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CLEAN BREAK

by

Lionel White

CHAPTER SEVEN

1

The temptation was almost irresistible.

Marvin Unger was not a man who was usually bothered by temptation. Facing a problem, he invariably approached it coldly and scientifically. On the basis of straight reasoning, he would make his decision, and once that decision had been made, he would abide by it.

Now, at ten-thirty on Saturday morning, as he paced back and forth in the small living room of the apartment, he was suddenly undergoing a completely foreign sensation. He had already made up his mind that it would be not only unrewarding, but possibly downright foolhardy, to be at the race track that afternoon. Certainly his radio, as well as the evening newspapers, would give him all the information he needed to satisfy his curiosity. There was every possible reason for him to stay as far from the track as he could.

And yet, at this very moment, as the sun streaked through the dirty pane of the window and fell across the floor at his feet, he had this almost irresistible desire to leave the apartment and go out to Long Island. He wanted to watch—from, of course, a safe distance. For a moment, he tried to rationalize the thing. Perhaps, it would really be safest if he did go to the track. At least, in that case, should something go wrong, should the plan fail, he would have ample warning. Even as he thought about it, his thin mouth twisted in a bitter smile.

If the plan were to fail, all the warning in the world wouldn’t do him any good. It would be just a case of hours before he would be picked up. Without money, the money which only the successful completion of the robbery would supply, he would be in no position to make a getaway in any case.

Once more he decided that being at the track was an unnecessary risk. Certainly it would be pointless. The radio would let him know what was taking place. Once more looking at the clock over the mantel, he made a quick calculation. He would have approximately six and a half hours to wait.

The Canarsie Stakes would be run around four-thirty that afternoon.

Six and a half hours! And then it would all be over. Well, that is it would be almost all over. There would be the meeting that night, in this very apartment, of course. The meeting at which the money would be split up. After that—well, after that, thank God, he’d be through with them. He’d never see one of them again.

The last week had brought considerable changes into Unger’s plans. At first, when Sherry Peatty had been found at the door, he’d seriously regretted having gotten himself mixed up in the thing in the first place. He had started to realize all the possible things wrong with Johnny’s scheme. And he had started doubting whether it would actually be successful.

Then, later, after they had gotten together and gone over the final details, he once more became optimistic. His faith had been revived. But, simultaneous with his renewed faith in the robbery itself, he had gradually begun to realize the fundamental weakness in the entire operation.

They’d get away with the robbery, of that he was fairly sure. Johnny had really worked it out to perfection. Yes, that part would go through fine. But, sooner or later, the police would crack the case. Unger had been around courts and police work for enough years to realize that they would have to be caught eventually. The very character of the men involved in the scheme made such an eventuality inevitable.

There was, first of all, Peatty. A weak character; a man ruled entirely by his frustrated relationship to his wife. And the wife herself was certainly a woman not to be trusted.

And then there was Big Mike, the bartender. A man who had never had money, who had always fought his battle on the fringes of need and poverty. Big Mike could be counted upon to do the wrong things once he came into his share of the loot. He wouldn’t stop betting the horses—the chances are he’d over bet. And he’d make a splash; buy a new house, a new car. He’d show his prosperity at once.

It would be simply a matter of time until the Pinkertons, or the insurance detectives, or even the municipal police themselves, got around to Big Mike. Yes, those two, Mike and Peatty, were the essential weaknesses in the plan. The only difficulty, and this Unger realized full well, was that Mike and Peatty also were essential to the success of the robbery.

Understanding all of this, Marvin Unger had also reached another conclusion. First, the robbery would be successful. Secondly, sooner or later one of the members of the gang would be picked up and would, without doubt, crack under pressure. Third, other members of the gang would be known and arrested.

The conclusion was obvious.

Marvin Unger must collect his share at once and disappear. After all, he would be in no worse a position than an absconding bank teller. And certainly a good many bank tellers had been able to successfully abscond.

To begin with, he’d have somewhere near a half a million dollars. And, barring accident, he would have a certain amount of time in which to make his getaway. It was the only safe and sane plan.

Marvin Unger had, upon reaching this decision, at once acted accordingly.

