For starters, the robbery of the Alderstein Gallery didn’t quite go as planned.
One of those upper Madison places catering to the idle rich, Alderstein employed uniformed guards and used the best security money could buy. However, the guy who installed the system was also the best money could buy, so Mike was able to get the plans and figure out how to get in and get out.
Piece of cake.
And the icing on that cake was the de Wilbur coin collection, which had recently been consigned to the gallery by its owner, Charles de Wilbur, who was referred to, in current parlance, as a financier. Plus, there were a few other choice items that Mike could easily move off the premises and fence for a nice piece of change.
Mike had been fascinated by art and its special world since he was a kid. He’d taught himself about the subject from the art books and magazines he devoured. In the end, he’d come to prefer stealing art and collectibles over anything else. Its value held up over the long-term, even with all that inflation left over from the ’70s.
Besides, Mike felt you met a better class of vicious, double-dealing people in the world of art. There was always someone who could be turned; and the part that made Mike shake his head in amazement was that these were just the people that the rich and privileged of this world relied on for their wall hangings and knick-knacks.
When Mike cased a location, he changed his appearance ever so slightly, never relying on elaborate disguises. He had the plain good looks that women liked in a bar, but most people never remembered as the day progressed.
For the Alderstein job, the inside technical dope came from the security guy, who had spent time in stir with Mike’s long-time associate and pal, Stiggy. Loyal and knowledgeable, Stiggy was handy when it came to applying that tiny bit of muscle, which, in the end, every job seemed to require.
Everything was coming together like clockwork. It looked as if this job could go off without a hitch.
When Stiggy hit the guard on the back of the head, Mike figured from the way the guard’s head snapped back that the rap was too hard. Given how the guard slumped slowly onto the thick carpet and lay there with his eyes wide open, Mike’s theory was confirmed.
A brief, meaningful look at one another meant there was nothing to do but keep going. As they slipped through the subdued burgundy atmosphere of the galleries, Mike couldn’t bring himself to admire the works on the walls, instead he focused on the current state of the work at hand. Not that he hadn’t been on jobs where someone ended up dead, this just wasn’t supposed be one of those jobs.
He started to sweat inside his balaclava.
The two thieves were just turning the corner into the consignment room where the de Wilbur coins were supposed to be stored when they heard grunting coming from a nearby office. Mike peeked around the doorframe and was a little bit surprised to see a lovely left breast swaying forward and backwards as its owner, a sweet-looking blonde, was white-knuckling the front edge of a worn Louis XV desk. The top of her shapely ass was thrust up from underneath her cobalt-blue Chanel dress. Slamming into her was some skinny-assed guy. With his pants around his ankles and his Windsor knot intact, he could only be British, Mike thought to himself.
As “Nigel” reared his head in ecstasy, he saw Mike and Stiggy; they, in turn, were transfixed by the blonde in motion. This is all wonderful, thought Mike. Why did he have the feeling that Stiggy and he were the ones getting fucked?
Stiggy advanced and roughly pulled the guy off the blonde, the Brit’s now limp dick waggling in the wind.
“What the fu -,” the gallerist sputtered.
“Exactly,” replied Stiggy, slamming the guy in the side of head, knocking him out.
“What about her?” Stiggy asked Mike, jerking his head toward the blonde.
“What about her?” mumbled Mike as he looked around and saw a purse on the floor by the door. Reaching inside, he found a wallet and, even more interesting, a couple of antique coins, most likely from the de Wilbur collection. The blonde was blubbering, trying to smooth her dress and cover herself with quaking hands.
“Let me guess, ah…,” Mike said, looking through the wallet, “… Harriet?… You and ‘Nigel’ here were sending this little guy out for a private appraisal?”
Shaking like she was out in February, Harriet quietly said, “That was Cliff’s idea… his name is Cliff… The collection is so huge… He knows this forger who could copy the coins… We could sell them separately later and make a -”
“Got it,” said Mike. “Now get yourself together. Here’s what’s going to happen. When your friend wakes up, you and him are keeping these coins. And you’re going to blame us. Only thing is you didn’t really see us. And right now you’re taking us to the rest of the collection and making sure we walk out with them without a hitch. You understand?”
Still shaking, Harriet nodded.
“And you’ll make sure limp dick here agrees with this plan?” Mike said, trying to keep a straight face.
“A word?” asked Stiggy. Mike and he went out into the hallway, leaving Harriet alone to clean herself up.
“Are you sure you want to play it this way?” whispered Stiggy. “You can’t trust these people. We can’t leave loose ends.”
“We’re wearing masks,” hissed Mike. “They haven’t seen us.”
“Bullshit! I don’t like this one fucking bit.”
“Yeah, well how many bodies do you want to leave around tonight?”
“As many as we have to! One down means this is first-degree murder already. Another stiff ain’t going to make a fucking difference.”
“No way! We’re not doing anyone else. Let’s get the goods and go!”
Stiggy sighed into his mask. “I do not like this, I do not like this one fucking bit.” He paused, then said, “All right, all right, we’ll play this out your way. But if one more thing goes haywire, I’m doing what I gotta, do, I don’t give a shit what you say.”
“Deal,” said Mike.
Harriet led the boys to the coin room, then unlocked the door and the secure case containing the coins. Mike picked the cases up, gave the coins a quick once-over and dumped the cases into his swag bag. He turned to Harriet and gave her the hairy eyeball.
“We’re clear, right?” Mike said to her, glaring hard.
“Y-yes… Promise, we won’t do a thing.”
Just then, the alarm went off. Cursing hard, Stiggy started toward the office where Cliff obviously had set off something, then, hesitating, looked at Mike with pleading eyes, grabbed him by the arm, and dragged him toward the door.
Just as they hit the street, a squad car careened around the corner onto East 71st and headed their way. Running and looking behind him, Stiggy tripped over a wrought-iron fence support and landed flat on the pavement. By the time Stiggy made contact with the concrete, Mike was well down the block, ripping off his mask. He made it around the corner onto Madison, and headed south, slowing his pace to what he hoped looked normal.
Mike got to the East 68th Street Lex station, straining to make sure the sirens stayed in the distance and faded away toward the park. He hurried down into the station, dropped a token in the box, and moved onto the platform. Mike concentrated on the sweat beading on his back and neck, the enormity of events mushrooming inside his head.
When the train finally arrived, Mike stepped into the car, with a firm idea of where to go and what to do.
Mike moved with the small group of passengers off the subway and through the crowd of homeless people trying to sleep and rest in the old downstairs waiting area. The whole terminal smelled of piss and old sweat; Mike wanted to gag.