And what freedom! I glimpsed the anarchic world of the criminal, and it shocked me with its excitement and almost sensual delight. I began to understand why people might deliberately turn to crime without the spur of poverty.
I started out each morning at about 10:00 A.M., taking a cab to the corner I had left the day before. Once afoot, I walked at a steady, purposeful pace: a shopper out for early-morning bargains or an East Side lady on her way to dentist or gynecologist.
I soon developed the ability to judge a jewelry store’s possibilities in seconds, merely by walking past across the street. The hole-in-the-wall shops were out. So were those featuring cheap costume jewelry and watch repairs. So were stores located on upper floors, or ground-floor shops with two interior levels, or those with more than one entrance.
After the first week I realized how difficult a getaway by car would be in the traffic-clogged cross streets. I decided to concentrate on avenues where traffic moved faster and blocks were shorter.
I actually entered several shops. I asked to look at a watch, a ring, necklace, whatever 1 spotted in the nearest showcase. I never bought anything, but the few minutes I was in the store enabled me to make a quick estimate of the size, merchandise, prices, number of employees, presence of guards, and to discover if the safe or vault was in the selling area or in a separate locked room.
I also tried to form a general impression: prosperity or seediness, a clean, glittering shop with modern fixtures and Muzak, or a grimy, threadbare store with worn carpet, dusty display cases, and the odor of disinfectant. The smartness of the employees’ dress was another tipoff. So was the presence of a doorman. Some expensive shops, which I automatically rejected, kept their front door locked and apparently admitted only familiar customers or those of prepossessing appearance. I couldn’t see them buzzing the door open for a gang of hoodlums in ski masks.
I also inspected outside window displays in order to get a rough idea of the price range within. In the better shops, the jewelry on display carried no price tags or the tags were turned facedown. This was a clue to quality merchandise, and I had no hesitation in stalking in and asking the price of the most impressive item in the window.
I learned things about jewelry stores 1 hadn’t known. Size was not necessarily an indication of wealth. Some of the most elegant and apparently most prosperous shops were simply one long, well-appointed room with armchairs for customers and no jewelry on display. The customer made known his desires, and the clerk went into an interior locked room to bring forth a velvet tray of rings, bracelets, earrings, or whatever was requested. If nothing on the tray satisfied, it was returned to the vault, and another tray brought out. At no time was the customer left alone with jewelry. Under that system, boosting would have been practically impossible.
Something else I learned: In several shops in the Forties, the armed guard or one of the clerks was equipped with a miniature radio transmitter, carried on belt or in pocket. I could only assume he had direct contact with the local police precinct or a private security agency.
And in many stores, the silent alarm buttons were in plain view. In fact, they were so obvious I figured their public placement was deliberate. Would-be thieves would concentrate their attention on the buttons in view, to make certain they weren’t pressed, giving employees the opportunity to use silent alarms more cleverly concealed.
I already knew that the narrow strip of aluminium foil you see around some street windows is wired to a burglar alarm. But I also learned that in expensive jewelry stores, individual showcases are frequently equipped with pressure alarms on the lid or door. These must be deactivated before the case is opened.
As for the main vault or safe in the rear of the store where valuable items were placed at night, the few I glimpsed appeared to be left open during the day. A comforting fact.
During the second week, Sol Faber called me in the evening.
‘Where have you been, doll?’ he inquired anxiously. ‘I’ve been calling you for the last three days.’
‘I’ve been out, Sol.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Research.’
‘You mean you’re working on something new? That’s my doll! How’s it coming?’
‘Fine. Very realistic.’
‘Music to my ears!’ he bubbled. ‘And remember, neat and tidy. The ending should be neat and tidy.’
I told him I’d try, and after he hung up, I brought my account of the fake Big Caper up to date.
A PROBLEM OF VIOLENCE
Across the street from my apartment house, and down the block a few doors, was a French restaurant called Chez Morris.
Morris was a rough, tubby guy from Brooklyn who looked like a longshoreman, which he once was. There are about 100 authentic French restaurants in Manhattan, and I’d guess the Chez Morris ranked about 101st. You entered through a long, narrow bar where patrons without reservations waited until a table was available. But after 10:00 the bar became the gathering place of regulars from the neighborhood.
Morris, the owner, knew everything: old baseball scores, sports records, gambling odds, lyrics to ancient songs, casts of forgotten musicals, the vice-president under Coolidge. Morris could settle any argument, and his word was law. He also took bets now and then and handled a few cartons of bootleg cigarettes.
I timed my arrival for a few minutes after 10:00 in the evening. I figured the regulars wouldn’t yet be clogging the bar, and I’d have a chance for a private conversation with Morris.
‘Hey, Jannie,’ he said in his raspy, waterfront voice. ‘Long time no see. How you been?’
‘I’m not going to tell you,’ I said. ‘Why should we both be miserable? A double brandy, Morris.’
‘What’s with the brandy?’ he said. ‘I never known you to dip your nose in anything but white wine. Something wrong, Jannie?’
‘Ah, hell,’ I said. ‘I got mugged last night, and I still got the shakes.’
I held out a hand and trembled the fingers convincingly.
‘Son of a bitch,’ he said bitterly. ‘You’re the third in the neighborhood this month. You get hurt, God fabbid?’
‘No,’Isaid. ‘Just the shit scared out of me.’
‘I can imagine,’ he said. ‘But you weren’t hurt?’
‘No, nothing like that. Just took my wallet. A little over a hundred. Didn’ttouch my credit cards. I guess I was lucky.’
‘You get a good look at him?’
‘What can I tell you? A kid with a knife.’
‘The lousy creep,’ he growled and moved away to wait on a new customer.
‘What did the cops say?’ he asked when he came back.
‘The cops,’ I said scornfully. ‘They took my statement and promised nothing. What can they do? A hundred muggings a night. The animals are taking over. Morrie, I just felt so helpless. He had a knife, and I had nothing. He made me reach into my shoulder bag for my wallet. I swear if I had a gun in there, I would have shot him in the balls.’
‘Just what he deserved,’ Morris said virtuously. ‘Your honest citizen, he can’t carry a gun. The assholes can carry an arsenal.’
‘Morrie,’ I said, staring into his eyes, ‘I’m not going to get mugged again. Not without putting up a fight, I’m not. Do you know how I can get a gun?’
He froze. ‘Aw, babe,’ he said, ‘you don’t want to do that. So what if you plug a guy trying to rob you? Then you’re in trouble with the law.’
‘1 don’t care!’ I told him furiously. ‘I want to be able to fight back. Listen, maybe the next guy will rob me and try rape as a little bonus. Morrie, can you help me? Help me get a gun?’