He had arranged to take a two week’s vacation from his job down at the courthouse, starting on the following Monday. His bags were already packed and checked in at Grand Central. His ticket to Montreal and his Pullman reservation on the midnight train were in his wallet. His plans were made, and were, he hoped, without flaw.

From Montreal, where he would take on a new identity, he would fly to the West Coast. And from there he would again enter the States, ending up in Los Angeles. A new name and a new life and plenty of money to start out fresh on. If by some miracle his name was never mentioned in connection with the robbery, well then it would be merely a case of Marvin Unger, unimportant clerk having disappeared during his regular summer vacation. Having neither close relatives or intimate friends, the most cursory of investigations would be made.

On the other hand, should he finally be connected with the stick-up, he would long since have passed into oblivion.

There was little now to be done. Fortunately, Johnny Clay had changed his own plans and left the apartment two days before for some secret hideaway of his own. It had given Marvin the opportunity to arrange the details of his runout in complete privacy. He had done everything himself. He was sure that there was not a single print of Clay’s left in the place. Nor one personal possession which might be traced to him. He had even sold to the secondhand store around on Third Avenue everything of any possible value.

It suddenly occurred to him that among the possessions he had parted with, was the portable radio. The radio he had intended using to hear reports of the robbery.

Marvin Unger looked up at the empty spot on the shelf where the radio used to stand.

Once more he smiled, wryly. He got to his feet, reached for his light Panama hat and went to the door.

Twenty minutes later and he was crowding onto the first of the special trains leaving Penn Station for the race track.

At least he would be cagey. He would stay well away from the clubhouse. But from where he would be, down in the stands, he would certainly be able to see and hear everything that took place.

After all, a man who had several hundred thousand dollars or better riding had a right to witness the race.

# # #

2

Looking across the kitchen table at Mary, he blew across the cup of black coffee he held in one shaking hand. Big Mike spoke in a low, bitter growl.

“A tramp,” he said. “A damned little tramp! Four-thirty it was when she came in. Reeking of vomit and gin and with her dress all torn down the front. My own daughter. I never thought I’d live to see the day…”

His wife lifted her faded blue eyes and stared at him. 

“And what do you expect the child to do of a Friday night if she don’t have a date?” she asked.

“A date!”

For a moment Big Mike felt like getting up and slapping her. Slapping her across the face and then going into the bedroom and pulling Patti out and giving her the whaling that she deserved.

“Can’t she have a date with decent boys? Does she have to hang around every scum in this neighborhood? What’s the matter with the child—God knows she’s been brought up proper.”

“She’s been brought up in this neighborhood,” Mary said. “With the rest of the scum. What do you expect? What can you expect?”

For a minute then, Mike stared at her before he dropped his eyes.

She’s right, he thought. Yes, God knows she’s right. It wasn’t the child’s fault. Patti was a good girl. Remembering how she had come in, her discontented mouth smeared with lipstick, her clothes torn and dirty, still sick from the swill she’d been drinking, he blamed himself. What could be expected of a child brought up in the slums, never meeting anyone but the boys from the neighborhood.

She’s seventeen, he thought, and she’s never really had anything. This is all she’s known.

Mike took a deep breath, sighed and drank from the cup. Well, after today it would be different. It still wasn’t too late.

They’d move out of this stinking neighborhood; get out to Long Island and have a small house and a yard in one of the nicer suburbs. Patti could go to a good school and she could have new clothes and money in her pocketbook. She’d be able to meet nice boys, from nice homes. It was just a case of money, and soon he’d have the money.

Of course the girl had been talking about quitting school and getting a job. But once he had the dough, he’d get her over that nonsense. Even if he had to get her a roadster and give her an allowance, he’d get her over that sort of talk.

With money, she’d meet the right boys and then she’d be a good girl and they could stop worrying about her.

It would be easier on all of them. He wouldn’t have to take the long train ride twice each day; he’d even give up playing the horses. Hell, he wouldn’t have to play them any more. He’d have all the money he needed.

As he stood up and reached for the jacket hanging over the back of his chair, Big Mike began to consider the stick-up almost in the light of a holy mission.

