To the office. The men put their hoods back on, hustled the Lefflers in their robes and slippers across the dark empty sidewalk to the storefront office, and one of them put his key in the lock and opened the door. Leffler almost smiled when he saw that.
And still he hadn’t thought of the back room. This was the Tyler office of Rubidow, Kancher & Co., a New York brokerage firm, and he was the man in charge here; he took it for granted these men were after negotiable securities, bearer bonds and paper of that sort, and that he had been brought along to open the vault, with Maureen’s presence to assure his cooperation. But as to the back room, he almost never thought about that himself, and so few other people were even aware of its existence that there was never any conversation about it and no reason to anticipate its mention by anyone. In fact, probably because of his own slightly uneasy conscience toward it, Leffler generally made a conscious effort not to be overly aware of the back room.
It had begun, a dozen years ago, with his next-to-youngest boy, Jim. All of his five children were doing well now, grown and married and scattered across the United States, none of them a cause for worry or upset, but that hadn’t always been true. Jim had gone through a troubled adolescence, involving drugs and theft and other things the Lefflers had never wanted to know too much about, and if it hadn’t been for a man named Adolf Lozini, there wasn’t any question but that Jim Leffler would be in prison today, or at the very best an ex-con out on parole, his record smeared and his future prospects ruined.
An attorney named Jack Walters had been the one to suggest, during that bad time, that Adolf Lozini might be able to help somehow. Leffler hadn’t wanted to put himself in debt to a man who was a known criminal, a syndicate gangster, but what was the alternative? He couldn’t permit Jim to go to prison, not if there was any chance at all to save him.
There had been that chance. And all in all the price Lozini had demanded had not been a hard one to pay; in the course of his dealings with legitimate businessmen over the years, Leffler had more than once been asked to skirt much closer than that to the edge of the law. Because all Lozini had wanted was the back room.
Most people who own stock do not keep the certificates physically in their own possession. Their broker holds the paper for them, both for safety—he will either have a vault on his own premises or will lease vault space from a nearby bank—and for convenience when the inevitable moment comes to sell the stock again. Rubidow, Kancher & Co. being a large firm with a large and aggressive local office in Tyler, the brokerage did have its own vault, a double-roomed structure at the rear of the company’s offices on the first floor of the Nolan Building on London Avenue. The vault shared a wall with the bank next door but had its own security system, installed and maintained by Vigilant. The larger front room of the vault was used for storage of most stocks and bonds, as well as company records. The small inner section, called the back room, was reserved for seldom-used papers, for the more delicate private transactions, for U.S. Treasury bonds and other highly negotiable securities, and for Adolf Lozini.
Lozini kept money there. So did several of Lozini’s associates, men named Buenadella and Schroder and Dulare, Simms and Shevelly and Faran. And Jack Walters, too, the attorney who had originally brought Leffler and Lozini together.
For these men, the back room of Rubidow, Rancher’s vault had a great advantage over either a foreign bank account or an American safety deposit box. Unlike the foreign account, there was never any problem about transporting the funds to or from the back room, nor was there that slightly uneasy feeling of being, after all, at the mercy of European banks and European governments which could at any time alter their politics, change their laws, redefine their banking practices.
As to a local safety deposit box, that was reasonably secure so long as a man was alive; though even so, it was possible for a district attorney with sufficient cause to get a court order and have such a box opened. But if a man should die, that’s when the true flaw in the safety deposit box would reveal itself; as a portion of the dead man’s estate, the box was required by law to be opened in the physical presence of the executor of the estate and a representative of the bank and an official from the Internal Revenue Service.
In the back room at Rubidow, Kancher, such problems didn’t exist. Adolf Lozini and his partners could add or subtract funds at any time, and if one of them should die, the others would take care of things. For Leffler, there was no risk, nor even any inconvenience.
At least, there never had been. But tonight, once Leffler and his wife were inside the office with the two hooded gunmen— the third man had stayed outside with the car—one of the men immediately said, “Okay, Mr. Leffler, let’s go take a look at the back room.”
It wasn’t until later that Leffler thought how impossible it was for these people to know that familiar in-office term; at the moment he only felt the shocked realization that it must be the Treasury bonds they were after. And his immediate response was to try to save the bonds by lying: “I can’t do that. There’s a time lock on the door.”
“You get one try at being stupid,” the gunman said, “and that was it. There’s no time lock on the vault. You do your back-room business at night.”
Leffler stared. Lozini, he thought, but couldn’t believe it. A streetlight outside the plate-glass window filled the front office with a deceptively dark pink glow; in that light, Leffler tried to read the featureless hoods and the stances of the bodies. How much did these two know?
Everything. One of them said, “That’s right, Mr. Leffler, it’s the mob’s money we want.”
It’s caught up with me, Leffler thought, sagging at once into despair, and he moved along uncomplainingly when one of them took him by the elbow and steered him deeper into the office, away from the pink sheen of the streetlight and toward the darkness of the vault.
* * *
Nick Rifkin wished his wife wouldn’t snore like that. It was humiliating to him, in front of these bastards. He stood beside the bed, barefoot, feeling chilly, and watched one of them fill a leather bag with the money from the safe while the other one stood back by the dresser and kept an eye and a gun on Nick. And Angela, undisturbed by light, by conversation, by anything at all, just lay there on her back with her mouth open and snooooored. Christ, she was loud.
Finally he couldn’t take it any more. To the one by the dresser, he said, “You mind if I turn her over?”
“You should turn her off,” the guy said. “Go ahead.”
“Thanks,” Nick said, but he kept the sarcasm muted. Turning, he put one knee on the bed, leaned over, and poked Angela on the shoulder and the upper arm until she snorted and cleared her throat and complainingly rolled over onto her side. And became silent.
Nick straightened up again, to see the other one coming out of the closet, carrying the closed and full leather bag. Nick looked at the bag, sorry to see all that money go. No matter what happened, no matter who else got blamed for this, some of the shit was bound to fall on his own head and he knew it. “You guys are really making me a mess,” he said.
The one by the dresser said, “I’ll give you inside information. You won’t even be noticed in the rush.”
Nick gave him a sharp look. For the first time it occurred to him that maybe something more than a simple heist was taking place here. He’d heard rumbles the end of last week, some kind of trouble, a guy that was being looked for—could this be connected?
Uh uh; that was something else he didn’t want to know. “I’ll take your word for it,” he said.