That isn’t merely being tough; it’s being insane.
Still, Joe and I had an edge over the normal safecracker or the normal dishonest employee. We had the facilities of the Police Department to help us, to provide us with material for the robbery and specific information — such as blueprints of alarm systems and other security measures — on whichever brokerage we finally decided to concentrate on.
There was one that looked promising, called Parker, Tobin, Eastpoole & Co. They were in a building near the corner of John and Pearl streets, and I went down there one day to check them out. The building had the typical small lobby of that area — they really don’t like to waste space, those financial people — and three elevators. Parker, Tobin, Eastpoole & Co. was on the sixth and seventh and eighth floors, but I already knew it was the seventh floor I wanted, since I’d checked out the alarm-system on file at Police Headquarters downtown.
The elevator was pretty full, and three of us got off together at the seventh floor. Which was good; it gave me a chance to hang back and look at things while the other two went forward to the counter.
The elevator had opened onto a fairly large room, much wider than deep, divided the long way by a chest-high counter. The security arrangements seemed to be typical for a large brokerage. Two armed and uniformed private guards were on duty behind the counter. On the wall in back of them was a large pegboard with maybe twenty plastic ID tags hanging from it, plus room for about a hundred more. Each tag had a color photograph on it of the person it belonged to, plus a signature written underneath. Mounted on the short wall down to the right were six closed-circuit television sets, each showing a different area of the brokerage, including one showing this reception area I was standing in. Above the sets was the TV camera, turning slowly back and forth like a fan. On the other short wall, the one down to my left, was a second pegboard, smaller than the first, holding about twenty-five ID tags marked in big letters: VISITOR. Doorways at both ends of the room led into the work areas.
There was a steady stream of activity around the counter. Arriving employees were picking up their ID tags, departing employees were turning them in, messengers were delivering manila envelopes. I got to stand there for maybe a full two minutes, checking things out.
The first thing I noticed was that only one of the guards dealt with the people who came to the counter. The other one stood back by the rear wall, keeping an eye on things; watching the people, looking over at the television sets, staying alert while his partner did the detail work.
Then there were the television sets. They were in black-and-white, but the pictures were crisp and clear. You could see the people moving around in different rooms, and you could make out their faces with no trouble at all. And I knew this bank of six sets would be repeated probably three or four other places on this floor; in the boss’s office, in the security chief’s office, in the vault anteroom, maybe one or two other places.
It was also more than likely to be going on video tape. They have video tape now that can be erased and recorded on again, the same as regular sound tape, and that’s what they’d have. They might keep the tape for a week or a month or maybe even longer, so that if it turned out later that somebody had pulled a fast one, they could run the tapes through again and see who was where at what time.
“Can I help you?”
It was the guard, the one who dealt with people, looking across the counter at me. He was brusque and impatient, because of the amount of work he had to do, but he wasn’t suspicious. I stepped forward to the counter, trying for the world’s most innocent and stupid smile. Pointing at the television sets, I said, “Is that me?”
He gave a brief bored look at the screens. “That’s you,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
“I’ve never been on television before,” I said. I looked at the screen as though I was fascinated; and to tell the truth, I was. I’d worn the moustache again, and I was amazed at what I looked like with a moustache. Totally different. I wouldn’t have recognized me if I met me walking down the street.
The guard was getting impatient. He looked me over for manila envelopes and said, “You a messenger?”
I didn’t want to hang around and pester him for so long that I became memorable. Besides, I’d seen all I was going to see out here, and there was no way I was going to get inside. Not today. I said, “No, I’m looking for the personnel office. I’m supposed to come to work here.”
“That’s on the eighth floor,” the guard said, and jabbed a thumb toward the ceiling.
“Oh,” I said. “Then I’m in the wrong place.”
“That’s right,” he said.
“Thanks,” I said, and went back over to the elevators and pushed the button. While waiting, I looked around some more. You sure had to admire their security. And yet, this was the likeliest prospect.
Joe
I didn’t much like visiting Paul in the hospital. I don’t like hospitals anyway, but I particularly don’t like them when there’s a brother officer in there. I don’t like that reminder.
Did you ever watch pro football on television, and notice what happens when one of the players gets hurt? He’s laying there on the ground, moving his knees a little, and maybe one or two other players go over to see what the story is, but all the rest kind of walk off by themselves and pretend they have a problem with their shoes. I know exactly how they feel, I do. It isn’t they’re heartless or anything, it’s just they don’t like to be reminded how easy it could turn out to be one of them.
Same with me. I had plenty of chances to visit Paul, but until I was feeling really good and guilty I wouldn’t go at all. Then I’d finally go and there’d be nothing to say, and we’d sit around and watch soap operas together for half an hour. It’s a funny thing, we always had plenty to talk about in the car, but not in the hospital. The hospital is death on conversation.
So I was there again, going back and forth at the foot of the bed. Paul was in a semiprivate room, but the other bed was empty right now. His windows gave a good clear view of a brick wall. If you stood right next to the window and looked down you could see green grass, but if Paul could have stood next to the window he wouldn’t have to be in the hospital, and from the bed what you saw was brick wall.
The television set mounted on the wall was turned on, but the sound was off. Paul was sitting up in bed, newspapers and magazines all around him, and he kept sneaking glances at the TV.
I was trying to think of something to say. I hate long uncomfortable silences.
Paul said, “Listen, Joe, if you want to get back out there, it’s okay.”
I stopped walking, and tried to look interested. “No, no, this is fine. What the hell, let Lou drive around a while.” Lou was Paul’s replacement in the car, a rookie.
Paul said, “How’s he doing?”
“He’s okay,” I said. I shrugged, not much caring. Then I tried to keep the conversation alive, saying, “He’s too gung ho, that’s all. I’ll be glad to get you back.”
“Me too.” He grinned and said, “Can you believe it? I want to go to work.”
“A couple of times,” I told him, “I would have traded places with you.”
All of a sudden he started scratching his leg through the covers. “They keep telling me it won’t itch anymore,” he said.
“I haven’t seen the doctor yet,” I said, “that knew his ass from his elbow.” I nodded at the other bed. “At least you don’t have the old geek around anymore. They send him home?”