It never once occurred to him that if he hadn’t played the horses he would have had enough money to have moved out into the suburbs a long time ago. It never occurred to him that this pretty little hot-eyed daughter of his would have been exactly the same, irrespective of what school she went to or what boys she dated.

His face tired and drawn from a sleepless night, he reached down and patted Mary on the arm.

“Well, cheer up, Mother,” he said. “I can’t tell you about it now, but things are going to be different. Very different—and soon.”

She looked up at him and there was that old, soft expression of abiding affection that she always had had, right from the very beginning.

“Have you got yourself a good one today, Mike?” she asked and her mouth smiled at him.

“‘Tis no horse,” he said, “that’s changing our luck. Just you keep your chin up and wait. There’ll be a change all right.” He leaned over and brushed her cheek with his lips as he turned to leave.

“And don’t wait supper,” he said. “I’ll be late. Got an appointment and won’t be in until sometime near midnight. Don’t you wait up and don’t you worry.”

He slammed the door behind himself as he left the tenement. Already he was feeling better about Patti. The girl had good and decent stuff in her, underneath it all. After all, wasn’t she his own flesh and blood? She just needed a chance.

Looking up at the clock in the hardware store as he passed on his way toward the subway, he saw that it was half past ten. Well, in another six hours the thing would take place which would give her her chance; which would solve all of his problems. He smiled quietly to himself and in spite of the sleepless night and the natural nervousness he felt as a result of this final tension, he began to feel better. The excitement was still with him and, in fact, was beginning to grow, but he was all right now.

He knew what he had to do and he was ready to do it. He wasn’t worried. Excited or not, when the time came, he’d go through with his end of it.

For the first time in as long as he could remember, he didn’t stop at the newsstand on the corner and pick up a racing form.

He left the subway at Penn Station, but instead of going downstairs to the Long Island division, he went up to the main lobby. He found the bank of steel lockers exactly where Johnny had told him they would be.

Carefully he looked around after locating number 809. He saw no one he knew.

Mike took the key and inserted it and turned. He pulled the door open.

It was a florist’s box, about three feet long, twelve inches wide and eight inches deep. It was beautifully wrapped and tied with a large red ribbon. There was only one thing wrong with it. It weighed about twenty-five pounds.

Walking to the train, Mike saw a number of men whom he knew. Some were fellow employees at the track; others steady customers. He nodded; said hello a couple of times. He tried not to look self-conscious.

On the train, going out to Long Island, he sat on a seat toward the end of the second car, next to the window, and he stared through it without seeing a thing. He had made the trip a thousand times, several thousand times in fact, and he’d always hated it. But today it didn’t bother him at all. Somehow or other, anxious as he was to get to the track and to get the thing over with, he found himself enjoying and relishing each moment of contemplation.

Shortly before twelve o’clock, along with several hundred other track and concession employees as well as a handful of diehards who always arrived long before the first race was scheduled to start, he left the train and started for the gates.

The employees’ dressing room was on the west, or street side, of the second floor of the clubhouse. It was sandwiched in between the main business office, which occupied the corner position, and the long narrow room which held the small cubbyholes of the endless cashier’s cages. The entrance to the locker room faced the lobby and consisted of a blank door without an outside knob.

The door was always opened from within by an employee who had entered the adjacent office with a key and had passed from that office into the locker room and released the spring lock. A third door led from the locker room to the long aisle behind the cashiers’ cages. It was for this reason that the entrance door was blank—a safety measure to prohibit any one from coming in by way of the main lobby without first passing through the main business office, once the races started.

There were a dozen men already in the room when Mike entered. He went at once to his locker, one of those nearest the washstands. He opened the door and put the flower box in, standing it on end. It barely fitted. He took his hat off, unconsciously dusting the brim. Then he removed his suit coat and snapped a pair of sleeve bands on his arms. He took out a fresh white bar jacket.

No one had commented on the flower box.

“It’s a beautiful day, Michael,” Willy Harrigan, a stick man at the bar in the grandstands, said, looking over at him. “Should be a big crowd!”

Big Mike nodded.

“Who do you like, boy?” he asked. It was his inevitable opening gambit and he spoke the words without thinking and also without remembering that, for the first time in years, he had arrived at the track without having made a bet.

