‘A lot of fun. Besides, I need the exercise.’
After he left, I cleaned up the office, carried glasses, ice bucket, vodka to the kitchen, restored clippings to the folder, tucked folders back into the file cabinet. Then I sat down in the swivel chair again, read over the brief notes I had jotted down.
It occurred to me that I would be foolish not to keep a complete record of everything Dick Fleming and I did, said, thought. Such a journal would be an invaluable reference when it came time to start a new book.
‘Here’s looking at you, Aldo Binder,’ I said out loud. Then I threaded a yellow second sheet into my IBM electric, typed in yesterday’s date at the top, gave it a working title: ‘Project X.’ I started writing. I subtitled the first section: ‘How It All Began.’
I decided not to tell Dick Fleming that I was keeping a precise record of our activities. It would only make the poor dear nervous.
LEARNING THE TRADE
I wish I had been wearing a pedometer during the following two weeks; I would have loved to know how many miles I covered. Back and forth on the cross streets from 34th to 59th. Up and down on the avenues from First to Sixth.
The weather was sharp enough to justify wearing my mink, for which I was truly thankful. What cop or jewelry store owner would suspect a tall, elegant lady in a full-length mink coat and a wide-brimmed black fedora with a band of pheasant feathers? With an alligator shoulder bag? I was a walking illustration of why the Endangered Species Act was passed. For instance, I began to look upon policemen, guards, and even the public as my natural enemies. Jewelry stores and their contents became challenges. Traffic flow was noted only as it might impede or assist my plans. Even the weather took on a new dimension; a bright, sunny sky might not be desirable, while a dark, rain-soaked day might prove advantageous.
It was a totally upside-down way of looking at the world and society, a little scary, constantly stressful, but there was exhilaration in it, too. The senses were constantly alert, the mind sharpened and restless. The ordinary concerns of life were of no import. Food lost its flavor, and even sex seemed a second-rate pleasure. Nothing was as important, as meaningful, as the business at hand: the planning of a successful illegal enterprise.
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.
