Inside Job
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
My So-Called Literary Career
John Lennon and Me
Bitter at being laid off because New York City had gone broke, four tough cops planned and carried off the biggest robbery in the history of crime. Their target was the Property Room in the basement of police headquarters—a lightly guarded storeroom bulging with millions of dollars in cash, narcotics, stolen art treasures, jewelry. They went strictly for the cash and their take was a million dollars apiece. But would they get to keep it … ?
THE COLLECTED PULP FICTION OF LEN LEVINSON
INSIDE JOB
By Len Levinson writing as Nicholas Brady
First published by Nordon Publications in 1978
Copyright © 1978, 2013 by Len Levinson
First Kindle Edition: August 2013
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
Cover image © 2013 by Tony Masero
This is a Pulp Heaven Book
Published by Arrangement with the Author.
Chapter One
“Here comes Esteban,” said Shannon, peering through his binoculars.
Brody stood up in the dark vacant room and looked to East End Avenue below. He saw a man in topcoat and fedora carrying a briefcase toward the door of the apartment building across the street. Raising his binoculars, he caught the man’s profile, saw his mustache and bushy eyebrows. “Yeah, that’s him.”
Shannon moved back from the window and hung his binoculars over a chair. He was six-foot-two, weighed two hundred and forty pounds, and was dressed sloppily, like most detectives who’d been with the New York Police Department since the old days. His red hair was short and looked like it had been cut an hour ago at a barber’s college on the Bowery, and the features of his face might have been formed from handfuls of mashed potatoes smacked together. He took out his .38, spun the chamber, and put it back into his belt. Looking at Brody, he said, “You ready?”
Brody stood in the shadows of the room, taking a last puff on his cigarette. He wore jeans manufactured in France, a tan sport shirt, and a brown leather jacket tailored to fit his lean muscular body. He had black hair, brown eyes, and a boyish face. He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. “I’m ready.”
“Let’s hit it.”
Shannon moved to the door, with Brody behind him. Shannon opened it and they entered the corridor, moved down it with firm purposeful steps, and descended the stairs. At the bottom was the lobby, and the doorman looked at them quizzically. He knew they were detectives from the N.Y.P.D., and wondered what they were up to in his building.
It was nearly midnight and traffic was light on East End Avenue. They ran across the street and entered the lobby into which Esteban had gone. The doorman of that building looked them over and made a facial expression that suggested he thought they were not the caliber of people who ordinarily came to call at his fashionable building. “May I help you?” he asked with a phony smile.
Shannon took out his detective’s shield and flashed it. The doorman widened his eyes. Shannon began crowding him. “You’d better not call anybody and tell them we’re here.”
“Oh no sir, I wouldn’t do that.”
“That’s good, because if we find out that we’re expected, you’re gonna find yourself in a whole world of trouble.”
Shannon and Brody marched to the elevator; Brody hit the button. The doorman looked at them fearfully from the door. The lobby was mirrored, filled with expensive velvety furniture that no one was using, and lit by two crystal chandeliers. The elevator came; the two detectives got on. Shannon pressed the button for the penthouse floor. Brody stood in the corner and touched the handle of his service revolver holstered at his waist. His heart sounded like the E Train when it was speeding under the East River.
Shannon smiled at him. “How you feel?”
“I’m okay.”
“You look a little pale.”
“So do you.”
“I always look pale.” Shannon made a nervous walk. He was trying to be tough, because he was the senior detective on this raid, but he knew damn well that a million stupid little things could go wrong and he might wind up with a bullet in his brain. “I guess Vietnam was a little like this, huh?”
“A little.”
“The main thing to understand is that if anybody pulls a gun—shoot him. You can’t give these people the benefit of the doubt.”
“I’ve been on a lot of raids when I was in uniform, Shannon. I know what to do.”
“But you were with a few dozen other guys then. This is the first time you’re going in as a detective, with just one other man, who happens to be me.”
“I’ll look out for you, Shannon.”
“You fucking better.”
The elevator stopped on the penthouse floor. The two detectives got out and walked softly down the corridor to an apartment door. They drew their service revolvers. Shannon, chewing his lower lip, took out a set of keys that fitted the two locks on the door. He winked at Brody, and Brody pressed the button beside the door. They heard chimes ring inside the apartment, then the muffled sound of voices on the other side of the door.
“Who’s there?” asked a male voice.
“Police—open up!”
“Police?”
The feet shuffled away from the door. Shannon inserted one key in the top lock and twisted it open. He fingered the second key, but his trembling hand dropped it to the carpeted floor. Cursing, he picked it up, slid it into the lock, and turned. Grabbing the doorknob, he looked at Brody. Simultaneously the two big men threw their shoulders against the door, and it flew open, snapping a steel chain that was supposed to prevent this kind of entry.