“I like the favorite in the big race,” Willy told him. “But I don’t like the price. No, the price will go all to pieces before the race. Nobody can beat that horse. Nobody.”

Big Mike nodded.

“You’re right, lad,” he said. “They can’t beat Black Lightning!”

“But the price,” Willy said. “I can’t afford the odds. So I’m betting on Bright Sun.”

Big Mike nodded sagaciously.

“A smart bet, Willy,” he said. “Don’t think he can possibly beat Black Lightning, but what the hell. No point in going down on a horse that’ll pay a lot less than even money.”

“That’s the way I see it,” Willy said.

Frank Raymond, cashier at Big Mike’s bar, laughed as he struggled with his bow tie.

“You guys kill me,” he said. “You figure one horse is going to win, so you go right ahead and bet another horse. What the hell’s the difference what price a nag pays, just so he wins?”

“But less than even money,” Mike objected.

“I’d rather get two fifty back for two dollars, than lose the two,” Frank said.

“You ain’t ever going to get rich that way.”

“You ain’t ever going to get rich any way you play ‘em,” Frank said.

“Right you are, Mister,” Mike said.

He smiled secretly to himself as he left the dressing room. No, none of them would get rich; none of them except himself, Big Mike. And before this day was over, he’d have it made. There was no doubt in Mike’s mind about the success of the stick-up. No doubt about their getting away with it.

Behind the bar, beginning to arrange the bottles and get the glassware out, he felt fresh as a daisy, in spite of his lack of sleep. He’d completely lost his nervousness. He was ready and waiting. Completely calm and under control.

It was a peculiar thing, but for the first time in all the years he had been tending bar at the track, he failed to experience that odd sense of excitement which had never failed to affect him before the races started. It was going to be the biggest day in his life, and for the first time, the strange, subtle undercurrent of tension and expectancy which the track and its crowds always gave him, was missing.

Today Mike knew that he had the winner.

# # #

3

He hadn’t told her. In spite of everything she had done, every trick and every subtle maneuver, George still hadn’t told her. Everything else, yes. Who was in on the deal, how it was going to be pulled.

But not when. Not the day.

Hours before dawn broke across the eastern sky and the sun slanted through the bedroom window to wake her up, Sherry Peatty knew. Knew it was going to be this day. Finding the gun, probably more than anything else, was the tip off.

George had gone out on Friday night and told her not to wait up; that he’d be late. But she’d still been up when he came in just before twelve o’clock. At once she’d noticed his peculiarly furtive attitude. He asked her to mix a drink, which in itself was unusual. She hadn’t questioned him, but had gone at once into the kitchen. He had moved off to the bedroom. Instead of starting to mix the drink, she’d given him only a minute or two, and then followed him. He’d been standing at the dresser and he whirled quickly as she entered the room. The gun was still in his hand and apparently he’d been about to put it into the top bureau drawer where he kept his shirts.

“What in the world have you got there?” she asked.

He blushed, started to say something. But she went to him at once and reached for it. He brushed her hand away then and told her not to touch it.

“My God, George,” she said then. “Don’t tell me you’re going to actually be in on the stick-up yourself.” She looked at him with wide eyes, unbelievingly.

It wasn’t that at all, he told her. But he felt safer with the gun. The gun was for afterward, once they had divided the money up.

“But I don’t understand,” she said. “Is it that you don’t trust the others? You think someone’s going to try…”

“I trust them,” he said, almost too quickly. “I trust them, all right. Only, it’s going to be a lot of money. And it isn’t only us that will be in it. Johnny’s got two or three outside men, hoodlums, working on the thing.”

“You trust Johnny, don’t you?” she asked.

For a moment then, as she mentioned his name, he seemed to turn away and his neck grew red.

“As much as I trust anyone,” he told her, shortly.

She wanted to know where he got the gun; wanted to know why he brought it home. Asked if it wasn’t dangerous, just having it around. But he was evasive. He told her he didn’t want her worrying about it.

Finally she asked him outright if he brought it home because they were going to pull the job immediately.

He protested then, protested too much and she knew that the next day must be the day.

