Operation Underworld (17 page)
“You still wanna take the bridge, Mr Lanza?”
“No, they’ll have it covered. What time is it?”
“Twenty afta aleven.”
“Get off on 96th, cut across the park. Go to Central Park South. A little birdie told me we could probably find our friends there.” Twenty minutes later, as predicted, they found the dark blue sedan parked on Central Park South and Sixth Avenue.
Both agents were outside their parked vehicle and while the driver was half way through a hot dog, the senior agent stood by a telephone booth, impatiently waiting for a location check, smoking a cigarette in the cold midday air.
Lanza and Frankie had driven past them, turned around at Columbus Circle and were half a block away, approaching from the west end of the park.
The corner pay phone finally rang and before he had the receiver to his ear the senior agent heard his partner yelling, “There they are! The bastards are back!”
Pointing at them, he threw the remainder of his lunch into the street and drew his service revolver. His partner yelled into the phone. “We got them! East on Central Park South! We’re rolling!”
Slamming the phone down, he ran to the car as his partner fired three rounds at the passing truck. The first two shots buried themselves in the wooden bed of the vehicle, but the third shattered the small rear windshield, spraying glass all over Lanza and Frankie. Lanza went straight to boiling.
“Dem crazy bastards! Shootin’wild in the streets like that! Did you see that shit?” Without waiting for an answer, he put the bag on the floor and reached into his shoulder holster. Frankie gradually accelerated after turning south onto Fifth Avenue and slowly smiled as he watched Socks do a quick functions check on the .45 Colt.
He gradually reduced his speed to allow the FBI agents to close the gap between vehicles.
“Hold her steady, kid. Don’t make no sudden moves.” Breaking out some residual glass in the rear window and bracing himself against the frame, Lanza fired two rounds into the grill of the sedan, which by now was only two car lengths behind, and one into the windshield between the two agents.
Radiator fluid gushed from the grill and the fan could be heard whacking the engine.
As steam hissed out of the grill through the bullet holes, the two agents, panicked by the shots, lost control of the car, which snaked back and forth across first three, then all six lanes of Fifth Avenue traffic. A Canadian tour bus swerved to miss the sedan and climbed halfway up a Sunshine taxi parked on the north bound side, before coming to a halt.
The agent driving the sedan struggled against the uncontrollable momentum of the huge vehicle, but managed to regain steering long enough to avoid hitting the parked cars on his right. However, the serpentine pattern continued and they quickly ran out of road. Only a few seconds later, they slammed through the wrought-iron fence surrounding the public library at 42nd Street.
Pedestrians, as well as visitors walking to and from the busy building, were thrown into pandemonium as the momentum of the large vehicle sent it careening up the granite stairs and crashing violently into one of the Corinthian columns adorning the entrance.
Socks turned back around in his seat and replaced his weapon as they continued down the avenue.
“Dopy bastards!” He turned back and yelled out the window. “This ain’t Chicago, ya know!!”
“Where to, Socks?”
“What time is it?”
“Twelve-twenty”
“Go to Tompkins.”
Tompkins Square Park was a small park which occupied about three square blocks. The centre of the park was dominated by a large grassy field surrounded by a paved walk and benches spread out around the footpath and other areas. Tompkins provided visitors with a refuge from the urban landscape by virtue of the tall trees and assorted foliage dominating the entire perimeter. Due to its small size, only four gates were available to enter or leave the park, one at each corner.
Socks had Frankie drop him off at East Houston and Essex and told him to wait at the Tenth Street entrance. He then began to stroll slowly north on Avenue A with the bag tucked under his arm. Within one block of the park, he noticed a man following him.
At exactly twelve-thirty the party started.
Socks appeared and made his way across the brown grass towards the north west corner of the park, waving in an exaggerated manner to an old man sitting on a bench, feeding the pigeons. Lanza sat down next to him and slipped him a small container which he removed from the brown bag.
Three of Hoover’s men, inconspicuous in their gray suits, and black shiny shoes, worked their way past the crippled beggar in the grass, the old lady on the bench and four old men sitting at a table playing chess
The three agents had slipped around behind Lanza and the man, and remained out of sight in their imaginary stealth. Fedoras cocked at just the right angle, arms outstretched with snub-nosed .38’s pointed at the ready, they sprang forth precisely as Lanza was helping the old man loosen the lid on the jar of heart medicine he had removed from the brown paper bag.
“Get your hands up and drop your weapons!” The crippled beggar stood behind one of the agents and held a pistol to the nape of his neck as he spoke. Turning slowly towards the right to look at his assailant, the agent saw the four chess players now had their military issue .45’s aimed straight at his two partners.
“I suggest you comply, gentlemen.” It was the old man sitting on the bench, who had a remarkably young voice. As the revolvers were being collected, Lanza saw his cue and immediately stood and walked towards the exit in the north east corner of the park.
Two unmarked sedans pulled up to the gate, to a position just behind the assorted collection of Government agents and, as the last of the FBI agents was handcuffed and escorted into the back of the first car, they were driven away by the old woman. The Naval Intelligence Operatives piled into the second car and both vehicles U-turned and drove away from the park.
“Excuse me. I have a delivery for a Mr. D. A. Hogan.” The young Parcel Post driver consulted his clipboard as he spoke to the fat, red faced guard at the city court house behind the window.
