'm making the payoff. He sent me,” said Frankie the Pig.

“Okay. Now get it straight the first time. You ready?”

“Come on, come on,” said Frankie the Pig. “Let's not waste time.”

“Okay then, listen.” Bull spoke and Frankie the Pig listened.

Curtis had watched Frankie the Pig go into the men's room to get the call. He wasn't sure Communications had tapped that number. Even if they had, he thought he'd better get back to Schmidt and be ready to move. This was coming off right now.

“I think I'm going to split,” said Curtis, turning to Hartley. “I'm going to try to find those cats that were supposed to meet me.”

“Okay, thanks for the game,” said Hartley. He too was watching the men's room door.

Curtis took off the bowling shoes, put on his own and moved as quickly as he could without attracting notice.

“Here comes Curtis,” Feigin's voice squawked through the walkie-talkie.

“I got him,” said Schmidt.

Curtis moved quickly to the station wagon and got inside. “The call is coming in over the men's room phone.”

“Shit,” said Schmidt. “Stake One to headquarters, Stake One to headquarters, do you read me?”

“We read you,” the box squawked with a great deal of static. Schmidt turned up the squelch button.

“Anything from Communications yet?” Schmidt asked.

“Hold on,” said the voice at the local precinct house. There was a long pause. “Nope, nothing coming through on any of the tapped phones. I just called them.”

Schmidt frowned. “We won't need any radio patrol cars then. We'll have to play it by ear from here.”

“Roger,” said the voice from the precinct.

“You get that, Stake Two?” Schmidt asked.

“We're listening,” said Feigin.

“Have they come out yet?”

“Not yet. We're watching.”

The wall phone rang in the garage. Joey picked it up. “Hello? It's Frankie the Pig, Gianni,” Joey told him; “he's got the place for the payoff. He wants to know if it's all right to go to make the payoff.”

“You still okay, Sal?” Gianni asked into the other phone.

“Okay, but hurry up, for Christ's sake,” said Sal. “I'll be in Palermo soon.”

Gianni laughed. “Ask Frankie where he has to make the payoff,” he said to Joey.

Joey spoke into the wall phone, then turned to Gianni. “Woodlawn Cemetery.”

Gianni nodded slowly. “Tell Frankie it's okay to go.”

“Here they come now,” Feigin's voice squawked softly.

“Don't follow them too obviously,” cautioned the lieutenant.

“How the hell can you follow anybody in this godforsaken area without them knowing it,” said Feigin. “No wonder they picked it. There they go.”

Bobby Matteawan's car screamed across the parking lot and into the night. Schmidt floored his accelerator.

“Take the squawk box and tell Feigin to hustle it up,” Schmidt said to Curtis.

The two private cars with police raced out of the parking lot and onto the city streets. Bobby Matteawan made a left turn a block ahead. Schmidt was first to get to the corner. He reached the turn in time to catch sight of Matteawan making another right.

“The son of a bitch is trying to ditch us,” said Schmidt. “He knows we're back here.”

“Hello, mobile operator, did you get through to my number yet?” Bull asked. He was on the far side of Woodlawn Cemetery in a phone booth. His car was parked near a gate, the motor running.

“I am trying, sir. I can't seem to get a circuit right now. Do you want to place your call later?”

“No, I want to place it now. It's an emergency,” said Bull. “I've got to get a call through to that car.”

“I'm sorry, there are only a few circuits, sir,” said the mobile operator.

“Just get me one, will you, baby. I have to get that car.”

“Sir, I can't just cut in on anybody, can I?”

Bull drew in his breath. She was a sister, so he couldn't very well dress her down. “No, I guess you can't. I'll hold on.”

“I have other calls to make, sir. You hold on by yourself. I'll come back.” The phone went dead.

“That's a nigger bitch,” Bull muttered as he held the phone to his ear. He looked toward where Alfred would appear after he got the money.