As she had fallen asleep, she was still surprised, however, that George had gotten hold of a revolver. For a fleeting moment she wondered if he could possibly have any suspicion of her relationship with Val Cannon. Could possibly have guessed what she had told Val. But she brushed the idea aside.

There was no doubt but what George had been acting strange the last few days; tense, even short and surly with her. She put it down to a bad case of nerves. She knew that as the time for the stick-up approached, he would of necessity be highly nervous and upset.

Still and all, the gun didn’t quite fit into the picture. George wasn’t the type to carry a gun. In fact, she doubted very seriously if he had ever as much as shot off a gun in his entire life.

George Peatty himself had slept badly. He had, in fact, been sleeping badly for about a week. It wasn’t only the robbery which worried him. There was the business of Sherry. First her showing up that night of the first meeting. Then, seeing her coming out of Unger’s apartment that following Monday at dusk.

Something was going on, and George didn’t know what it was. He had, as casually as possible, mentioned Sherry to Johnny a couple of times lately. But Johnny had been noncommittal. Certainly in no way had he indicated that he had seen her that Monday afternoon.

Just why he had picked up the gun, George couldn’t even say to himself. He only knew that suddenly, around the middle of the week, he remembered a friend of his who had a collection of revolvers and rifles. He’d never paid much attention to it as he had no interest in either guns or the purposes for which they were used. But he remembered this friend and then the next thing, he’d looked him up. Called him on the telephone and just about invited himself over for a visit.

He’d given the man a long cock-and-bull story about taking a vacation up in the Canadian woods. Wanted to take a gun along with him as he’d be sleeping out in the car nights.

The man had offered to loan him a rifle or a shotgun, but George had asked for a revolver. Said he’d feel better with one in the glove compartment of his car. His friend had demurred, but finally he’d loaned George the revolver. He’d had to instruct George about how it worked.

It was a small, .32 automatic and as his friend explained about it, George couldn’t help but be secretly amused. Here he was, he thought, a member of a mob which was about to pull just about the most daring stick-up in the history of crime, and someone had to show him how to load and unload a gun.

Sherry was up before George and half dressed as he threw the sheet from his body and started to climb out of bed.

“We’re out of everything,” she said, speaking over her shoulder as she started for the bathroom. “You get shaved and dressed and I’ll run downstairs and pick up some coffee and rolls. You want anything else besides?”

“Might get a paper,” George said.

“Newspaper or a scratch sheet?”

“Newspaper.”

George sat on the edge of his bed, a scrawny scarecrow in his faded striped shorts. He smoked a cigarette as he waited for Sherry to get through in the bathroom. He coughed several times and butted out the cigarette, mentally reminding himself that he was going to cut out smoking before he’d had his morning coffee. At once he began to think of the plans for the day, of what would be happening out at the track this afternoon.

Unconsciously, he reached for another cigarette and lit it.

Sherry came out of the bathroom, looking fresh and lovely, even without makeup. She took a scarf from one of the bureau drawers and tied it around her neck. She didn’t bother with a hat or a jacket. She was wearing light peach-colored slacks and a turtle-neck sweater, her small feet thrust into hurraches. She looks, George thought, about seventeen.

“Money,” she said.

“On the dresser, baby.”

She took a couple of bills from George’s wallet and blew him a casual kiss as she turned and left.

“Back in a jiff,” she said.

George got up and went into the bathroom. He walked over to the mirror above the sink and leaned forward to stare at his face. He half opened his mouth and rubbed one hand down the side of his cheek, blinked his bloodshot, faded blue eyes several times. The stubble on his chin was very light and he could have gotten away without shaving. But he reached over and unhooked the door to the medicine cabinet and took out his safety razor, the moth-eaten shaving brush and a jar of shaving cream.

He nicked himself on the chin and on the side of his neck and swore under his breath each time. After he was through and had washed off the razor under the hot water faucet, he tore two tiny pieces from the roll of toilet paper and put them over the cuts to stop the bleeding.

Going back into the bedroom, he opened the bureau drawer to take out some clean underwear and a shirt. Suddenly be remembered the gun.

Quickly glancing at the bedroom door, with almost a guilty expression in his eyes, he reached under the shirts and took out the automatic. He held it at an awkward angle, pointed down toward his feet, and experimentally flipped off the safety catch. He closed one eye and lifting the weapon straight out in front of himself, sighted along it.