“That’s DA Hogan, numbskull! You know, as in District Attorney of New York City DA!” the obese guard corrected.
“I’m impressed. You can spell.” The driver leaned forward and eyed the rotund stomach of the guard. “Guess I don’t have to ask why you’re not on active duty. Meanwhile, I still have a package for this guy Hogan. Where is he?”
“Some place you ain’t goin’. It’s restricted.” The guard smiled at being able to exercise what little power he didn’t have.
“Fine by me, lumpy. I get paid either way,” the driver said as he turned to walk away. “Tell him it’s a priority shipment from the Department of Naval Intelligence, and it’s marked Classified Delivery.” He was nearly out of the door. “He can pick it up between nine and five at the uptown… er… the North Bronx station.”
The guard had a noticeable change in attitude when he heard the classified part, and forcing himself out of the booth, which he normally did only twice a day, he waddled out to the street to the driver, who was already in his truck.
“You said there was a classified ticket on that package?” Trying to be humble while attempting to project authority was difficult.
“Yep.”
“Maybe you better get that upstairs. Ta the fourth floor.”
By now it was nearly three o’clock and after the DA’s secretary had signed for the package and the DA got around to opening it, it was four-fifteen. The three FBI agents had been in their cell at the Federal Holding Facility on Governor’s Island for nearly four hours.
The DA stood alone in his office behind his desk, hands on hips, staring down at the three badges, empty service revolvers and ID cards which lay in a neat stack on his desk, and his secretary was attempting to contact the New York office of the FBI.
Hogan knew the taps were now essentially useless, but could not bring himself to give the order to disconnect them. When a judge grants special permission to install a wire tap, he is very unhappy when he finds out it has been in place for several months, and nothing came of it. Most judges believe it reflects on the competency of the police work. Hogan had asked for two bugs, one for each of Lanza’s phones. The judges were justified in their beliefs.
“Which one’s Moe? Huh? Just tell me that. I want to know which one’s Moe?” It was now seven-thirty, and although it had only been an hour and a half since their release, the three FBI agents already missed the serenity of their cell, on Governor’s Island.
“Somebody’s got to be Moe because I know
I’M LOOKING AT THE THREE FUCKING STOOGES
!”
The three agents stood motionless in front of the desk. Hoover’s New York office at 69th Street and Third Avenue was only used by him on rare occasions. It was situated in a good part of town only three blocks off the FDR Drive and not far from Roosevelt Island. He hated New York. Mabel, the middle-aged secretary, could hear him through the sound-proofed door and decided it was a good time to call it a night. She quickly gathered her things and left.
“How in God’s name did you three ever get selected for New York branch? Did you know somebody? Did you have connections? Better yet, how the
HELL DID YOU EVEN GET SELECTED FOR AGENT TRAINING
?” Hoover paced behind the big desk while the New York Bureau chief sat quietly in the corner, hands folded in front of his face. He didn’t respond when Hoover addressed him.
“I hope ta hell this isn’t the best you’ve got up here!” He finally took his seat. The oversized desk made his small stature look clownish as he spoke again.
“Okay, ladies. Here’s what we’re gonna do. Have the secretary… what’s her name?”
“Mabel, sir. Her name is Mabel” the agent, answered quickly and mechanically.
“Have Mabel contact the DA’s office in the morning and your three… agents, will go over there and collect their government issue service revolvers. You know. The ones you swore an oath
NEVER TO RELINQUISH
! And then you will camp out on top of Socks Lanza. Not in the same neighborhood, not in the vicinity,
ON TOP
! He stops short, I want you up his ass! Somethin’ is goin’ on down on the waterfront and I intend to get to the bottom of it! Are we clear?”
No one was in a hurry to speak. Finally, the tallest of the three agents mustered the courage.
“Ahh, Director, we can’t go over in the morning.”
“And why the hell not, Moe?”
“Sir, the city offices are closed on Saturday.”
Hoover was heating up again. He yelled through the soundproofed door for the secretary.
“Mabel!
MABEL
! Find out how to get a hold of the DA on a Saturday morning and book me a flight to Washington, for first thing Monday!”
Mabel didn’t answer.
Doc was different from the average working class individual. Other than being willing to take a risk, a contributing factor to the financial mess in which he now found himself, he liked Monday mornings. It’s not that it was any easier for him to get out of bed at the irritating sound of the alarm clock, but he always looked on Mondays as a time to start over. Another opportunity to keep that promise to himself he’d been breaking since New Year’s Day. Or to do some little thing he put off all last week.
Louie, on the other hand, had a much more practical view towards these things. Every year Louie made the same New Year’s resolution, which was not to make a New Year’s resolution. And he never broke his resolution. Not once. This way, he significantly reduced the amount of personal anguish he would put himself through in the following 364 days.
Now, with the new glass panel on the front door, the office cleaned up, and a new table in the right hand corner of the room for Louie to work at, Doc felt a sense of renewal as he entered the office on this peaceful Monday morning. Adding to his sense of satisfaction was another case closed. Better than that, a potentially ugly divorce case with a happy ending. Very rare. Doc felt good about it, he liked the Birnbaums.
It was nine thirty-five and Louie was late. He was always late on Monday mornings, but there wasn’t that much to do. Doc played a game of mental darts with Louie’s good excuse calendar. The subway was late, the alarm didn’t go off, or Doris was sick and he had to drop the kids off at school.
