Hostage For A Hood (4 page)

Cribbins merely said "Good," and then hung up. He walked across the room to the cot on which Santino slept.

* * * *

Charlie Luder considered himself a family man. It was a rather odd conceit in view of the fact that Luder hadn't seen his wife or his three children in more than twenty years. Most of those years had been spent behind bars and when they'd finally let him out, Luder knew too much time had passed and that the boys were now grown up and his wife was an old woman. He made it a point not to look them up, not to let them know his address.

But he was a man who'd always hated to be alone and so he had taken a small apartment in the upper Bronx and set up bachelor quarters. He was an old man now and it never occurred to him to seek a new woman. Instead, he adopted a cat from a neighboring butcher and then a week or so later, bought a dog of dubious ancestry from a pet shop. He worked for a while at odd jobs, making very little money and needing very little. And then Cribbins had looked him up and he'd decided to go in with him on the plan.

That weekend he'd taken care of the things he had to take care of. First there was the truck. He bought it legitimately from a second-hand dealer, using an assumed name and giving a false address. It wasn't much of a truck, being actually a beaten-up old moving van of ancient vintage, but it would serve the purpose.

He didn't mind giving up the apartment and he didn't bother to remove the few sticks of furniture. His personal possessions could be packed into a briefcase. It was harder saying good-by to the dog and the cat, for he was inordinately fond of both of them. That was one thing about Luder—he loved animals. Even when he went on his periodical benders he'd always remember to feed and water them.

And so on that last Saturday when he got all through checking the place for any possible thing which left behind might point to him, he'd taken the two animals down to the Bide-A-Wee home and left them.

He left the apartment for the last time shortly after seven on Monday morning and walked over to the parking lot where he'd left the moving truck. He wore a windbreaker and a peaked cap, and although it was a warm day his hands were protected by leather gloves.

The truck was slow to start for a moment or so, as the motor slowly turned over, he had a quick sense of alarm. But then at last it caught and he wheeled the old five-ton van out into the street and headed for Route 1.

He stopped at a diner in Rye and put in his phone call. Then he went back to the counter and ordered a large breakfast. He had plenty of time. Brookside was not more than a few miles up the line and he didn't want to get there too early. He was thinking how much he'd hated to part with the dog as he sipped his coffee and waited for the little dark-eyed waitress to bring the ham and scrambled eggs.

* * * *

While Luder was waiting for his breakfast in the roadside diner in Rye, Santino slowly came out of his deep sleep. He pulled himself off the bed, his thin, pinched face hollow-eyed and deeply lined and he stretched his wasted arms and yawned. Wordlessly he stared for a moment or two at Cribbins, then stood up and went to the sink in the corner of the room. He washed sketchily and dried his face and hands on a soiled turkish towel.

Santino had only removed his shoes and loosened his tie when he'd turned in so it took him very little time to get ready. He waited until after he'd put on the faded jacket and pulled the cap over his eyes before he went to the closet and took out the worn cardboard suitcase.

Cribbins watched him without speaking, as he snapped open the latches on the suitcase and inspected its contents. He seemed satisfied, and reclosed the bag. He checked his watch, which he carried in his trouser pocket.

Cribbins suggested a cup of coffee, but Santino shook his head.

"I'll get one outside," he said. He was leaving as Mitty returned. The two nodded briefly, passing each other in the doorway.

Carefully closing and locking the door, Mitty turned to face Cribbins and shrugged his thick shoulders. "A real sour ball, that one," he said.

Cribbins nodded. "Yeah, but he knows his job, and that's what counts. How about the car?"

"Out front," Mitty said. "All set."

Cribbins got up and moved over to the dresser. He pulled open the second drawer from the top and reaching in, lifted out the uniform.

"Okay, let's get started then."

He tossed the clothes over to Mitty and then opened the top drawer and took out another collection of garments. "We'll get dressed," he said, "and then start cleaning up this place. When we leave it will be for the last time and I want to be sure there are no prints or anything—just in case."

He had to remove the shoulder holster which held the .38 Police Special which he was never without, in order to get into the blue flannel shirt.

* * * *

Santino felt like hell. He coughed, a hollow, wracking cough, as he walked down the steps from the rooming house and into the bright sunlight of the fresh morning. It was a beautiful day, already warm, and promising hot, dry heat for later in the afternoon. The charm of the early fresh morning air was, however, lost on the little man.

He never felt good in the mornings. It wasn't until later, some time around noon after he'd had his first needle, that he really began to feel good. Feeling good, for Santino, wasn't like feeling good for most men. With Santino it was largely negative; a sense of suspension when his mind would wander and he'd live in a sort of half-world of fantasy and dreams.

He rounded the corner and as he walked, with quick, jerky steps, he pulled a package of cigarettes from his coat pocket and tore open the top of the package. In spite of the cough he lighted one and drew deep puffs. He choked then for a moment and cleared his throat and spit.

