Evan Hunter - Every Little Crook and Nanny

Dominick was wearing a plaid shirt, blue jeans, brown cotton gloves, and black track shoes, his usual working uniform. In his right hand he carried a black leather bag containing the tools of his trade, namely: a hand drill and bits of various sizes, a jimmy, a complete set of picklocks, several punches and skeleton keys, a pair of nippers, a hacksaw, and a crowbar designed so that it could be taken apart and carried in three sections. Slung over his left shoulder was a laundry bag full of various items he had collected that night. The combined weight of the two bags made it somewhat difficult to negotiate the iron rungs of the fire escapes running up the rear wall of the building. But then, every occupation has its hazards.

Dominick had cased the building for three weeks running, and had decided that tonight, Thursday, would be a good time for a hit. Thursday night was maid’s night off, which meant that a lot of the tenants went out to eat, which further meant that their apartments would be empty for long stretches at a time. Dominick was a careful worker and did not like to be interrupted unexpectedly. It was now a little past ten-thirty, and he had worked three apartments already and was thinking that perhaps he ought to head for home. But he was still feeling energetic and, in fact, invigorated (it was funny the way breaking and entry could buoy up a man’s sagging spirits), and so he decided to rip off one more place before retiring for the night. The apartment he chose was on the tenth floor rear, with the fire escape just outside a darkened window. The room was not air-conditioned; the window was wide open. Dominick could only assume that the tenants were out-of-towners who had just moved to New York.

He crouched on the fire escape for a long time, peering into the room. The door leading to the rest of the apartment was closed, and so it was impossible to tell whether or not anyone was in one of the other rooms. But he could hear no sounds, could see no telltale sliver of light showing in the crack at the bottom of the closed door. He eased himself into the room and padded across it in his track shoes. He put his ear against the door and listened. He could still hear nothing. Satisfied, he took a small flashlight from his pocket and looked around.

The room was a bedroom, not the master bedroom, worse luck. Single bed against the wall, framed print over it. Worthless. Dresser on the opposite wall, small alarm clock on its top. Likewise worthless. Easy chair and ottoman near a closed door, probably a closet. Dominick opened the door and flashed the light inside. Three empty wire hangers. Great. On the shelf over the bar, a fishing creel and a man’s gray fedora. He was beginning to think he should have quit when he was ahead, and was moving toward the door again, about to explore the rest of the apartment, when he heard voices in the corridor outside. He ducked quickly into the closet, barely getting the door closed before the lights in the room snapped on.

“Why can’t I stay up to watch Johnny Carson?” a boy’s voice asked.

“Because it’s time you went to bed,” a woman’s voice said.

“My mother lets me stay up till twelve,” the boy said.

“That’s a lie. Besides, your mother isn’t here.”

“It’s the truth, I swear.”

Boy, what bullshit, Dominick thought.

“Could I have a glass of milk?” the boy asked.

“You’ve already had a glass of milk,” the woman answered.

Tell him, Dominick thought. Put the little bastard to bed.

“I want you to say your prayers and then get under the covers,” the woman said.

Dominick heard some movement outside, probably the kid shuffling over to the side of the bed and getting on his knees. Boy, what bullshit, he thought.

“Now I lay me down to sleep,” the boy said, “I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. Bless Mama and Papa.”

Dominick shrugged. Some more shuffling outside, the sound of bedsprings creaking as the kid climbed in.

“Good night now,” the woman said.

“Good night,” the boy said.

Footsteps going to the door.

“I forgot to take off my watch,” the boy said. “I don’t like to hear it ticking when I sleep.”

Good, Dominick thought. Take it off and kiss it good-by.

Footsteps coming past the closet to the bed again. Footsteps going from the bed across the room to the dresser. Footsteps going to the door again.

“Good night, Ida.”

Good night already, Dominick thought.

“Good night, Lewis,” the woman said.

Click, the room lights going out, the narrow ribbon of light at the bottom of the closet door disappearing. The sound of the bedroom door easing shut. Silence. Dominick waited in the darkness thinking he could’ve been home in bed screwing Virginia, instead of standing here with his neck all cramped up against a shelf. Still, the watch might be worth something.

He waited in the darkness for at least a half hour, hoping the kid would fall asleep fast. At last, he eased the closet door open a crack and listened. He heard the sounds of even breathing from the bed. He opened the door a bit wider, listened for another five minutes, and then decided to chance it. Tiptoeing across the room, he felt along the dresser top and picked up the watch without even looking at it. He was out the window in a wink, laundry bag slung over his left shoulder, burglar’s tools clutched tightly in his right hand, the watch safely tucked into one pocket of his blue jeans. He did not look at the watch until he got back to his own apartment at ten minutes to midnight.

Dominick yawned, put the watch back in his pocket, and went to sleep.

Mario Azzecca’s messenger was a man named Freddie Corriere. He had been summoned to the Sutton Place apartment at nine-thirty, had received his instructions from the lawyer, and had proceeded immediately and promptly to Benny Napkins’ place on Twenty-fourth Street. Neither Benny nor Jeanette Kay was home, so Freddie went downstairs and made a phone call from the booth on the corner, advising Azzecca of the situation and asking for further instructions. Azzecca told him to keep trying even if it took all night.

By twelve-thirty, Freddie had been back to the apartment a total of four additional times. Benny lived on the fifth floor in a building that didn’t have an elevator. Climbing five flights of stairs, up and down, five times in the course of two and a half hours could cause severe thirst in a person. Fortunately, there was a bar on Twenty-fifth Street, so that Freddie could rest in a nice sociable atmosphere between his visits to Benny’s building. By twelve-thirty, he had consumed six scotches plus one bottle of beer. He had ordered another beer, and had promised himself that he would go back to the apartment again at one A.M., as soon as he finished the second beer.

That was when Sarah came into the bar.

Freddie knew Sarah from when she used to work for Bobby Mezzano up on Forty-ninth Street. She was a big tall black girl with a bushy head of hair and bright white teeth, and also very nice breasts. She was wearing a tight-fitting silk jersey dress and, because it was summertime, and also because of the nature of her profession, she didn’t have anything on under the dress. Freddie noticed this at once.