The Anderson Tapes (6 page)

ANDERSON: You’re right, Billy.

EDWARD: Listen, kid, why don’t you drink your beer and keep quiet for a while … huh? Duke and I want to talk business. Don’t interrupt. Just drink your beer and listen. Okay?

BILLY: Oh, yeah, sure, Edward. Can I have another beer?

EDWARD: Sure you can, kid … as soon as you finish that one. You got something, Duke?

ANDERSON: There’s this house on the East Side in Manhattan. I need the basement swept. I got a guy to do it—a tech named Ernie Mann. You know him?

EDWARD: No.

ANDERSON: Good, solid guy. Knows his stuff. He’ll be the only one to go in. But he needs a driver. He wants a telephone company truck. A Manhattan truck. Clothes and ID cards. All the equipment.

I can tell you where to get the paper; you’ll have to take care of the rest. It’s only for a few hours. Three hours at the most.

EDWARD: Where will I be?

ANDERSON: Outside. In the truck. It’s like a small van. You’ve seen them.

BILLY: It’s a two-man job … right, Duke?

ANDERSON: That’s up to Ed. How about it?

EDWARD: Tell me more.

ANDERSON: Converted town house on a quiet block. Doorman. Alley that leads to the service entrance. You can’t get in the back door until the doorman sees you on closed-circuit TV and presses the button. You pull up in front. Ernie goes in the lobby and flashes his potsy. Real good odds that the doorman won’t ask to see yours.

You’re sitting outside in the regulation van where he can see it.

Ernie tells the doorman the telephone company is bringing a new trunk line down the block and he’s got to examine the connections. All right so far?

EDWARD: So far.

ANDERSON: What could go wrong? The tech just wants to get into the basement; he doesn’t want to case the apartments. The doorman says okay, that you should pull into the alley and drive to the back entrance. Like I said, only Ernie goes in. You stay with the truck.

BILLY: Me, too, Duke. Don’t forget me.

ANDERSON: Yeah. How does it sound, Ed?

EDWARD: Where do we get the ID cards?

ANDERSON: There’s a paper man on Amsterdam Avenue. Helmas.

Ever use him?

EDWARD: No.

ANDERSON: The best. He’s got the blank cards. Not copies. The real thing. You’ll need snapshots to staple on—you know, the kind of four-for-a-quarter shots you get on Forty-second Street.

EDWARD: What about the truck, uniforms, equipment, and all that shit?

ANDERSON: That’s your problem.

EDWARD: How much?

ANDERSON: Four bills.

EDWARD: When?

ANDERSON: As soon as you’re ready. Then I’ll call Ernie, and we’ll set it up. This is not a hit, Ed. It’s just a wash.

EDWARD: I understand, but still… . Can’t go to five, can you, Duke?

ANDERSON: I can’t, Ed. I’m on a budget. But if it works out, it might be something more for you … for all of us. You understand?

EDWARD: Sure.

BILLY: What are you talking about? I don’t understand what you’re talking about.

EDWARD: Shut up a minute, kid. Let’s go over it once more, Duke; I want to be sure I got it right. It’s just a wash, not a hit. I don’t go inside the building. I pick up a Manhattan telephone company van with all the gear. I have the uniform and crap hanging from my belt. What about the tech?

ANDERSON: He’ll bring his own.

EDWARD: Good. I lift the truck. I pick up this Ernie guy somewhere.

Right?

ANDERSON: Right.

EDWARD: We drive up in front of the house. He gets out, braces the doorman, and shows his ID. We drive up the alley to the back entrance. This Ernie gets out, shows on the TV, and gets let in. I stick in the truck. Have I got it?

ANDERSON: That’s it.

EDWARD: How long do I stick around?

ANDERSON: Three hours tops.

EDWARD: And then …?

ANDERSON: If he’s not out by then, take off.

EDWARD: Good. That’s what I wanted to hear. So he’s out in under three hours. Then what?

ANDERSON: Drop him where he wants to go. Ditch the truck. Change back to your regular clothes. Walk away.

BILLY: Gee, that sounds easy … doesn’t it, Edward? Doesn’t that sound easy?

EDWARD: They all sound easy, kid. How do I contact you, Duke?

ANDERSON: It’s on?

EDWARD: Yeah. It’s on.

ANDERSON: I’ll call you every day at one o’clock in the afternoon. If you miss it, don’t worry; I’ll call the next day. After you get it set, I’ll call the tech and we’ll set up a meet. Want two bills?