He went directly to the small restaurant a couple of blocks away and stopped outside long enough to buy a morning tabloid. Entering, he found a stool at the counter and ordered black coffee. That waitress asked if he wanted anything else and he growled a quick "no." He read the paper as he drank the coffee, turning at once to the back pages and checking the race track results.

When he finished with the charts, he went back and started with the front section. He read only the headlines and the captions under the pictures. His eyes lingered longest over the scattered photographs of seminude girls—chorus girls whose pictures were used largely for decorative purposes and other girls who had made the publicity grade because of lawsuits or current jams with the police. His eyes were shadowed and lecherous as he slowly absorbed the pictures; in his mind he was committing all sorts of unspeakable acts.

Twenty minutes after he'd entered the restaurant, he paid his check and left. He had to walk another several blocks before he came to the cab stand.

The driver left him in the middle of the block, several hundred yards from the place where'd he'd rented the garage. He walked the rest of the way and when he reached the garage, he took a key from his pocket and opened the heavy padlock. The pushcart was where he had left it several nights before. There was no light in the garage but he didn't need one. His thin, nervous hands darted under the canvas tarpaulin which covered the cart and he found what he knew would be there. He grunted with satisfaction.

Five minutes later he left, pushing the cart in front of him. It was only a matter of a few blocks to the intersection. He didn't have to check his watch; he knew that he was going to be there on time.

For the first time he smiled; he had a strange sense of exhilaration and pleasure. He was looking forward to what was going to happen, what he had to do. It was just as it always was—the kick he got out of it in advance and in contemplation. He felt like a man going to keep a date with a new and promising woman. He was hoping that everything would go smoothly, but at the same time he was secretly wishing in the back of his mind that there might be just the slightest hitch; that there might be an excuse to reach under that canvas which covered the cart.

A thin, puny, weak man, Santino had a fatal fascination for violence. Violence made a giant out of him.

No one is hurt. That was the first thought which crossed her mind as she stepped to the pavement from the car. Yes, thank God, no one seemed to be hurt; both men had gotten out to inspect the damage and they seemed to be all right. She herself was shaken up and Flick, the poodle, was howling blue murder but both of them were all right. Even the cars didn't seem too badly damaged.

Joyce Sherwood gave a pathetic little laugh as her eyes took in the uniforms of the two policemen. Just her luck—running into a couple of cops. And it was her fault, no doubt of that. Well, at least she was insured, which was a help. She moved toward the front of the car where the two men stood silently as they checked to see how bad it was.

They'll probably give me a ticket, she thought. And the dealer will knock a few dollars off of what he was going to give me on the turn-in allowance. But it could have been a lot worse—a whole lot worse ....

Cribbins swore softly under his breath.

"Damn—damn it to hell," he said. "It couldn't be worse. That fool woman ... "

Mitty looked down at the puddle of water forming under the crumpled grillework of the almost new, two-toned Caddie. "Got the radiator, all right," he said.

Cribbins's eye went at once to his watch and his mind went simultaneously to a certain spot several miles away where he knew a pushcart would be sitting against a curb and where a broken-down old moving van would be waiting around the corner, waiting to pull across the road at exactly nine thirty-two. Went to the spot where the armored car would be passing in another twelve minutes and thirty seconds.

It would take a lot more than twelve minutes and thirty seconds before the Caddie moved again, at least under its own power.

Joyce stood next to Cribbins and looked at the damage and slowly shook her head. "I'm so sorry," she said. "It was all my fault. I just didn't quite see you in time and my mind was on ... "

Both men turned and stared at her.

For a moment she hesitated. There was something very strange about the way they were looking at her and instinctively her hand tightened its grip on the bag she held. This would spoil everything. Her mind went at once to the surprise which she had planned for Bart's birthday.

The way the two of them were looking at her, she began to suspect that it wasn't just going to be a simple matter of an apology and maybe a ticket. Why, they might even arrest her and take her to jail. She could imagine Bart coming home from the office in time to bail her out! It would make a swell birthday present. Just great. Instead of the brand-new convertible sitting in the driveway to greet him, there would be a message to come down to the jailhouse and get his wife. She felt like crying.

"I'm—I'm afraid a piece of my bumper seems to have punctured your radiator," Joyce said hesitantly.

The two men continued to stare at her. For a moment she wondered why they didn't say anything—why they didn't ask for her license. It was the first thing that policeman always did—ask to see your license.

She began to fumble with her leather bag and then again she suddenly remembered the cashier's check for twenty-six hundred dollars, neatly folded up in the celluloid case which held her driving license. She remembered what the teller had said to her as he handed her the check.

"Made out like that, to cash, it's just like money. So be careful of it," he'd warned her. Joyce had never carried more than a hundred dollars in cash at one time with her in her whole life.

Her eyes went again to the wreckage of the two cars and for the first time it occurred to her that the Caddie was not an official police car. It must belong to one of the officers. No wonder the man seemed shocked.

"I
am
insured," Joyce said in a weak voice.

Cribbins turned abruptly to Mitty. "Get in and see if you can back it off," he ordered.

As Mitty climbed into the driver's seat, he looked at Joyce.