The Anderson Tapes (7 page)

AUTHOR: What did the man you know as Sidney Brevoort do then?

RYAN: He said he’d call Shovey and White and explain what he wanted and have Mr. Walsh contact me. So I said if it was okay with them, it was okay with me. So he thanked me for my trouble—very polite, you understand—and walked away. The dirty little crud.

AUTHOR: Thank you, Mr. Ryan.

Tape NYPDSIS-196-BL. Premises of candy store at 4678 West End Avenue. Approximately 10:28 A.M., 3 June, 1968.

CYNTHIA HASKINS: The New Urban Reorganization Committee. May I help you?

THOMAS: It’s me, Snap.

CYNTHIA: What’s wrong?

THOMAS: I bombed out. The fucking Irishman on the door won’t talk unless he gets a go-ahead from the management agents, Shovey and White, on Madison Avenue.

CYNTHIA: Oh, my God. Duke will kill us.

THOMAS: Don’t get your balls in an uproar, luv. I thought of something on the way here. I’m calling from a pay phone on the corner of Seventy-third Street and York Avenue.

CYNTHIA: Jesus’ sake, Tommy, take it easy. Duke said not to take any chances. Duke said if anything came up to lay off. Now you say you thought of something. Tommy, don’t… .

THOMAS: You think he’s paying us five bills to lay off? He wants us to use our brains, doesn’t he? That’s why he looked us up, isn’t it? If he wanted a couple of dumdums he could have bought them for a bill. Duke wants results. If we don’t blow the whole goddamned thing—whatever it is—he won’t care how we did it.

CYNTHIA: Tommy, I… .

THOMAS: Shut up and listen. Here’s how we’ll work it… .

Approximately 10:37 A.M., 3 June, 1968.

RYAN: Five thirty-five East Seventy-third Street.

CYNTHIA: Is this the doorman?

RYAN: Yeah. Who’s this?

CYNTHIA: This is Ruth David at Shovey and White. Did you just talk to a man named Sidney Brevoort who said he was from the New Urban Reorganization Committee?

RYAN: Yeah. He was here a few minutes ago. He wanted a list of people in the building and wanted to talk to them. I told him to call Mr. Walsh.

CYNTHIA: You did exactly right. But Mr. Walsh is out sick. The flu or something. He was out yesterday and he’s out today. I’m handling his buildings while he’s gone. How did this Brevoort guy look to you?

RYAN: A mousy little swish. I could chew him up and spit him over the left-field fence.

CYNTHIA: He didn’t look like a thief, I mean?

RYAN: No, but that don’t mean nothing. What do you want me to do if he comes back?

CYNTHIA: Well, I called the New Urban Reorganization Committee, and it’s a legitimate outfit. They said yes, Sidney Brevoort was one of their field representatives. Did he have an identification card?

RYAN: Yeah. He showed it to me.

CYNTHIA: Well, I don’t want to take the responsibility of giving him the names of tenants or letting him talk to them.

RYAN: You’re right. I don’t neither.

CYNTHIA: Tell you what … Mr. Walsh told me to call him at home in case something came up I couldn’t handle. I’ve got his home phone number. If he says it’s okay, you can talk to Brevoort. If Walsh says no, then to hell with Brevoort and the New Urban Reorganization Committee. Either way, you and I are out of it; we’ll leave it up to Walsh.

RYAN: Yeah. That’s smart.

CYNTHIA: All right. I’ll hang up now and call Walsh. I’ll call you back in a few minutes and tell you what he said.

RYAN: I’ll be here.

Approximately 10:48 A.M., 3 June, 1968.

CYNTHIA: Doorman? This is Ruth David again.

RYAN: Yeah. You talk to Mr. Walsh?

CYNTHIA: Yes. He said it was perfectly all right. He knows this New Urban Reorganization Committee. He says it’s okay to give Brevoort the names of tenants. Also, he can talk to any tenants who voluntarily agree. But you ask them first on the intercom.

Don’t let Brevoort wander around the house. And make sure he comes down to the lobby after every interview.

RYAN: Don’t worry, Miss David. I know how to handle it.

CYNTHIA: Good. Well, that’s a load off my mind. I didn’t want to take the responsibility.

RYAN: I didn’t neither.

CYNTHIA: Mr. Walsh said to tell you that you did exactly right, making Brevoort call us. He said to tell you he won’t forget how you handled this.

RYAN: Yeah. Fine. Okay, then I’ll talk to Brevoort. Thanks for calling, Miss David.

CYNTHIA: Thank you, sir.

Transcription from tape SEC-3JUN68-IM-01:48-PM142C. Premises of Ingrid Macht, 627 West Twenty-fourth Street, New York.

