Black Friday (12 page)

The thought of her was very soothing and relaxing. He closed his eyes and his head went down. He was falling asleep.

17

Thursday was like the final day for a fighter in training camp, where it's mostly a matter of resting the muscles and the nerves. They sat around in the living room, listened to recorded music from the radio and played cards. There was very little talk and the atmosphere wajcalm and soft and almost amiable. None of them made mention of what had happened last night.

Supper was a noisy meal but the noise came mostly from the radio. They had it turned on loud and the disc jockey played a lot of Dizzy Gillespie. They sat there and devoured the tender-tasty veal cutlets while Dizzy's trumpet went up and up, going up so fast and hard that you wanted to look up to see if it was puncturing holes in the ceiling.

After supper there was more poker and then they were all in the living room listening to the radio and there was no talk at all. At eleven-thirty Myrna said goodnight and went upstairs. Some twenty minutes later Rizzio went up, and Mattone followed soon after. Now the radio had switched to classical music. It was a program devoted to the works of Debussy. Charley commented it was very nice music. Frieda said, "It sure is." They looked at Hart and waited for his opinion. He was very far away from the Debussy but when he saw them looking at him, he managed to nod in agreement.

It was one-ten when Charley went upstairs. The Debussy music stayed on for another fifteen minutes. Then it was a news program and Frieda went to the radio and switched it off. She stood there at the radio, looking at Hart who sat on the sofa gazing at the floor.

Some moments passed, and then she said, "Come on, let's go up and go to bed."

He didn't respond.

"Come on," she said. She moved toward the stairway. She ascended a few steps and stopped and stood there waiting.

He told himself he mustn't move and he mustn't say anything.

She put her hands on her hips. "Now look," she said, "you got a big day tomorrow and you need sleep."

It gave him a chance to reply and he said, "Yes, I know. That's why I'm going to sleep here."

"There? On the sofa?"

He nodded. "I want to be sure I get some sleep."

She was quiet for a long moment. Her hands fell away from her hips and hung limply at her sides. When she spoke, her voice sounded tight and sort of twisted. "Aw, please," she said. "Please--"

He looked at her. He wondered if she was crying. It seemed the mascara was wet and yet it wasn't dripping, he knew she was trying hard to hold it back. "No," he said.

Then it started to drip, a thick mixture of mascara and tear drops. She lifted her hands to wipe it away but couldn't quite manage the effort. A heavy sigh started from deep inside her and became a sob. She tried to stifle it, choked on it, and then ran very fast up the stairs.

Hart took off his shoes. Then he removed his jacket, arranged himself prone on the sofa resting sideways, placed his jacket over his shoulders, and closed his eyes.

The sofa was fairly soft and he was quite comfortable. In a few minutes he was sound asleep.

In the morning it began to snow around ten-thirty and then it came faster, the flakes swirling wildly, caught in the cross-current of cold wind coming from two rivers. It looked as though it would build and become a blizzard. But gradually it died down and by noontime it had stopped altogether. Then later there was a spell of that unaccountable Philadelphia weather, an acute change that brought warm air from somewhere, melting the snow in the streets and the icicles on the tree-branches. The warm air lasted until late in the afternoon. Around four-thirty it became very cold again, and Charley told Rizzio to put some coal in the furnace.

When Rizzio came up from the cellar, Charley had the card table set up in the middle of the living room. Mattone was lighting a cigarette and Hart was shuffling the cards. They played poker until suppertime, and after supper they resumed the game. At a little after eight Charley said they could play for another hour or so and then it would be time to put aside the cards and get started with the plans.

"What time is it now?" Mattone asked.

Charley glanced at his wristwatch. "It's twelve minutes past eight." Then he added, "Twelve minutes and forty seconds."

Rizzio looked at his own wristwatch and said, "I got eight-fifteen."

"Set it back," Mattone said. "Set it back two minutes and twenty seconds."

"I can't set the second hand," Rizzio said. He was turning the winder of his watch.

"Take it off your wrist," Mattone murmured. "Throw it away."

Rizzio frowned. "Throw what away?"

"Go on, get rid of it," Mattone spoke a trifle louder.

"It's a cheap watch and you shouldn't have bought it in the first place."

"All it needs is regulating," Rizzio said.

"Your head needs regulating," Mattone told him. "Look now, you gonna get rid of that watch?"

Rizzio looked at Charley. "Tell him to cut it out."

"No, I won't tell him," Charley said. "I've told him too many times already. I'm tired of telling him."

"The watches gotta be checked exactly," Mattone said. "If it ain't split-second it means mistakes."

"You're the mistake," Charley said.

Mattone opened his mouth, almost said something, then measured the look on Charley's face and inhaled deeply to hold back whatever he wanted to say.

