out onto the sidewalk of Central Park West the grimy green-and-white Ford
rolled in to the curb by the fire hydrant. Herman pulled the rear door open and
slid in beside Van; as he shut the door, Phil, the driver, started the car moving
again.
“Here you go,” Van said and handed him his mask and gun.
“Thanks,” he said and held them in his lap as the Ford headed south toward
midtown.
There was no conversation in the car, not even from the fourth man, Jack,
who was the newest, on only his second caper. Driving along, Herman looked
out the side window and thought about his dinner party, the people there, the
way he would spend the latter part of the night, and the menu for dinner.
He had planned the menu with the greatest of care. The cocktails to begin had
been Negronis, the power of the gin obscured by the gentleness of vermouth
and Campari. The caviar and pitted black olives to nosh on while drinking.
Then, at the table, the meal itself would start with black bean soup, followed by
poached fillet of black sea bass and a nice bottle of Schwartzekatz. For the
entree, a Black Angus steak saut�ed in black butter and garnished with black
truffles, plus a side dish of black rice, washed down with a good Pinot Noir. For
dessert, black-bottom pie and coffee. For after dinner drinks, a choice of Black
Russians or blackberry brandy, with bowls of black walnuts to munch on again
in the living room.
Phil pulled to the curb on Seventh Avenue in the upper forties. Herman and
Van and Jack got out and walked away around the corner. Ahead of them, the
Broadway theater marquees shouldered one another to be seen.
Ahead on the right was the new rock musical Justice! It had been panned on
the road, it had come into town fully expecting to be a disaster, it had opened
last night, and every last New York critic had given it a rave. The line for
advance sale tickets had been around the block all day; the producers hadn’t
expected the cash in-flow and hadn’t prepared for it, so the day’s receipts were
spending the night in the theater safe. Well, part of the night. One of the brothers
in the chorus had passed the word to the Movement, and the Movement had
quickly assigned Herman and Phil and Van and Jack. They’d met late this
afternoon, looked over the brothers’ maps of the interior of the theater, worked
out their plot, and here they were.
One usher stood in the outer lobby. He was short and stocky and wore a
dark-blue uniform. He gave Herman and Van and Jack a supercilious look as
they came in through the outer doors and said, “Can I help you?”
“You can turn around,” Van said and showed him a gun. “Or I can blow your
head off.”
“Good Christ,” the usher said and stepped back into the doors. He also put
his hand to his mouth and blanched.
“Now, that’s what I call white,” Herman said. His own gun remained in his
pocket, but he had taken out the mask and was putting it on. It was a simple
black mask, the kind the Lone Ranger wears.
“Turn around”, Van said.
“Better do it,” Herman said. “I’m gentle, but he’s mean.”
The usher turned around. “What do you want? Do you want my wallet? You
don’t have to hurt me. I won’t do any-”
“Oh, be quiet,” Van said. “We’re all going inside and turn left and go up the
stairs. You first. Don’t be cute, because we’re right behind you.”
“I won’t be cute. I don’t want to be-”
“Just walk,” Van said. He gave off such an aura of weary professionalism that
his victims almost always fell all over themselves to do what he wanted; not
wanting to expose themselves as amateurs to his jaundiced eye.
The usher walked. Van put away his gun and donned his mask. Jack and
Herman were already masked, but a casual observer watching them walk across
the dark rear of the theater behind the usher wouldn’t have realized they had
masks on.
A herd of people onstage were shouting a song: “Freedom means I got to be,
I got to be, I got to be, Freedom means I got to be. Freedom means you got
to be, you got to be. .
The stairs were carpeted in dark red and curved to the right. At the top was
the loge, and Van poked the usher to make him move to the right, behind the
seats and through another door and up a narrow flight of stairs that wasn’t
carpeted at all.
In the room were six people. Two women and a man were counting money at
tables with adding machines. Three men were wearing the uniform of a private
protective service, including holstered pistols. Van stuck his foot around the
usher’s and gave him a shove as they entered the room, so the usher cried out
and went sprawling. It distracted everyone long enough for Van and Jack and
Herman to line up in a row inside the door, guns in their hands and masks on
their faces, establishing that they were already in control.
“Hands up,” Van said. “That means you, Grandpa,” to one of the guards. “I
haven’t shot a senior citizen in three months. Don’t make me spoil my record.”
It sometimes seemed to Herman that Van leaned on people because he
wanted them to give him an excuse to shoot them, but most of the time he
realized that Van was playing a deeper game than that. He leaned hard so
people would think he was trying to goad them, so they would think he was a
bad-ass killer just barely in control of himself, and the result was that they were
always just as nice as pie. Herman didn’t know Van’s entire history, but he did
know there’d never been any shooting on any job the two of them had done
together.
Nor would there be on this one. The three guards gave each other sheepish
looks and put their hands up, and Jack came around to take their pistols away
from them. Van produced two shopping bags from under his jacket, and while
he held a gun on the seven civilians in the room-the usher had come up holding
his nose, but it wasn’t bleeding-Herman and Jack dumped cash money into
the two bags. They put crumpled paper on top, and Herman glanced almost
longingly at the safe in the corner. He was a lockman-that was his specialty-he could open safes better than Jimmy Valentine. But this safe was already
standing open, and there was nothing in it of any value anyway. He was along
simply as a yegg this time, part of the team.
Well, it was for the Cause. Still, it would have been nice if there’d been a safe
around to open.
Using the victims’ ties and socks and shoelaces and belts, all seven were
quickly tied up and left in a neat row on the floor. Then Jack unscrewed the
phone from its connection on the wall.
Van said, “What the hell you doing? Just yank the cord out of the wall. Didn’t
you ever see any movies?”
“I need an extension in the bedroom,” Jack said. He put the phone on top of
the crumpled papers in one of the shopping bags.
Van shook his head, but didn’t say anything.
When they left, they locked the door behind themselves and trotted down the
narrow stairs to pause for a second behind the door leading to the loge. They
could hear the chorus ripping through another song: “I hate bigots! Dig it! Dig
it!”
“The line we’re waiting for,” Van said, “is ‘Love everybody, you bastards.’”
Herman nodded, and all three listened some more. When the line sounded,
they pushed the door open, walked through, turned left and headed back
downstairs.
The timing was perfect. As they came to the foot of the stairs the curtain came
down on Act One, and people started up the aisle for a smoke break. The three
men pulled their masks off and went through the lobby doors just ahead of the
theatergoers. They crossed the lobby, went out to the sidewalk, and the Ford
was half a block away to their left, coming along behind a slow-cruising cab.
“God damn it,” Van said. “What’s the matter with Phil’s timing?”
“He probably got stuck at a red light,” Herman said.
The Ford slipped by the cab and stopped at their feet. They slid in, the
sidewalk behind them filled with smokers, and Phil drove them casually but
firmly away from there.
The two shopping bags were in the back with Herman and Jack-Van was
up front now-and every time they went over a pothole the damn phone tinkled,
which began to drive Herman up the wall. He was a compulsive phone