“Come on, Bobby, you're losing those bastards,” said Frankie the Pig, looking out the rear window. Schmidt's car hadn't even turned the last corner as Bobby Matteawan threw his car into a four-wheel drift and gunned around another left turn.

“They aren't going to follow us nowhere,” said Bobby Matteawan, his face tense as he watched every object hurtling up in front of them. They screamed on through the dark.

“Alert the precinct,” Schmidt told Curtis. “Use the walkie-talkie. See if any prowl cars can see this crazy bastard in front of us.”

Curtis spoke to the precinct.

“Okay, we'll put out a bulletin,” squawked the box.

“No, for Christ's sake,” screamed Schmidt. “Tell them just to try and watch where the hell the car is headed.”

Curtis repeated the message.

“Roger,” said the precinct. “One of our cars just spotted them. They're headed west, back to New York.”

Schmidt turned left and headed in that direction.

“I can place your call now,” the operator said to Bull.

“Thank you, operator,” Bull said through clenched teeth. He heard the ringing at the other end. It was a funny buzz of a ring.

“Hello?” said Yank's voice, faint and streaked with static.

“It's me,” said Bull. “Everything okay?”

“Me and Duck're right behind him,” Yank replied.

“Okay here too,” said Bull. “I'm waiting for Momma to show. Hang on till he arrives.”

“Yeah, Momma,” said Yank.

“You hold now, and we'll keep this thing open,” said Bull. “It's tough getting through to you.

“Okay.”

Bobby Matteawan turned left onto the overpass, crossing the highway to New York, and turned left again. He was next to the cemetery. There were no streetlights nearby. The place was as silent as tombs usually are. The wind was whistling cold and wet across the frozen trees. As far as they could see, the entire cemetery was surrounded by a ten-foot stone and cement wall.

“What a place this guy picks,” said Frankie the Pig, surveying the wall. “Who the hell could even get over that wall? And if you got to the top, they'd kill you before you hit the ground.”

“What do we do now?” asked Bobby Matteawan.

“We go slow until we see a white cloth over the wall. Then we just throw the money over.”

Matteawan drove slowly along the curb while Frankie the Pig and Angie the Kid watched the wall. Frankie said, “Shut off your lights.”

Bobby Matteawan shut the lights and continued slowly.

“There it is,” said Angie the Kid. Over the wall, apparently suspended by a rope, a white handkerchief was bobbing.

“Stop the car,” said Frankie the Pig. He got out and studied the handkerchief, then the wall above. It was solid stone and cement, without an opening anywhere in sight.

“You there, you black cocksucker?” he shouted into the wind.

“Just throw that bread over, you white motherfucker,” shouted Alfred, from the other side.

“I'd cut you open with a knife and shit in your chest, you lousy black bastard,” Frankie shouted.

“I ain't got all day,” Alfred replied. “Throw that stuff, or I'll do the same to that old man of yours.”

Frankie heaved the money bag over the wall. He watched it sail out of view, then heard movement on the other side. The car behind him moved quickly onto the sidewalk and pulled up directly next to the wall. Matteawan and Angie were out in a moment, jumping onto the hood and then the roof. Frankie the Pig leaped up beside them. Their heads didn't even reach the top of the wall. Bobby Matteawan jumped up and pulled himself to the top of the wall.

“I can't see a goddamn thing,” Bobby Matteawan said.

“Okay. What are you guys doing up there?” Lieutenant Schmidt said from behind them. Flashlights shone on the three men standing on the roof of the car. Quinn pulled up directly behind Schmidt's car. Feigin flashed a third light on the three men standing stock still on the car roof.

“I come to see my mother's grave,” said Bobby Matteawan, “may she rest in peace.”

Suddenly a roar of a belly laugh burst from Feigin. Quinn joined him. Schmidt looked over at his two detectives, then back at the three goons looking foolish on top of the car. He began to laugh and turned out his flashlight.

Bull was still holding the phone, talking to Yank. He heard a noise, and then footsteps. He saw Alfred squeezing through the bars of the gate.

“You got it, man?” asked Bull.