They exploded into a large living room. Esteban and another man were standing in the middle of the fluffy white rug, looked at them in astonishment.
“Don’t move,” Shannon said, “and put your hands up!”
“What’s going on here?” asked the other man, who wore a mustache like Esteban.
Brody ran past them. He entered the corridor, sped down it, and ahead was the door to the bathroom. It was closed. Without slowing down, he hit it with his shoulder, smashing it open. A shapely woman in a black dress was bent over the toilet bowl. He grabbed her by her hair and pulled her backwards. She fell on her ass on the pink tile floor. Beside the toilet bowl was an open briefcase. She’d been trying to flush the cocaine down the drain.
Brody pointed his revolver at her. “Get up.”
Terror was in her eyes, and her face was drained of blood. The silky dress hugged her body tightly, and she had enough of everything, al
l in the right places. “You are from the police?” she asked fearfully, in a Spanish accent.
Brody took out his badge and showed it to her. “Put your hands up.”
She raised her hands, and her face relaxed. “How many are you?”
He bent to pick up the briefcase. “I’m only one person lady, as you can see.”
“I meant how many people are with you?”
“What do you want to know for?”
“We have some money here—fifty thousand dollars American. Maybe we can come to some sort of arrangement?” She smiled, and Brody realized that she was quite beautiful.
“Start walking,” he said.
“We can get more.”
“I said start walking.”
“You are not interested in money?”
“I said start walking.”
Brody walked behind her to the living room, where Shannon had Esteban and the other man under his gun.
“I’ve got the goods,” Brody said to Shannon, holding out the briefcase.
“Let me see.”
Brody brought it to him and opened it up. Shannon peered inside and whistled. “Looks like a few pounds.”
“A hundred thousand dollars worth at least.”
“A million on the street.”
The woman, Esteban, and the man were whispering at the other end of the room. Shannon looked at them. “Let’s go downtown, folks.”
Esteban held up the palms of his hands. “Why don’t we talk this over, gentlemen.”
Shannon shrugged. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Don’t you think that maybe we could talk about fifty thousand dollars?”
“No.”
“We have the money here in this apartment.”
“Let’s go downtown.”
“We could get more.”
“Not interested.”
“How about thirty thousand for each of you?”
“It’s against the law to bribe a police officer. Don’t you know that?”
Esteban smiled. “Of course I know that, but I also know that it happens all the time. I have even done it before myself. But perhaps I’m not offering enough. Why don’t you name your price.”
“We don’t have a price. Now let’s go, and I’m not going to tell you again.”
“It’s too bad you feel this way, because a lawyer will get the money instead of you, and the end result will be the same—that is to say, we’ll walk.”
“So walk.”
The three went to the closet and put on their coats. The woman had a knee-length mink, and as she put it on, she cast a glance at Brody that said would you be interested in sex?
Brody looked away.
Shannon put the cuffs on them and led them into the corridor. They all went down on the elevator, and in the lobby, the doorman looked at his handcuffed tenants and didn’t know whether to say hello or not. The man and woman smiled at him and said hello as if getting arrested was the most natural thing in the world, and to which no stigma should be attached.
The unmarked car, a late-model Plymouth painted avocado green, was parked on East 86th Street. Brody took the spot behind the wheel, started her up, and drove off.
He took the East Side Drive downtown. The East River twinkled in the moonlight to his left, and on his right were the concrete towers of Manhattan. Brody had been a patrolman in the 19th Precinct of Manhattan for six months before being promoted to Detective Third Class. Before that he had been a patrolman in Brooklyn, the Flatbush District.
The patrol car entered one of the tunnels over which were constructed the white luxury buildings of Sutton Place. Brody’s mind hovered around the thought of the sixty thousand dollars the dealers had offered him and Shannon to split. That was an awful lot of cabbage, and he couldn’t figure out why Shannon had turned it down. The average detective would’ve taken the money without hesitation, and in fact some men became detectives specifically for the opportunity to obtain this type of supplemental income. Brody used to take tens and twenties from the gambling bosses in Flatbush, not to mention the gifts of liquor and food from shops and restaurants. It was part of being a cop.
Near Chinatown, Brody steered off the Drive and headed for the new police headquarters near the Brooklyn Bridge. It was a huge modernistic building made of reddish stone and projecting an image of strength and efficiency. Brody pulled into the parking lot, found a spot, turned off the lights and engine. Everyone got out of the car.
Shannon handed the briefcase to Brody. “Bring this down to the Property Room, and don’t forget to get a receipt. I’ll book these people meanwhile.”