INGRID: Come in,
Schatzie
.

ANDERSON: Glasses? You’re wearing glasses now?

INGRID: For perhaps a year. Only for reading. You like them?

ANDERSON: Yes. You’re doing something?

INGRID: I am just finishing my breakfast. I slept late today. Coffee?

ANDERSON: All right. Black.

[Lapse of one minute thirteen seconds.]

INGRID: A little brandy perhaps?

ANDERSON: Fine. You join me?

INGRID: Thank you, no. I will take a sip of yours.

ANDERSON: Then you’ll tell me I drink too much, and meanwhile you’re sipping half my booze.

INGRID: Oh,
Schatzie
, when did I ever tell you that you drank too much? When did I ever criticize anything you do?

ANDERSON: Never … that I can remember. I was just kidding you.

Don’t be so serious. You have no sense of humor.

INGRID: That is true. Is something bothering you?

ANDERSON: No. Why?

INGRID: You have a look I recognize. Something in your eyes—

faraway. You are thinking very hard about something. Do I guess right?

ANDERSON: Maybe.

INGRID: Please do not tell me. I want to know absolutely nothing. I do not wish to go through all that again. You understand?

ANDERSON: Sure. Sit on my lap. No … leave your glasses on.

INGRID: You do like them?

ANDERSON: Yes. When I was down South I had an idea of what a big-city woman was like. I could see her. Very thin. Not too tall. Hard.

Bony. Open eyes. Pale lips. And heavy, black-rimmed glasses.

INGRID: A strange dream for a man to have. Usually it is a sweet, plump little blonde with big tits.

ANDERSON: Well, that was my dream. And long, straight black hair that hung to her waist.

INGRID: I have a wig like that.

ANDERSON: I know. I gave it to you.

INGRID: So you did, S
chatzie
. I had forgotten. Shall I put it on?

ANDERSON: Yes.

[Lapse of four minutes fourteen seconds.]

INGRID: So. Am I now your dream?

ANDERSON: Close. Very close. Sit here again.

INGRID: And what have you brought me today, Duke … another cigarette lighter?

ANDERSON: No. I brought you a hundred dollars.

INGRID: That is nice. I like money.

ANDERSON: I know. More stocks?

INGRID: Of course. I have been doing very well. My broker tells me I have an instinct for trading.

ANDERSON: I could have told him that. Am I hurting you?

INGRID: No. Perhaps we should go into the bedroom.

[Lapse of two minutes thirty-four seconds.]

INGRID: You are thinner … and harder. This scar … you told me once but I have forgotten.

ANDERSON: Knife fight.

INGRID: Did you kill him?

ANDERSON: Yes.

INGRID: Why did you fight?

ANDERSON: I forget. At the time it seemed important. Do you want me to give you the money now?

INGRID: Do not be nasty, Duke. It is not like you.

ANDERSON: Then start. Jesus, I need it. I’ve got to get out.

INGRID: Getting out—that is so important to you?

ANDERSON: I need it. I’m hooked. Slowly… .

INGRID: Of course. No … I told you, don’t close your eyes. Look at me.

ANDERSON: Yes. All right.

INGRID: You know, I think I shall write a book. Relax your muscles, S
chatzie
; you are too tense.

ANDERSON: All right … yes. Is that better?

INGRID: Much. See … isn’t that better?

ANDERSON: Oh, God, yes. Yes. A book about what?

INGRID: About pain and about crime. You know, I think criminals—

most criminals—do what they do so that they may cause pain to someone. Also, so that they may be caught and be punished. To cause pain and to feel pain. That is why they lie, cheat, steal, and kill.

ANDERSON: Yes… .

INGRID: Look … I will tie my long, black hair about you. I will pull it tight and knot it … like so. There. How funny you look … like a strange Christmas package, a gift… .

ANDERSON: It’s starting. I can feel it… .

INGRID: You are getting out?

ANDERSON: Slowly. You may be right. I don’t know about those things. But it makes sense. When I was inside I met a guy who drew a minimum of thirty. He would have gotten eight to ten, but he hurt the people he robbed. He didn’t have to. They gave him everything he wanted. They didn’t yell. But he hurt them bad. And then he left his prints all over the place INGRID: Yes, that is understandable. You are tensing up again,
Schatzie
. Relax. Yes, that is better. And now… .

ANDERSON: Oh, God, Ingrid, please … please don’t… .

INGRID: First you beg me to start, and then you beg me to stop. But I must help you to get out. Is that not so, Duke?

ANDERSON: You are the only one who can do it … the only one… .