EDWARD: Jesus, do I? Waiter … another round!

The premises at 4678 West End Avenue, New York City, a candy and cigar store, were placed under surveillance on 16 November, 1967, by the New York Police Department, on suspicion that the store was being used as a policy (numbers racket) drop. Taps were installed on the two pay phones in booths in the rear of the store.

The following transcription was made from a tape identified as NYPDSIS-182-BL. It is not dated definitely but is believed to have been recorded on 31 May, 1968.

CYNTHIA: … so that’s how it shapes up, Duke. How does it sound?

ANDERSON: All right. It sounds all right.

CYNTHIA: The only hang-up we can see is that business of paying the doctors. You know doctors usually wait a few weeks or a month before they bill. But if the doctor-doctor or the shrink happens to bill within a few days, and the letter comes back from my freak address, it means I couldn’t make a second visit.

ANDERSON: What does Tommy say?

CYNTHIA: He says to tell you we could handle it a couple of ways. I can tell them I’m going on a cruise or vacation or something and not to bill for a month at least because I don’t want mail piling up in the mailbox because that’s a tip-off to crooks that no one is home. Or, Tommy says, we can get me a book of personalized checks from Helmas. I can give them a freak check right then and there. That’ll guarantee me at least three or four days before it bounces, and during that time I might be able to arrange another visit.

ANDERSON: Why not just pay cash before you leave?

CYNTHIA: Tommy says it would be out of character.

ANDERSON: Shit. That brother of yours should have been a play actor. Look, let’s not get so fucking tricky. This is just a dry run.

Don’t take chances. Get what you can on your first visit. Pay them in cash. Then you can go back a second time whenever you like.

CYNTHIA: Okay, Duke, if you say so. How does Tommy’s campaign sound?

ANDERSON: I can’t see any holes, Snap. Both of you go ahead. If anything comes up, play it smart and lay off. Don’t push. I’ll call you next Friday, same time, and set up a meet.

Transcription from tape recording FTC-1JUN68-EHM-29L. Premises of Fun City Electronic Supply & Repair Co., Inc., 1975 Avenue D, New York.

ANDERSON: Professor?

MANN: Yes.

ANDERSON: Duke. Your phone clean?

MANN: Of course.

ANDERSON: I have your drivers.

MANN: Drivers? More than one?

ANDERSON: Two brothers.

MANN: This is necessary?

ANDERSON: They’re a team. Professionals. No sweat. They’ll sit there for three hours tops.

MANN: Plenty. More than plenty. I’ll be out in one.

ANDERSON: Good. When?

MANN: Precisely nine forty-five A.M., on the morning of June fourth.

ANDERSON: That’s next Tuesday morning? Correct?

MANN: Correct.

ANDERSON: Where?

MANN: On the northwest corner of Seventy-ninth Street and Lexington Avenue. I shall be wearing a light tan raincoat and carrying a small black suitcase. I shall be wearing no hat. You have that?

ANDERSON: Yes, I have it.

MANN: Duke, the two men … is it necessary?

ANDERSON: I told you, they’re a team. The old one drives. The young one is strictly muscle.

MANN: Why should muscle be necessary?

ANDERSON: It won’t be, Professor. The kid’s a little light in the head. His brother takes care of him. The kid needs to be with him. You understand?

MANN: No.

ANDERSON: Professor, the two will sit in the truck and wait for you.

There will be no trouble. There will be no need for muscle.

Everything will go well.

[Lapse of six seconds.]

MANN: Very well.

ANDERSON: I’ll call you on Wednesday, June fifth, and we’ll set up a meet.

MANN: As you wish.

The following is a transcription of a personal tape recording made by the author on 19 November, 1968. To my knowledge, the testimony it contains is not duplicated in any official recording, transcription, or document now in existence.

AUTHOR: This will be a recording GO-1A. Will you identify yourself, please, and state your place of residence.

RYAN: My name is Kenneth Ryan. I live at one-one-nine-eight West Nineteenth Street, New York.

AUTHOR: And will you please state your occupation and where you work.

RYAN: I’m a doorman. I’m on the door at five-three-five East Seventy-third Street in Manhattan. I’m usually on eight in the morning until four in the afternoon. Sometimes we switch around, you understand. There’s three of us, and sometimes we switch around, like when a guy wants to go somewhere, like he’s got a family thing to go to. Then we switch around. But generally I’m on eight to four during the day.