His face took on a hard, tough expression and he gritted his teeth. There was something almost pathetically comical about his entire pose.

“Drop the gun, Louie!”

George swung around as Sherry spoke the words from the door. Her face was convulsed with silent laughter as she stood there with the paper bag holding their breakfast, under her arm.

The gun fell from George’s hand and struck the floor with a heavy thud.

“Jesus Christ, Sherry,” he said. “I didn’t hear you. Why …”

“Pick it up, George,” she said. “My God, if you’re going to be a two gun killer, you better keep a little more on your toes. I slammed the door when I came in and you never even heard me.”

George blushed and reached down to pick up the revolver. “Pour the coffee,” he said. “I’ll be right in.”

George caught the same train from Penn Station that carried Big Mike out to the track. He saw Mike as the other man climbed aboard and he purposely walked a couple of cars down before finding a seat. He had left the morning paper with Sherry and hadn’t bothered to buy a second one to read during the trip out to the Island.

Instead, he sat thinking. He was thinking about figures. As near as George could calculate, there would be approximately two million dollars in the offices of the track officials that afternoon at the end of the day, barring accident. That would include profits on the pari-mutuel betting, the breakage money, the tax moneys from the mutuel machines, and the money from the concessions—the restaurant, the bars, hot dog stands, program venders—and there would be the take from the entrance fee windows of the race track itself.

George knew that cash was never allowed to collect at any point around the track. The mutuel windows turned over their surplus at the end of each race to messengers who brought it to the main office. What was needed for the pay-off, was estimated at the end of the race and certain sums to meet the obligations were rushed to each pay-off cashier.

At the end of the day, all of the money was bundled up and an armored car swung by and guards picked up the entire take. Less than a few thousand dollars at most would be left in the safe at the track overnight.

As near as George could estimate, the total amount picked up by the armed cars was roughly equivalent to the total handle of the day. It had to work out that way, considering entrance fees and concession money. Figuring this way, at the end of the big race, the Canarsie Stakes, there should be at least something better than a million and a half dollars in the till. Saturday was always the biggest day of the week, and this particular Saturday, with the stakes running, and at the end of July, was sure to attract a record crowd.

Johnny’s planning had certainly been smart. At the end of the day, there wouldn’t be one chance in ten million of getting their hands on that money.

George knew that the armored car arrived around five o’clock and parked just opposite the main entrance to the clubhouse. Two men stayed in that car, one at the wheel and the other handling a machine gun from a turret on the top of the vehicle. Two others entered the offices, each fully armed. There would be the Pinkertons lining the path from the office to the door. There would be the two detectives who were on constant duty in the main offices, where the money itself was collected.

No, once that armored car showed, a stick-up would be impossible.

Thinking about it, thinking of what Johnny was planning to do, George shuddered.

Jesus, the guy had guts. He had to admit it. He not only had the brains to plan it, but he had guts to carry it out. It was going to take a particularly rare brand of courage to walk into that office, alone, and face those armed Pinkertons.

George looked at his wrist watch as the train pulled along the platform near the track. He unconsciously noted that the train, as always, was right on time.

He spoke to no one as he made his way to the clubhouse. Another four hours.

# # #

4

Randy Kennan went on duty at eight o’clock on Saturday morning. He was on for a straight twelve hour trick. Patroling, first up one street and then down the next. Routine.

Climbing into the black and white prowl car, he offered up a fervent prayer that it would stay routine. But no matter what happened, no matter if there were half a dozen murders and a race riot on his beat, he knew what he had to do and he was prepared to do it.

Fortunately, things started out quiet and they stayed that way during the morning hours. A couple of early morning drunks, a fight over on Columbus Avenue. A speeding ticket and a woman who’d lost her kid while she was in shopping.

At twelve-thirty, Randy called in and told the desk that he was going to have lunch. He’d be out of the car for not more than a half hour. And then, at one o’clock, back behind the wheel, he once more reported in. There was nothing stirring.