Charley looked at Hart. "Deal the cards."

They played for about two hours with Hart winning over four hundred dollars and most of it was Mattone's money. Mattone was betting clumsily and his lower lip looked raw where he was biting it. On the next play, he called Hart on what appeared to be an obvious bluff and Hart showed him a third ace that beat his three kings. Mattone gripped the edge of the table and stared up at the ceiling.

"Stop that," Charley said.

Mattone continued to stare at the ceiling. He said aloud to himself, "There's gotta be a reason--"

"For what?" Charley leaned forward, studying the look on Mattone's face.

"For such rotten luck," Mattone said. And then very slowly he got up from the table. For some moments he walked in aimless circles. Then he moved toward the sofa where the newspaper was scattered. He picked up a section of the newspaper and Hart looked at Charley and knew what Charley was thinking. They both knew that Mattone was looking at the dateline.

Then Mattone let go of the newspaper. It went down past the edge of the sofa and drifted onto the carpet. He was looking at it and talking to it without sound.

"Come over here and sit down," Charley said.

Mattone didn't move. But his head turned very slowly and he looked at Charley and said, "You know what day this is?"

"I said sit down." Charley's voice was a whisper that whistled. "We're playing poker."

"It's Friday the thirteenth," Mattone said.

"So?" It was Rizzio.

"Bad luck." Mattone stared past the faces at the cardtable. "Very bad luck."

"Only for idiots," Charley said.

"Charley--"

"No."

"Charley, please--"

"I said no."

And then Mattone cried out, "I'm begging you, Charley. You gotta call it off. We can't do the job tonight. We go there tonight, we'll run into grief--"

Mattone's voice was very loud and it brought Frieda in from the dining room where she'd been sitting with Myrna, the two of them reading movie magazines. Frieda had her magazine in her hand and she was frowning and saying, "What's the matter? What's the matter here?"

"It's Friday the Thirteenth," Mattone shouted.

"He wants we should postpone it," Charley said.

Frieda looked Mattone up and down. She said to Charley, "He looks like he's flipping."

"He'll be all right," Charley said, smiling.

Frieda walked out of the room. Charley went on smiling at her back as she returned to the dining room. Then he gave the smile to Mattone, and he said, "I'm ready to talk plans."

"Look, Charley--"

"You gonna join this conference or you wanna be out of it?"

Mattone took a very deep breath. He shut his eyes tightly, his body rigid for a long moment. Then he shook his head spasmodically. He took another deep breath and said, "I'm all right now."

"Sure you're all right," Charley said. "I knew you'd be all right."

Mattone came back to the table and sat down. Charley reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and took out the folded paper that showed a diagram of the Kenniston mansion in Wyncote.

"Now here's what we do--" Charley began.

Then he spoke for close to two hours. He outlined the plan in a general way, then went over it again. And then again and again, so each time he got it more detailed, with every move verbally blueprinted. And when he was finished he sat back and waited for questions but there were no questions because everything was clear and it was really a brilliant plan.

"All right, then," Charley said. "So I've told you and now you'll tell me. You first, Rizzio."

Rizzio repeated the plan. And then Mattone. When it was Hart's turn, he heard himself saying it almost word for word the way Charley had said it. The words came out automatically, like a recorded recitation.

"Very nice," Charley said. He glanced at his wristwatch. "Well, it's time to get ready."

The four of them got up from the table.

It was ten minutes to one.

18

They were putting on their overcoats. Mattone and Rizzio wore dark brown camel's-hair and Charley's coat was a midnight blue chesterfield. Hart was buttoning the bright green fleece and he could feel the heaviness of the cheap fabric on his shoulders.

He turned and faced the door of the vestibule so he wouldn't see the light in the dining room where she sat with Frieda and read the movie magazines. He wanted very much to see her and talk to her and tell her she mustn't worry, that everything would be all right. But seeing her now would be bad for both of them, awfully bad. And he thought: She knows it, too. That's why she's staying there in the dining room.

Then he wondered why Frieda also remained in the dining room. It didn't take much guessing and his brain said:

Well, it's certainly no picnic for Frieda. She's torn between her need for you and er hate for you. Her need says she wants you to stay alive, and the hate wants her to come in here and hit back at you for what you're doing to her. Or what you're not doing. You sure did some damage to her last night.

Yes, all she needs to do now is come in here and tell Charley you're not fitted for this job, you're not a professional. But there's nothing you can do about that. All you can do is hope for Charley to open the door so we'll be out and away before she makes up her mind.

He saw Charley moving past him and opening the vestibule door. Then the front door was open and the four of them filed out and went down cold steps onto a cold pavement. The January wind came at them and it was terribly cold.

"It's freezing out here," Rizzio said.

