‘Shoot.’
‘How the hell you ever get in the fuckin’ OC?
The Nosh giggled. ‘It was because of the Feds,’ he said. ‘I was workin’ radio maintenance down in Central and one day this FBI named Weir shows up and he’s lookin’ for somebody can really do a number on an automobile, so they loaned me to him. What it was — you remember that Mafia guy, Degallante, retired down here about a year ago?’
‘Sure,’ Livingston said, ‘he got deported.’
‘Well, not exactly. That’s what the Feds are puttin’ out. What really happened, the FBIs figure Degallante is not really retired. He’s down here maybe to get his foot in the door and they wanted to pin something on him, only they were striking out all over the place. So they decide maybe if they bugged his car he might, y’know, be doin’ business there and they could get something on him. A big black Lincoln limo. I hung around the Lincoln place until they brought the car in for service and I wired it front to back. The first tape we pulled, you wouldn’t believe it,’ and he began to giggle. ‘What it was, the old bastard bad his son-in-law giving him head in the back seat.’
There was a moment of stunned silence before everybody laughed.
‘No shit, there he was cruising down the interstate and his daughter’s husband is blowing him. Well, Weir takes the tape out to Degallante’s place on ‘West Wesley Road and they’re all sitting around the living room finessing each other out and Degallante is telling them how he’s not connected anymore and he’s retired and they can get lost and then Weir turns on the tape recorder. Thirty seconds and the old man throws up all over the floor and Weir tells him what they’re gonna do, they’re gonna give copies to The New York Times, Time magazine and Playboy. A month later he was back in Sicily and the whole family was with him and that’s the way it really happened.’
‘So how did you get in the OC?’ Papa said.
‘Weir told D’Agastino and D’Agastino drafted me. I got a workshop in the basement. He never sees me, I don’t see him. We’re both very happy about the arrangement.’
Sharky turned into Lindburgh Drive and headed towards Peachtree Street. The two white buildings loomed through the rain like stark, windowed tombstones.
‘How much time we gonna need?’ Sharky asked The Nosh.
‘Not long. We give the place a quick wash, decide where we want the buttons, then plant ‘em. I want to see the roof first, maybe set up a listening post up there. I’d say fifteen, maybe twenty minutes and we’ll be out.’
‘You’re on,’ Sharky said.
‘Papa and I can recognize her,’ Livingston said. ‘How about I stay in the car so I can spot her when she comes in? Papa can ride the elevator, slow her down if he has to.’
‘That’s the play, then,’ Sharky said.
They parked the car. Sharky, Papa, and The Nosh entered the building. The security guard, a large white.. haired man with a wasted body lost in an oversized uniform and a seamed face, was sitting in a small office reading The National Enquirer. The Nosh laid the card on the desk in front of him.
‘I’m Friedman, city inspection department. We’re doing a stress check on your elevators,’ he said. ‘We’ll be in and out of the place here for the next couple of days.’
The guard looked at the card and reached for the telephone. ‘I better check the main office,’ he said.
‘You didn’t get the letter?’ The Nosh said quickly.
‘I didn’t get no letter,’ the guard said, his hand resting on the phone.
‘Well, your main office got the letter. We already checked with them.’
‘Hell,’ the old man said. ‘I sit here on my duster all day, nobody tells me shit.’
‘Ain’t it the truth. We’re always the last ones to know, right?’
The guard relaxed. He had found company for his tarnished ego. ‘Sure is the way. The workin’ man is always the last one to know anything. Well, I go on Social Security in six months. After that they can all dip their wick in the mashed potatoes for all I care. You need any help?’
‘Is the door open onto the roof?’
‘Yep.’
‘Then we’re in business. Tell you what, we’ll leave Johnson here in the elevators. That way, if we have to shut down for a minute or two he can calm down the residents.’
‘I appreciate that. I get enough crap as it is. People ain’t happy if they ain’t bitchin’ about something.’
‘Keep the card so the night rnan’ll know we’re here, okay? Don’t want anybody takin’ a shot at us.’ The Nosh winked at him.
‘Gun ain’t loaded anyway.’
They got on the elevator.
‘There’s a guy got the wrong end of the chicken all his life,’ Papa said. He looked at The Nosh. ‘You coulda been a pretty good conman.’
‘He is a pretty good conman,’ Sharky said.
They got off at twelve. Papa said, ‘Keep in touch,’ as the elevator doors hushed shut. Sharky and The Nosh went up to the roof, surveying it through a hard, slanting rain. ‘Over there,’ said the Nosh, ‘that concrete blockhouse.’ They ran through the rain to the concrete shed in the middle of the roof and entered it. It was a single room, fairly warm and spotless. Fluorescent tubes flickered overhead, shedding uncertain light on a row of humming motors. On the wall facing the motors was a bank of power and water meters.
‘Perfect,’ The Nosh said.
