"Don't turn around fast," said Joe to me, "but when you get a chance, look at that sub shop down the street, just opposite the unmarked car. DeLucca's been holing up right over it in rented rooms. The snitch is working in the shop; in a few minutes we're going to go see him. Give me those cables, Kev; here comes Powers."
O'Hearn uncoiled some wire in the back of the van and fed it out to us. A lineman was walking up the street toward us smoking a cigarette with a big coil over his left shoulder. It could have fooled me. Frank Powers nodded hello to us and spoke under his breath as he puffed on his smoke.
"We expect him just after four. It's the time he's been showing up. I doubt if he's got a steady gig going, but Rizzo says he's been showing up every day almost like clockwork. Joe, can you call the rig? I'm about ready. Excuse me."
He stepped forward and hooked the big cable over his shoulder to the ones Kev had snaked out of the little van. Almost as soon as he was finished a big phone truck with a cherry-picker hoist slid around the corner. Powers got into the crow's-nest and soon was up above us all, hooking the big cable to the pole. In the van Joe and Kevin put on earphones and I listened in on a phone extension fastened with clip wires. Pretty soon both phone trucks could communicate clearly and talk to the men in the unmarked car as well, since they had a remote device. Powers swung down from the treetops and said good-bye, adding that he'd station the hoist truck two blocks away and keep the platform up so he could keep an eye on everything and advise all parties what was happening from his vantage point.
"That guy seems like a real pro," I told Joe as Powers jumped into the truck.
"He is. He's a real phone person we borrow when the need arises. And that big cherry-picker rig is a real phone truck too. Now come on. I hope you're hungry because we're going to go and buy a sub from Johnny Rizzo, the snitch who's responsible for this whole setup, bless his heart."
We left Kevin at the van, diligently twiddling with wires and cable and looking very professional, while we ambled up the street to the sub shop.
"This snitch- this Rizzo guy- he's in a bind, isn't he?"
"Oh yeah, it's death if DeLucca ever finds out. But what choice does the poor stupid bastard have? He's got those robberies hanging over him that are worth the rest of his life in the joint. We dropped in on him three weeks ago and he knows we're on to him. The fact that he subsequently came forward with this tip all but proves he's in on the robberies. Now if we get DeLucca, Rizzo can cop a plea and get off light. It's not a perfect system, Doc. In fact, sometimes it downright stinks, but it's all we've got that's workable right now. Most of the busts we make are crooks ratting on other crooks."
"Hmmm. And Kev once told me you've got to screw up several times before they even hand you a jail term. It's pathetic. It's as if these clowns can't stay out of the slammer."
"You're right. They can't stay out. And know what? A lot of them don't want to. They like it inside."
"That I don't believe. I've been with you on enough visits to Concord, Walpole, and Deer Island to know that isn't true. Nobody could like it in there."
"They do. They get used to it and they get to like it. Know why? Because basically they're too screwed up to make it outside. And that's the truth. Come on."
As we passed the beat-up car on the opposite side of the street facing us, the driver gave Joe a quick nod. Both men in the car were dressed shabbily in old, greasy work clothes. They looked like two factory workers getting off work. The car was no treat either. It was an ancient Plymouth, dented and scarred, with a cracked side window. It was a dull, dirty brown color with patches of gray primer paint. All in all, I thought it fitted into Lynn quite well.
"Are you sure those guys are cops?" ·
"Look at the tires," he said. I did, and was surprised. The tires looked new, and wide.
"Those are racing slicks. Last week that car was used in Fall River in a high-speed chase. We caught a drug dealer. On the interstate that crate hit a hundred forty. That's Keller at the wheel. Underneath those grimy clothes he's wearing a Kevlar vest. So's his partner. And they've got a couple of pump guns on the floor. Here we are."
We went in. The skinny, pockmarked man behind the counter was dressed in old khakis and a clean undershirt with a white apron around his waist. He was quick and nervous, like a ferret. His hair was thin and greasy, his skin pale and shiny. He looked indeed like a jailhouse punk. Joe glided over to the counter and laid his big palms on it. He spoke softly, even though there was nobody else in the shop.
"Hiya Johnny. How things?"
The man's eyes didn't meet ours. He looked nervously down at the counter and wiped it back and forth, back and forth, with a damp rag.
"Who's he?" Johnny finally asked, not looking up at me.
"A friend. Don't sweat it. Now look, when he gets here and goes up the stairs, we just want you to come outside and fool with the awning crank, okay? just give it a couple of spins, then back inside to get the two-wheeler."
He nodded and began kneading the rag on the countertop as if it were a hunk of pizza dough.
"If he finds out, I'm cooked. I think he knows, Joe."
"Nah. No way. And in an hour we'll have him put away. just put those empty bottles on the two-wheeler and march them outside and around the side of the building. Stack 'em up like you always do there, then just keep walking around the building and down the alley. Simple."
"He knows. I know he knows," said Rizzo in a thin, reedy voice. He looked like a cornered animal. He smelled of fear. I saw the look of death about his eyes. He gave me the creeps. "You got no idea what'll happen to me if you don't get him. You got no idea-"
"Shut up, Johnny. Be cool. I gotta good idea of what's gonna happen to you when we put the wrap on this string of armed robberies."
"Look, I got nothin'-"
"Yeah sure, Johnny, you got nothing to do with 'em. You're just being a good citizen."
"I don't care no more. I'll go back to the joint. I don't give a shit."
"That's your problem, Rizzo. It's your problem and all those punks like you. You just don't give a shit. Wash your hands and get us two large Italians. And two coffee regulars."
Johnny made the sandwiches with the same quick and jumpy movements, and kept twitching his shiny pale head around to look out the front window to the street. The old battered car with the racing slicks was still there. Joe asked Johnny what he was going to do when DeLucca showed. He wanted to be sure Johnny had it right. Rizzo repeated the plan and shoved our sandwiches at us. I took the coffee and sipped but let the sandwich stay on the paper plate. Johnny looked up past us and his eyes widened.
"Jesus Christ! It was him," he wailed.
"Who?" said Joe, turning around with one elbow resting on the counter.
"DeLucca. I swear to Christ it's him in that cab." Rizzo was past trembling now, and there was a line of dampness on his brow and above his lip. I smelled again the sweet, sickly odor of fear and decay about him. I wasn't going to touch my sub; I was sure of it. Joe looked at the departing cab as it vanished up the street, and turned languidly back to his meal. He shook his big head slowly.
"For Chrissake, Johnny, you're scared shitless. Willya calm down, eh? You got any booze back there? Take a shot and have a smoke. Settle down; it'l1 be over before you know it."
Joe had finished his sandwich. He can demolish a sub faster than anyone I know. He drained his coffee and winked at me under his New England Telephone hard hat.
"Let's go, Doc."
On our way out a girl came into the shop and called for a pizza. Johnny skittered back around the corner and we saw him pull open the big Blodgett oven and take out the pizza and pan with a flat wooden paddle. Engaged in serving the customer, he seemed a bit more relaxed. But as he was making change he glanced quickly up at us again, and he seemed to come apart.