Three police cars had gone by in the last fifteen minutes, two out Brower Road in the direction O’Hara and Dunstan had taken and one back this way, toward Abelard Road. None of the cops had so much as glanced at the Lincoln parked beside the building here.
Benniggio was still perched on the edge of the other desk, looking out the window at the gates across the way. He’d been there over half an hour now. At first he’d tried to keep a conversation going, but Caliato hadn’t felt much like talking, and it couldn’t have been easy for Benniggio anyway, having to talk to somebody while keeping his back turned, so for the last quarter-hour they’d waited in silence.
Nothing had happened across the way yet, but that was only natural. It would take the guy in there a while to find out what kind of a box he was in. Would he then try to get out again? That would be the easiest, from Caliato’s point of view. Wait till he’d tossed his suitcase back over the gate and was climbing over after it. Then step outside and pot him. Pick up the suitcase, get into the car, drive away. Leave the body there. If it ever was connected to the robbery, it would just be a fourth man, not the one O’Hara and Dunstan had reported getting away with the swag.
But Caliato doubted it would happen that way. It depended on how much of an amateur he was, that guy over there, and Caliato had the feeling he hadn’t been an amateur for a long time. If he was a pro, that guy, he wouldn’t try to leave the park at all. He’d find a cozy place in there to hole up for a day or two until the outside world cooled, and then be out and on his way.
Was there any food in there now? Maybe in the kitchens of the restaurants, some staples, some canned stuff. Not much, though, if anything. The guy probably had a two-day limit before he’d have to come out.
Not that he’d be around for two days.
He wondered if the guy was pro enough to walk out when O’Hara called him. That was Caliato’s plan, to have O’Hara and Dunstan make themselves plain in their police uniforms, have them call to the guy to surrender himself. They had a loud-hailer in their patrol car, they could make themselves heard wherever he was hiding in the park.
A pro would come out. There hadn’t been any killings, just the robbery. A pro would know enough to come out and take a prison sentence rather than stay holed up and have to be shot.
But you could never be sure. The guy might panic, having his robbery go haywire might make him act stupid and unprofessional. Or he might be wanted for murder somewhere else, it might be pointless for him to give himself up. Which was why Caliato had said yes to Lozini’s offer of three men. He could spare three hundred dollars to have three men in reserve, just in case O’Hara and Dunstan failed.
Motion made him look out of his side window, and a pale green Dodge station wagon was just arriving. It stopped out in the street, and then backed around and in beside the Lincoln, where O’Hara’s patrol car had been. Caliato watched, wondering who Lozini had sent him, and looked at the three bulky men who got out of the car.
Tony Chaka. Good. Mike Abadandi. Fair. Artie Pulsone. Good.
Caliato said, “Open the door, Benny, we’ve got company.”
Benniggio started as though he’d been asleep. “Oh! Right.” He got up from the desk and stretched, groaning, then shook his shoulders inside his overcoat and rubbed the back of his neck.
“Let me put one of them to work on the window here, okay?”
“Naturally,” Caliato said.
Benniggio went over and opened the door and they trooped in, their breath steaming. Chaka came first, Pulsone second, Abadandi third. “Hi, Benny,” Chaka said. “Hello, Mr. Caliato.”
Caliato nodded hello. He waited till Benniggio had shut the door again and then said, “Did Lozini tell you the story?”
“No, sir, Mr. Caliato, he said you’d fill us in.”
Caliato said, “Benny, get on the window again for a minute.”
Benniggio raised his eyes to heaven, but grinned to show it was just a gag. He went back over to the window, but this time didn’t sit down. He stood there with one forearm on the window sill and looked out.
Caliato said, “There was an armored-car robbery this afternoon.”
“Yeah,” said Chaka. “We heard about it on the car radio.” The other two nodded.
Caliato was interested. He said, “Do they know how much?”
“Seventy-three grand, they said.”
Benniggio glanced around, then looked out the window again.
Caliato didn’t show anything. He said, “There’s a guy across the way in the park with some of the dough. I don’t know how much. We’re supposed to take it away from him and give it to Mr. Lozini.”
They all looked willing, but not enlightened.
“He hid out in there when their car tipped over,” Caliato said. “We know he’s in there, we know he can’t get out anywhere except that gate. We’ve got two cops working with us, as soon as they get off duty they’ll come back here and see can they take him the quiet way. If they can’t, we go in there and find him.”
Pulsone said, “We keep him alive?”
“No.”
They all nodded. Abadandi said, “Any chance of us getting sticky fingers, Mr. Caliato?”
Caliato shook his head. “No. The money goes to Mr. Lozini. You’ll get your hundred each out of the bag when we get it, and the rest goes to Mr. Lozini.”
Benniggio glanced around again, and looked again out the window.
Caliato understood the principles of leadership, and one of them was never to let your troops know the full disparity between what they were getting and what you were getting. So long as Chaka and Pulsone and Abadandi thought everybody present was working on salary, they’d be happy with their C-note. But if they found out they were only getting a hundred bucks each while some of the others present were sharing the seventy-three-thousand-dollar pot among themselves, they’d be unhappy. And unhappy troops don’t function well. So Caliato told them a little white lie, and they would stay happy.
Now Caliato said, “Abadandi, take Benny’s place at the window for a while. Watch for anything happening over at the gate. You other two sit down, take it easy. And if any cops wander by, don’t show yourselves in the windows.”
They all organized themselves, Benniggio stretching and grunting again as he came away from the window, then sitting on a folding chair in a corner, his feet sticking out.
Caliato reluctantly put out his cigar, the butt as neat and compact as when he’d first lit up. He smoked patiently, too, clean and patient and with full enjoyment. Full enjoyment came from taking your time, always taking your time.
Time. Twenty after four. O’Hara and Dunstan should be back in less than two hours, a little after six. Around him, the others were beginning to talk together, low-voiced conversation, mostly about professional football. Abadandi was perched where Benniggio had been, watching the gate across the way. Everything was ready.
Caliato put his hands in his overcoat pockets and sat back in the swivel chair to wait.
Six
AT QUARTER to six Benniggio was ahead fifty-seven bucks. He’d opened his overcoat and settled into the game, almost forgetting what they were really here for. Poker called to him in a voice louder than almost anything in the world. Except Caliato’s voice, of course, that was louder to Benniggio even than poker.
Benniggio was a young guy, but he understood things, and one of the things he understood was that he was an also-ran. He was going to be an also-ran all his life, he was never going to be on top of the heap, and by Alfred Benniggio that was just fine. At the top was the gravy, true enough, but at the top also were the decisions, the responsibilities and the cold winds. And the danger, the trouble, the problems of taking care of all the Benniggios down below. In a lot of ways, an also-ran was a very nice thing to be.