They entered the building together. Shannon went left, down a shiny fluorescent corridor to the booking room, and Brody hit the button for the elevator. He stood and waited for it. The million dollars in his hand could buy him the world, but it didn’t belong to him so there was no point in thinking about it. He wondered what he would have done if he’d been alone and the Latin guy had offered him fifty thousand dollars to forget about the bust. Would he have taken it?
The elevator came and Brody got on, joining a uniformed sergeant and a patrolman. No, he would probably have refused the money. Tens and twenties from the gamblers in Flatbush were one thing, but a fifty thousand dollar bribe something else entirely. Somebody might find out, and it might be the end of his career with the N. Y.P.D. Besides, there was too much of that stuff in the department as it was. If you want to be a cop, then be a cop, and if you want to be a thief, then be a thief. Brody wanted to be a cop, just like his father. He’d sworn to uphold the traditions of the department, and he didn’t think that tradition should include bribery in the fifty thousand dollar category. The tens and twenties were okay, though. They were definitely in the tradition of the department.
He got off the elevator in the basement and made his way through labyrinthine passageways to the Property Room, which occupied a huge area of the basement. He came to a black sergeant sitting at a desk reading the Daily News. Behind the sergeant was a wall of wire mesh, and behind the wall was the Property Room. Brody peered through the mesh and saw a vast area of cabinets and tables, the latter covered with crates, piles of clothing, and stacks of documents. The property room was the repository of evidence to be used in trials, as well as unclaimed money Jewelry, furs, real gold and silver, heroin, cocaine, and marijuana. Brody had heard that the cash alone totaled many millions of dollars.
“What can I do for you?” asked the black sergeant. His uniform was pressed neatly and well fitting, and his hair was a fuzzy afro.
“I want to check in this cocaine.”
“Let me see.” The sergeant laid down his paper and took the briefcase. Opening it up, he sat it on his lap and looked inside. The cocaine was in six plastic bags. He opened one of the bags, took a pinch of the cocaine, and touched a few of the crystals to his tongue.”It’s the real thing.”
Brody smiled. “How do you know?”
The sergeant winked. “Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies.” He stood up and carried the briefcase to a scale on a table nearby. He weighed the bags, each was around eighteen ounces. Returning to his desk, he put a form in his typewriter. “Your name?”
“Michael Brody.”
“Command?”
“Manhattan Detective Division.”
“How’d you get this stuff?”
“In a raid at 371 East End Avenue.”
“Any officers with you?”
“Detective Ralph Shannon.”
“Same command?”
“Yes.”
The sergeant pulled the form out of the typewriter and handed Brody a pen. “Sign here.”
Brody took the pen, bent over, and signed. The sergeant tore the top off the form, and it separated into four sheets. He gave the bottom one to Brody. “Here’s your receipt.”
The sergeant took the briefcase and carried it to the door of the Property Room.
“Mind if I see where you put that?” Brody asked.
“Just once, when my class came through when I was in the Police Academy.”
“Come on in.”
The sergeant unlocked the door, and Brody followed him in. The various cabinets and lockers were against the walls, and a row of tables cut across the middle of the room. Next to it was another box containing a golden crucifix. The third box was filled with old postage stamps.
The sergeant opened a drawer in a cabinet and took out a pistol. “You know what this is?”
Brody looked at it.
“It’s the one that Son of Sam used.”
“No shit?”
Brody took the weapon and looked it over. It had killed—how many? Twelve people? It was hard to imagine this chunk of metal doing all that damage. You aimed it, pulled the trigger, and the mechanical parts took over. They didn’t care if they were firing at a go-go dancer or a tin can.
“Thought you might want to see that.”
“It’s the most famous gun in New York, I guess.”
“That it is.”
Nearby on the floor was a crate of fur pieces, enough to make a dozen coats for rich ladies. The sergeant opened a locker similar to the ones in bus terminals and train station, and slid the briefcase in. “This is where we keep the dope—in these lockers.”
“You must have an awful lot of it.”
“It’s all good shit, too.”
“It must be worth a fortune.”
“Millions of dollars.”
Brody scratched his cheek. “I remember a few years ago some detectives were supposed to have stolen some heroin out of here.”
“Not out of here—that was in the old police headquarters. They’re a lot stricter now. For instance, we inventory what’s here every single week. That way a few years won’t pass before we realize that something’s missing, like the time you’re talking about. We keep records of everybody who comes down here, and why they were here.”
“Who keeps records of the guys keeping the records?”
“Other guys.”
The sergeant led him to the rear of the room, and a door of a safe like the ones in banks.
“This is where we keep the money and jewels. We change the combination every day.”