Donald Westlake - Cops and Robbers

“It’s bullshit,” Joe said. “But it’ll do.”

Tom’s grin turned a little sickly. “I’ll be back,” he said, and left the car, and walked over again to the picnickers, who were watching him with great suspicion. He hunkered down where he’d been before, and talked directly to the first man, who seemed to be the leader of the group. He said, “I’ll be going back over by the car. When I give a signal, one of you carry the basket over there.”

The first man said, “Where’s the trade?”

“The other basket’s in the car,” Tom said. “We’ll do the switch there. But only one of you come over, the rest stay right here.”

The first man said, “We’ve got to look it over.”

“Sure,” Tom said. “You bring the basket, you get in the car, you check the other one, you get out again.”

The second man spoke up, saying, “In the car?” He frowned at his friend, not liking that.

Tom said, “Let’s not make it any more public than we have to.” Which was an argument they should appreciate.

They did. The first man said to the second, “It’s all right. It’s better inside.”

“Sure,” Tom said. “You stick tight, I’ll let you know when.” He got to his feet, trying to look nonchalant and sure of himself, and walked back over to the car. Leaning in again, he said, “Anything yet?”

Joe was twitching like a wind-up doll. Waiting was the worst thing in the world for him. “No,” he said. “How’s it going?”

“I don’t know,” Tom said. “Their friends haven’t come down from the hills yet, so I guess we’re still ahead.”

“Maybe,” Joe said, as the radio suddenly said, “Six six.”

They both started; as though they hadn’t been expecting that sound. Joe grabbed the microphone and said, “Yeah, six six.”

“On those bills,” the radio said. “They’re clean.”

Joe’s face suddenly opened into a big wide smile. It was going to be all right, he all at once knew that as a positive certainty. “Okay,” he said into the microphone. “Thanks.” Putting the microphone away, he turned and gave Tom the big smile and said, “We go.”

Tom hadn’t been affected the same way. The fact that the money was real just confirmed for him the knowledge that the mob was out to kill them. Counterfeit money or stolen money with traceable numbers might have meant the mob would be content merely to cheat them, but real money meant their lives were definitely at stake. Having trouble breathing, Tom responded to Joe’s big smile with a small nervous grimace, and then turned away to make a little waving gesture toward the picnickers.

The women over there were looking a little green, as though the situation had become trickier than they’d been led to believe. They were sitting staring outward, waiting for disaster to strike or relief to come at last. The two men looked at one another, and the first man nodded. The second one got reluctantly to his feet, picked up the basket, and carried it toward the car.

It took him forever to make the trip. Joe kept staring across the car and out the open side window at him, willing him to move faster. Tom watched the slope up toward Central Park West; three of the guys he’d spotted before were clustered together up there now, talking things over. They seemed excited. Was that a small walkie-talkie one of them had in his hand?

“They’ve got an army,” Tom said. All at once, he saw how hopeless it was; the two of them against an army, with army equipment and an army disregard for life.

Joe ducked his head, trying to see Tom’s face. “What?”

The guy with the picnic basket was too close. Tom said, “Nothing. Here he comes.”

“I see him.”

Nervousness could have made both of them irritable right then. If it hadn’t been for the pressure of what else they were doing, they could have turned on each other instead, bickering and snarling like a couple of dogs in a vacant lot.

The guy with the basket reached the car. Tom opened the rear door, and saw the guy’s face register that he’d seen the other basket in there. But he didn’t make a move to enter.

“Get in,” Tom said. Up the slope, one of the trio was using the walkie-talkie.

“Tell your friend to open the basket. Lift the lid.”

“For Christ’s sake,” Tom said, and called in to Joe, “Did you hear him?”

Joe was already twisting around in the seat, reaching over the back of it for the basket. “I heard him,” he said, and lifted the lid. The gag certificates with their fancy designs showed indistinctly in the shadows.

The men up the hill were moving this way; casually, not hurrying yet. Some other men were also strolling this way from other directions. Tom, trying to keep his voice calm and assured, said, “You satisfied now?”

For answer, the guy shoved his basket ahead of himself onto the back seat, and immediately slid in after it, reaching across it toward the other basket to get a closer look at the papers in there.

Tom slapped the door shut, pulled the front door open, and slid in. “They’re coming,” he said.

Joe already knew that; there were more of them coming up from the other side of the road, he could see them through the bicycle riders. He had the car in gear already, and at once they rolled forward.

The guy in the back seat yelled, “Hey!”

Tom’s hand patted the seat between himself and Joe, found the .32 there where it was supposed to be, and came up with it. Turning in his seat, seeing the guy back there reaching into his jacket, Tom laid the pistol atop the seatback, aiming at the guy’s head. “Take it easy,” he said.

Vigano sat in an office on Madison Avenue with an absolutely clean phone; guaranteed. He had an open line to a pay phone on the corner of 86th Street and Central Park West, across the street from the park. He had a man in the booth, pumping change in, keeping the line open. A second man, outside the booth with a small walkie-talkie no bigger than a pack of cigarettes, was the relay between Vigano and the one hundred and eleven men he had scattered in and around the park. From the phone to the walkie-talkie, he could get an order to any man in the park in less than half a minute.

Aside from the transverse roads, the ones that simply cross the park and don’t connect with the interior road, there are twenty-six entrances to and exits from the Drive. Every one of them was covered, with either one or two cars, and a minimum of three men; including the one-way entrances that no vehicle was supposed to use in leaving the park, such as the one at Sixth Avenue and 59th Street and the one at Seventh Avenue and West 110th. His people with the two million dollars in the picnic basket were completely surrounded by Vigano’s men, and six others roamed the general vicinity on bicycles. If the two amateurs with the bearer bonds tried to get away by bicycle they’d be stopped at a park exit. If they tried to cut across the park on foot they wouldn’t get twenty yards.

Vigano had the interior people all in position before the basket was delivered, but he held off blocking the park exits until after contact was made with the amateurs; no point scaring them off. He had a conference call hook-up on the phone, so that it broadcast into the room and he could reply without holding the speaker to his mouth, and he sat back in the desk chair, his hands up behind his head, and smiled at the thought that he was the spider, and his web was out, and the flies were on their way.

“One man,” the speaker-phone said.

Vigano frowned and sat forward in the chair, bringing his hands down to rest on the empty desk. Over on the sofa, Andy and Mike looked alert. Vigano said, “What’s that?”

“One man, civilian clothing, has approached our people.”