"All right," Mattone said. "So it's freezing. So shut up, will you?"

They were walking now at medium stride, Charley and Hart walking in front, with Charley setting the pace. At the corner they turned and went south on Tulpehocken. There were cars parked on both sides of the street, packed in close, almost bumper-to-bumper. Toward the middle of the block they arrived at their car and it was a 1951 two-door Plymouth sedan. It was painted black and looked older than it was, it hadn't been washed for some time.

They climbed in and Mattone sat at the wheel, Rizzio beside him. Charley and Hart settled themselves in back.

Mattone hit the starter. There was the sound of the starter but no engine. Mattone hit it again and the same thing happened.

"What's wrong?" Charley asked.

"It's cold," Mattone said.

"Got anti-freeze?"

Mattone didn't answer. He was trying the starter again. The engine turned over and made an effort and then died.

Charley sat up a little straighter. He said very slowly. "I'm asking you something, Mattone. Does it have anti-freeze?"

Mattone turned and looked at Charley. "Yes, Charley," he said, his mouth stretched wide with the words jetting out through his teeth. "You told me to put in more anti-freeze and I put it in."

"All right," Charley said. Try it again."

Mattone pressed the starter and this time the engine caught and stayed alive. Mattone gunned it and it became very much alive. Hart heard the extra power and he knew it was a souped-up engine.

Now the car was sufficiently warmed and Mattone nosed it out from the row of parked cars and took it north on Tulpehocken to Morton, then west to Washington Lane, then north again to Stenton. At Stenton there was a red light and a red police car parked at the corner. There were two policemen in the front seat and one of them was reading a newspaper under the glow of the streetlamp. The other policeman was looking at the Plymouth.

"What's he looking at?" Rizzio wanted to know.

"Shut up," Mattone said. And then, hissing it, "Quit looking at him. For Christ's sake, will you stop looking at him?"

The policeman leaned his head out the car window and said, "Hey you."

"Me?" Mattone called back.

"Yeah, you," the policeman said.

"What's the matter?" Mattone asked.

"Dim your lights," the policeman said.

"Sure, officer." Mattone dimmed the headlights. "Sorry, officer."

"Remember, you're still in the city," the policeman said now more politely. "Keep them headlights dim until you're on the highway."

"Yes, sir," Mattone said. "Thanks, officer."

The signal light turned green and they turned left on Stenton, stayed on Stenton and passed the wide road going north toward Wyncote. There was some teen-age Friday night traffic on that road and Mattone was looking for a narrower road. He found it about a mile further up. It was bumpy and in sections it was unpaved but the Plymouth had good tires and they held their grip nicely.

They came onto another road that was new and smooth, going past blocks of brand new road houses. Then they turned onto a curving road, going north past large homes. As they continued north, the houses kept getting larger and larger with wider lawns, then fenced-in properties with private roads leading to the mansions set far back from the highway. The car went up a steep hill and on the downgrade it moved slowly past an iron gate that glimmered like black teeth in the glow of the headlights. The iron gate went on and on and now the road was level again and the car moved very slowly. They kept going past the gate for another quarter of a mile and then Charley said, "Stop here."

"Here?" Mattone asked.

"Right here," Charley said. "Stop the car."

The car came to a stop at the side of the road. Charley told Rizzio to get out and switch the license plates. Rizzio opened the glove compartment and took out a screw driver and a license plate and got out of the car. Rizzio did it very quickly and when he came back with the plate he'd replaced, he flipped the screw driver into the glove compartment, then slid the plate into a groove behind the wall of the compartment where it would not be visible to anyone who might be obliged to see what was in the compartment.

The engine was idling and Mattone put the car in gear and they went along the road at around fifteen miles per hour. There was another hundred or so yards of iron gate and then some fifty yards of high stone fence belonging to the same estate and then the wide entrance of the private road.

Mattone turned the car onto the private road. It was a winding road bordered with high trees. They went along the road for the better part of a mile, and then there was the small house of the caretaker coming up in front of the headlights. One of the windows was dimly lit and as they approached the house, a side door opened and a man with white hair stepped out and walked toward the slowly moving car.

Mattone stopped the car and the old man stopped also. He stood about twenty feet away from the car. His old man's voice sounded sleepy. "What do you want?"

"We're going to Doylestown," Mattone said.

"Not on this road," the old man told him.

"Why not?" Mattone asked. "Ain't this the way to Doylestown?"

"This is private property," the old man said.

"Oh," Mattone said. "I guess we made a wrong turn."

"You sure did." The old man stood there with his hands at his sides.

"Say, how do we get out of here?" Mattone asked.

"Just turn around and follow the road."

"I mean, how do we hit the main highway going north?"