INGRID: So… . Now, bite down hard and try not to scream. There …

and there …

ANDERSON: Your teeth … I can’t … please, I … oh God …

INGRID: Just a little more. You are getting out … I can see it in your eyes. Just a little more. And now … so … so… . Oh, you are getting out now, Duke … are you not? Yes, now you have escaped. But not me, Duke … not me… .

Starting on 12 April, 1968, a number of letters—obviously written by a mentally deranged person—were received threatening the personal safety of the President of the United States, Justices of the Supreme Court of the United States, and certain U.S. Senators. Incredibly, the unsigned letters were typed on stationery of the Excalibur Arms Hotel, 14896 Broadway, New York, New York.

On 19 April, 1968, with the cooperation of the owners of record, the U.S. Secret Service established electronic surveillance of the premises. A master tap was placed on the main telephone line coming into the building. In addition, several rooms and suites were equipped with bugs to record interior conversations. All these devices fed into an Emplex 47-83B voice-actuated tape recorder connected to a backup Emplex 47-82B-1 in case two conversations came in simultaneously. These machines were emplaced in the basement of the Excalibur Arms.

The following tape, coded USSS-VS-901KD-432, is dated 5 June, 1968. It was recorded from Room 432. The two men present, John Anderson and Thomas Haskins, have been identified by voice prints and interior evidence.

[Knock on door.]

ANDERSON: Who is it?

HASKINS: Me … Tommy.

ANDERSON: Come on in. Everything look all right downstairs?

HASKINS: Clear. What a filthy fleabag, darling.

ANDERSON: I just took the room for our meet. I’m not going to sleep here. Sit down over here. I have some brandy.

HASKINS: Thanks, no. But I do believe I’ll have a joint. Join me?

ANDERSON: I’ll stick to brandy. How did you make out?

HASKINS: Very well, I think. I hit two days ago. Snapper will hit tomorrow.

ANDERSON: Any beef?

HASKINS: A little difficulty. Nothing important. We handled it.

ANDERSON: Get much?

HASKINS: As much as I could. Not as complete as you’d wish, I’m sure, but interesting.

ANDERSON: Tommy, I won’t shit you. You’ve got brains. You know I can’t pay out five bills for a wash if I wasn’t planning a hustle.

Before you give me your report, give it to me straight—would it be worth it?

HASKINS: Which apartment, darling?

ANDERSON: All of them.

HASKINS: Jesus Christ Almighty.

ANDERSON: Would it be worth it?

HASKINS: My God, yes!

ANDERSON: Guess at the income?

HASKINS: Guess? I’d guess a minimum of a hundred G’s. But maybe twice that.

ANDERSON: You and I think alike. That’s what I guessed. All right, let’s have it.

HASKINS: I typed out a report and one carbon on Snapper’s machine, so we could go over it together. Naturally you get both copies.

ANDERSON: Naturally.

HASKINS: All right … let’s start with the doormen. Three of them: Timothy O’Leary, Kenneth Ryan, Ed Bakely. In order, they’re on midnight to eight A.M., eight A.M. to four P.M., four P.M. to midnight. O’Leary, the guy on midnight to eight A.M., is the lush.

An ex-cop. When one of them takes his day off, the other two work twelve-hour shifts and get paid double. Occasionally, like around Christmas, two of them are off at once, and the union sends over a temporary. Okay?

ANDERSON: Go ahead.

HASKINS: I have all this in the report in more detail, darling, but I just want to go over the highlights with you in case you have any questions.

ANDERSON: Go ahead.

HASKINS: The super. Ivan Block. A Hungarian, I think, or maybe a Pole. A wino. He lives in the basement. He’s there twenty-four hours a day, six days a week. On Mondays he goes to visit his married sister in New Jersey. In case of emergency, the super next door at five-three-seven East Seventy-third Street fills in for him.

He also fills in when Block takes his two-week vacation every May.

Block is sixty-four years old and blind in one eye. His basement apartment is one room and bath. Ryan hinted that he’s a cheap son of a bitch. He may have something under the mattress.

ANDERSON: Maybe. These Old World farts don’t believe in banks.

Let’s get on with it. I don’t want to spend too much time here. This place bugs me.

HASKINS: Literally, I’m sure. I just saw one. Suite One A, first floor, off the lobby. Dr. Erwin Leister, MD, an internist.

ANDERSON: What’s that?

HASKINS: A doctor who specializes in internal medicine. One nurse, one combination secretary-receptionist. Office hours from about nine A.M. to six P.M. Occasionally he’s there later. Usually the nurse and secretary are gone by five thirty. The headshrinker is Dr. Dmitri Rubicoff, Suite One B. He’s got one secretary-nurse. Office hours usually from nine to nine. Occasionally later. Snapper will give you a more complete rundown on these doctors after Thursday.