AUTHOR: Thank you. Mr. Ryan, as I explained to you previously, this recording will be solely for my own use in preparing a record of a crime that occurred in New York City on the night and morning of August thirty-first and September first, 1968. I am not an officer of any branch of the government—city, state, or federal. I shall not ask you to swear to the testimony you are about to give, nor will it be used in a court of law or in any legal proceeding. The statement you make will be for my personal use only and will not be published without your permission, which can only be granted by a signed statement from you, giving approval of such use. In return, I have paid you the sum of one hundred dollars, this sum paid whether or not you agree to the publication of your statement. In addition, I will furnish you—at my expense—a duplicate recording of this interrogation. Is all that understood?

RYAN: Sure.

AUTHOR: Now then … this photograph I showed you … . Do you recognize him?

RYAN: Sure. That’s the fly who told me his name was Sidney Brevoort.

AUTHOR: Well … actually this man’s name is Thomas Haskins. But he told you he was Sidney Brevoort?

RYAN: That’s right.

AUTHOR: When did this happen?

RYAN: It was early in June. This year. Maybe the third, maybe the fourth, maybe the fifth. Around then. This little guy comes up to me in the lobby where I work. That’s five-three-five East Seventy-third Street, like I told you.

AUTHOR: About what time was this?

RYAN: Oh, I don’t remember exactly. Maybe nine forty-five in the morning. Maybe ten. Around then. “Good morning,” he says, and I say, “Good morning.” And he says, “My name is Sidney Brevoort, and I am a field representative of the New Urban Reorganization Committee. Here is my identification card.” And then he shows me his card, and it’s just like he says.

AUTHOR: Did the card have his photo on it?

RYAN: Oh, sure. All printed and regular like. Official—know what I mean? So he says, “Sir …”—he always called me sir—he says,

“Sir, my organization is making an informal census of the dwellings and population of the East Side of Manhattan from Fifth Avenue to the river, and from Twenty-third Street on the south to Eighty-sixth Street on the north. We are trying to get legislation passed by New York State allowing for a bond issue to finance the cost of a Second Avenue subway.” That’s as near as I can remember to what he says. He’s talking very official, you know.

Very impressive, it was. So I says, “You’re damned right. They had the bonds for that years ago, and then they went and pissed the money away on other things. Right into the politicians’ pocket,” I tells him. And he says, “I can see you keep up on civic affairs.” And I says to him, “I know what’s going on.” And he says, “I am certain you do, sir. Well, to help convince New York State legislators that this bill should be passed, the New Urban Reorganization Committee is making an actual count of everyone on the East Side of Manhattan in the area I mentioned who might conceivably benefit by a Second Avenue subway. What I’d like from you are the names of people living in this building and the numbers of the apartments they occupy.” AUTHOR: And what did you say to that?

RYAN: I told him to go to hell. Well, I didn’t put it in those exact words, you understand. But I told him I couldn’t do it.

AUTHOR: What did he say then?

RYAN: He said it would be voluntary. He said that any tenant who wanted to volunteer information—why, that would be confidential, and their names wouldn’t be given to anyone. They’d just be—you know, like statistics. What he wanted to know was who lived in what apartment, did they have servants, and how they traveled to work, and what time did they go to work and what time did they come home. Stuff like that. So I said, “Sorry, no can do.” I told him Shovey and White at one-three-two-four Madison Avenue managed the house, and all us doors got strict orders not to talk to anyone about the tenants, not to give out no information, and not to let anyone into tenants’ apartments unless we get the okay from Shovey and White.

AUTHOR: What was his reaction to that?

RYAN: That little shit. He said he could understand it because of all the robberies on the East Side recently, and would it be all right if he called Shovey and White and asked for permission to talk to me and interview the tenants who would volunteer to talk to him.

So I said sure, call Shovey and White, and if they say it’s okay, then it’s okay with me. He said he’d call them and if it was okay, he’d have them call me to give me the go-ahead. He asks me who he should talk to at Shovey and White, and I told him to talk to Mr.

Walsh who handles our building. I even gave him the phone number … oh, the filth of him! Then he asks me if I had ever seen Mr. Walsh, and I had to tell him no, I had never set eyes on the guy. I only talked to him twice on the phone. You gotta understand, these managers don’t take no personal interest. They just sit on their ass behind a phone.