"Well, what you do is--" The old man walked toward the car. He was ten feet away from the car and then five and Mattone opened the door and got out. The old man said, "You gotta get onto Old York Road. That's the shortest way to Doylestown. And what you do is--"

Mattone hit him with a short right to the jaw and caught him before he went down. Then Rizzio was out of the car and they put the caretaker in the back seat. He was unconscious and he was sprawled between Charley and Hart, his head resting on Hart's shoulder. Hart glanced at the face and saw it was a very old man with an opened sagging mouth that showed false teeth.

The car was moving again and they went along the winding road going past a greenhouse and a Japanese garden and the two-story structure that was the servants' quarters. Then up ahead in the moonlight there was the white marble of the Kenniston mansion. Now the headlights were off but the mansion was distinct in the moonlight.

It looks more like a college library, Hart thought. Then he heard the groan and he glanced at the face of the old man. The old man's eyes were open and the lips quivered with consternation and outrage and fright.

Charley was talking to Mattone, leaning forward and pointing to some shrubbery about forty feet away from the side-entrance, saying, "Park it over there near them bushes." Then he turned to the old man and said, "What's your name?"

The old man was very frightened now and he couldn't talk.

"Come on, Grandad," Charley urged softly. "It ain't that bad. Just tell me your name."

"Thomas--"

"How old are you, Thomas?"

"Seventy-three."

"Aw shucks," Charley said. "That ain't old."

The old man closed his eyes and said quietly, "It's too old for this kind of business."

"Don't worry, Thomas. You'll make out all right. All you gotta do is pay attention and do what I tell you."

Then Charley took the the gun from his pocket. The old man opened his eyes and saw the gun.

"Now listen to me very careful," Charley said, holding the gun loosely but with the muzzle pointing toward the old man's abdomen. "You're coming in with us. If anyone comes downstairs and wants to know what's happening, you'll tell them we're from City Hall, we're detectives."

The old man blinked several times. "Detectives?"

"Yes, we're detectives and someone tipped us off there'd be some action here tonight, a couple ex-cons coming to break in and grab them oriental treasures."

"That's what you want me to say?"

"No, I'll say it. What you do is make out you're in Hollywood, you're a high-paid actor. You nod your head in agreement, you tell them we showed you our credentials and we're really detectives."

"But I'm not an actor," the old man said. "They'll see I'm scared clean out of my wits and--"

"You won't be scared," Charley told him. "You'll be thinking how nice it is to be alive and stay alive."

"All right," the old man said. "I'll do my best."

Now the car was parked near the shrubbery. Mattone and Rizzio climbed out and walked toward the mansion, and Charley said to the old man, "You see how we play this game? Them gentlemen are the two ex-cons. They're the bad guys and we're the good guys. When they break in we'll be staked out, we'll be there to get them."

Hart watched Mattone and Rizzio walking slowly along the side of the mansion. He saw Rizzio moving ahead and crouching in dog-trainer fashion as two large Doberman pinschers came loping across the lawn. The dogs slowed down and Rizzio didn't move as the dogs walked up to him. Hart couldn't hear anything but he knew Rizzio was talking to the dogs. Then Rizzio was patting the dogs and they didn't seem to mind.

"I wonder how he does it," Charley said.

"He better be careful," the old man said, momentarily forgetting his own fright and feeling afraid for Rizzio. "Them dogs are awfully vicious."

"Not now they ain't. Look at them."

The dogs seemed very friendly. They were rubbing their noses against Rizzio's legs. He went on patting them and talking to them.

"It's remarkable," Charley said. "He never misses. I think he has some dog in him."

Rizzio was walking the dogs, holding their collars, and Mattone followed at a distance of about thirty feet. Then Rizzio turned and beckoned, and Mattone came in closer. Hart watched the merging of the four figures now silhouetted against the whiteness of the Kenniston mansion. He saw the two men and the two dogs moving past the rearside entrance, and then at the rear of the mansion they turned the corner and went out of sight.

Charley glanced at his wristwatch. He said, "We wait two minutes."

"There's a light on upstairs," Hart said.

"I see it," Charley said.

"It just went on."

"No," Charley said. "That's an optical illusion you get when you first see a lit window. I saw that light about a minute ago."

"It wasn't lit when we got here," Hart said. "None of the windows were lit."

"All right, don't worry about it."

"I'm not worrying," Hart said.

"You sound like you're worried," Charley said.

"You want me to tell you what I think about all this?" the old man suddenly asked.

"Sure," Charley said, "tell me."

"Well, mister, I got the feeling you won't get what you're after."

"Thanks for telling me," Charley said. "Now I'll tell you something, Thomas. I want you to get rid of that feeling. I want you to feel you're working with this crew and we're gonna do this job and do it right. You understand what I'm saying?"