Carlow explained, “Ed wants to know do we have to lock up,” which wasn’t true, but a good thing to say.
The real estate agent grinned and shook his head. “I don’t think you couldlock up,” he said, “unless you brought your own, and your own hasps. I know there’s fewer keys than doors, and there’s at least two of these back doors, old wood, shrunk down, you can push ‘em open when they’re locked.”
Parker said, “So nobody else comes around.”
“The propane gas man makes deliveries. If you boys take the place, I’ll call him and tell him, and he’ll come by with two fresh bottles. Otherwise, nobody else comes out.” Grinning again, he said, “You won’t get mail here.”
“Good,” Parker said, and Carlow said, “That’s what we want, get away from it all.”
“I knew this was the right place for you fellas,” the real estate agent said.
Parker said, “I’ll pay you the rent and deposit with a money order, if that’s okay. Neither of us wants his wife to see this place in the checking account.”
The real estate agent laughed hugely. “You boys got it all worked out,” he said.
“We hope so,” Carlow said.
3
“I’d vote for him,” Wycza said.
He and Parker stood in the international arrivals building of American Airlines at JFK, where the passengers from the London flight were just now coming through the wide doorway from Customs and Immigration. Waiting for them out here were some relatives, a lot of chauffeurs holding up signs with names written on them, and Parker and Wycza. Parker had just pointed out the guy they were waiting for, Lou Sternberg, the American heister who lived in London and who was going to be their state assemblyman.
Short and stout, with thick black hair and a round face wearing a habitual expression of grievance, Lou Sternberg was in a rumpled brown suit and open Burberry raincoat, and he walked with slow difficulty, twisted to one side to balance the heavy black garment bag that weighed down his right shoulder. A smaller brown leather bag dangled from his left hand. He looked like a businessman escaping a war zone, and pissed off about it.
“Travels light,” Wycza commented.
“He likes to be comfortable,” Parker said.
“Yeah? He don’t look comfortable to me.”
Sternberg had seen them now, so Parker turned around and walked out, Wycza with him, and Sternberg trailing. They went out past the line of people waiting for taxis, and the inner roadway full of stopped cars at angles with their trunks open, and paused at the outer roadway, where Wycza pushed the traffic-light button.
Before the light changed to green, Sternberg caught up with them, huffing and red-faced. He was known for dressing too warmly for any climate he was in, so he was sweating now, rivulets down his round cheeks.
Parker said, “Dan, Lou.”
Wycza nodded. “How ya doin.”
“Miserable,” Sternberg told him, looked him up and down, and said, “You look big enough to carry this bag.”
“So do you,” Wycza told him, but then shrugged and grinned and said, “But what the hell.” He took the garment bag and put it on his own shoulder, and it seemed as though it must be much lighter now.
The light was green for pedestrians. They walked over into the parking lot and down the row toward the car Wycza was using, a large forest-green Lexus, big enough so Wycza could ride around in it without feeling cramped. Unlocking the Lexus, they put Sternberg’s bags in the trunk and Sternberg in the back seat, where he sat and huffed like a long distance swimmer after a tough race.
Wycza drove, Parker beside him, and as they headed out of the airport Parker turned partway around in the seat to tell Sternberg, “The guy you’ve got to look at is in Brooklyn, but there aren’t any hotels in Brooklyn, so we’re putting you in one in Manhattan, but way downtown, so it won’t take you long to get over there.”
Sternberg had taken out a large white handkerchief and was mopping his face. He said, “Who’s financing?”
“We’re doing it ourselves, as we go,” Parker told him. “There isn’t that much for the setup.”
“So I must be here legitimately,” Sternberg said. “I know, I’m looking at art.”
“Then that’s why you’re downtown,” Parker told him. “Near the galleries.”
“I think of everything,” Sternberg agreed. Then he said, “I don’t know our driver here, Dan thank you, Dan, for carrying that goddam heavy bag but I take it he’s a good friend of yours. Who else is aboard? Anyone I know?”
“Two you know,” Parker told him. “Talking about art. Remember that painting heist went wrong?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
There was a girl in it, Noelle Braselle.”
“Oh, yes,” Sternberg said, brightening up. “A tasty thing. Tommy Carpenter’s girl, isn’t she?”
“Was. He’s off the bend, she’s still on.”
“I liked looking at her, as I recall. So that’s a plus. Who else?”
“Our driver’s Mike Carlow, he says he worked with you in Iowa once, with Ed Mackey.”
“I do remember him,” Sternberg said. “He came in at the last minute, something happened to the first driver, I forget what. He seemed all right. Anybody else?”
“I got a river rat to run the boat we need,” Parker told him. “He isn’t one of us, isn’t a part of the job, he’s just the guy with the boat. So we don’t tell him a lot, don’t hang out with him.”
“Where’d you get him?”
“A fella named Pete Rudd, that’s reliable.”
“I don’t think I know any Rudds, but I’ll take your word for it. Does this river rat get a full share?”
“No.”
Sternberg smiled. “Does he get anything?”
Parker shrugged. “Sure, why not. If he does his job, and lets it go at that.”
4
All-City Surgical and Homecare Supply occupied an old loft building in the east twenties of Manhattan, among importers, jobbers, restaurant equipment wholesalers, and a button manufacturer. Because there are petty thieves always at work in the city, every one of these buildings was protected at night by heavy metal gates over their street-level entrances and display windows, plus gates locked over every window that faced a fire escape.
Because none of the businesses on this block did much by way of walk-in trade, they all shut down by five or six in the afternoon, so when Parker and Car-low drove down the block at quarter after six that Wednesday evening nothing was open. One curb was lined with parked cars, but there was very little moving traffic and almost no pedestrians.
They stopped in front of All-City Surgical and Homecare, and got out of the van they’d lifted earlier today over in New Jersey. On both sides, the van said, TRI*STATE CARTAGE, with a colored painting of a forklift. Carlow stood watching as Parker bent over the padlock holding the gate and tried the half-dozen keys in his palm, one of which would have to work on this kind of lock.
It was the third. Parker removed the padlock, opened the hasp, and shoved the gate upward. It made a racket, but that didn’t matter. It was full daylight, they were clearly workmen doing a legitimate job, they had a key, they weren’t trying to hide or sneak around, and what would they find to steal, anyway, in a place full of wheelchairs and crutches?
The fourth of another set of keys opened the entrance door, and as they stepped inside Parker was already taking the small screwdriver from his pocket. Right there was the alarm keypad, just to the left of the door, its red light gleaming in the semi-darkness. While Carlow lowered the gate and shut the door, Parker unscrewed the pad and pulled it from the wall. He had either thirty or forty-five seconds, depending on the model, before the pad would signal the security company’s office; plenty of time. He didn’t know the four-digit code that would disarm the system, but it would work just as well to short it across these two connections back here.