At two o’clock, Randy pulled over in front of a drugstore on West Sixty-first Street near Broadway. He left the engine running and got out of the car, leaving the radio on so that he’d be able to hear it.

He went into the drugstore and entered a phone booth. He didn’t have to look up the number. In a moment he had the desk sergeant at the precinct house. He didn’t even try to disguise his voice. He knew that it wouldn’t be recognized. The sergeant was used to hearing him over the short-wave set. Quickly he told the sergeant that he was Lieutenant O’Malley’s brother-in-law, out at Shirley, Long Island.

“The Lieutenant’s wife, my sister, has suddenly been taken sick,” he said. “We got no phone out here. Wish you’d try and get word to the Lieutenant. I think he should come on out.”

And then he hung up. A moment later he was back in the car and pulling away from the curb. He hoped that it would work.

Lieutenant O’Malley was his direct superior and he knew that they had no phone. He’d been a guest out at O’Malley’s beach house several times himself.

It might work and it might not. There was always the chance that O’Malley would check back with the Suffolk police and try and find out what was the matter. On the other hand there was an equally good chance that O’Malley, given the message, would ask to be excused from duty and would rush out to see for himself.

If it happened that way, it would be just so much to the good. Then, in case there was a call for Randy between three and five o’clock, O’Malley wouldn’t be on duty and his replacement wouldn’t be too sure when he failed to contact Randy Kennan’s prowl car. Unless it was something really hot, they’d just assume that Randy’s radio was broken and he didn’t get the call. And they’d send someone else out on it.

O’Malley, who made the rounds himself in another car and checked up on Randy and the rest of the men in his district, was about the only one who was sufficiently familiar with Randy’s beat to know approximately where he would be at any given time.

The worst that could happen, assuming something did break during that crucial period, would be that Randy Kennan couldn’t be found. So he’d tell them that he’d taken a snooze on a side street and that the radio had broken down—he’d see that it was broken, too, before he turned in that night—and they might dock him a few days’ salary or at the worst put him back to pounding a beat.

It was the best that Randy could figure out.

At ten minutes to three he got a call to go to the corner of Broadway and Sixty-ninth. Street fight.

“The sons of bitches will just have to keep on fighting,” he said to himself, and then swung the patrol car south and started downtown. At Fifty-ninth Street, he turned east and headed for the Queensboro Bridge. It was a little longer than taking either the Triboro or the Midtown Tunnel, but he didn’t want to pass through a tollgate. A patrol car in the heavy Saturday afternoon traffic between New York and Long Island would never be noticed. A patrol car going through a toll might.

Keeping a careful eye on his wrist watch, Randy held the car at a steady speed. He had timed the trip on a half dozen different occasions and he knew at just what point he should be at just what time. He knew that it was absolutely essential that he arrived at the track at exactly the right moment. A minute or two early wouldn’t make too much difference. But as much as ten seconds late would be fatal.

He picked up the Parkway out near Forest Hills and observed that he was right on the button. He smiled, and holding the wheel with one hand, reached into his tunic for a cigarette.

At exactly four-thirty he swung into the boulevard running parallel with the race track. At four thirty-five, he turned into a narrow, asphalt paved street which ran down the side where the horses were stabled. A uniformed cop, standing in the center of the street idly directing the few cars which were leaving early, waved casually as he went by. Randy nodded his head and drove down toward the main office building which formed the rear of the clubhouse.

The sound of the crowds in the grandstands reached his ears. He knew then that the horses were off in the seventh race. The Canarsie Stakes.

There were half a dozen cars violating the no-parking ordinance on the street. A single pedestrian walked slowly away from one car as Randy drew adjacent to the clubhouse. He pulled up to the curb, alongside the high blank outside wall of the clubhouse, which abutted the street.

He looked down at his watch and saw that the minute hand was just passing the four-forty mark.

And then he heard the steady, overwhelming roar of the crowd inside the track come to a sudden, paralyzing silence. A moment later and that roar once more broke into a frenzied, hysterical cacophony.

Randy was an experienced cop. He knew the sound of a riot when he heard one.

Leaning out of the side of the car, he looked at the row of three windows, some seventy feet up on that blank concrete wall.

# # #

Tune in next week for the next chapter of Clean Break!

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