The Heckler

Chuck, sitting next to him, fished for a cigarette in the pocket of his jacket, pulling out a single cigarette while leaving the package inside the pocket. He took out a book of matches, lifted the cover, bent one match over from the rest so that it was close to the striking surface, closed the cover, and then struck the match, all with one hand, the match flaming but still attached to the folder.

“Plenty trucks,” he said, and he blew out a stream of smoke.

“We only need one, Chuck,” the deaf man said.

“That’s for sure. When do we grab it?”

“Tomorrow.”

“The day before, huh?”

“Thenight before,” the deaf man corrected.

“What time?”

“I figured along about midnight. Rafe’s been casing the lot for a week. Rafe, do you want to fill us in?”

Rafe adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, let out a sigh and ran a busy hand through his straw-blond hair. He seemed reluctant to speak. It almost seemed as if speaking pained him physically.

“There’s a simple padlock on the gate,” he said, his voice very low, as if he had learned at an early age that people who speak softly are generally listened to. “I can open it with a bobby pin.”

“He’s speaking figuratively,” the deaf man said. He grinned. “Aren’t you, Rafe?”

“Sure, not a bobby pin, but this is a snap, believe me. Also, there’s no watchman in the yard. So once we’re in, we’re in.”

“Are the ignition keys left in the trucks?” Chuck asked.

“No. We’ll have to cross the wires.”

“No possibility of getting duplicates made?”

“I don’t see how.”

“That might be worth thinking about,” Chuck said, turning to the deaf man. “I mean, we can’t keep the thing running all the time, can we? And if the law shows, who wants to be fooling around with wires under the dash?”

“Once we get the truck away from here, I can rig a switch that works without an ignition key,” Rafe said. “Don’t worry about that.”

“I’m not worried, I’m only thinking ahead. This isn’t a penny-ante thing we’re involved in here, Rafe.”

“Nobody said it was.”

“Okay. Is the fence wired?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. Apparently they’re not too concerned about the trucks. There’s an alarm for the plant, and there’s also a watchman who—”

“Uh-oh,” Chuck said.

“No, no, nothing to worry about,” the deaf man assured him quickly. “He never comes out into the yard, and we won’t make our play until he’s up on the top floor of the building.”

“How do we know when that is?” Chuck asked.

“It’s at elevenP.M .,” Rafe said. “He begins making his rounds at that time. Takes the elevator up to the sixth floor and then starts down on foot. We’ll start working on the fence at eleven. We’ll grab the truck when he reaches the top floor.”

“And how will we know when he reaches the top floor?”

“You can see his flashlight as he walks around. It lights up the whole damn floor. Okay?”

“Sounds good so far. We grab the truck and we’re out before he gets a chance to come all the way downstairs again, right?”

“Right.”

“Then what?” Chuck asked.

“We drive the truck to the store.”

“Think that’s smart?”

“Why not? It says Chelsea Pops, Inc. right on our window, doesn’t it?”

“Sure. But it says Pick-Pak Ice Cream on the side of the truck.”

“The truck’ll be in the back yard. Nobody’s going to go looking there. Besides, Pop can keep away any visitors while we work on it.”

Pop, who had not uttered a word thus far, cleared his throat and said, “Sure, I can do that. It’s Rafe and Chuck who’ll be taking the truck, is that right?”

“That’s right, Pop,” the deaf man said.

“And they’ll drive it to the store where you and I’ll be waiting, is that right?”

“That’s right, Pop.”

“Will I be dressed, or what?”

“Yes, of course,” the deaf man said. “Your job is to keep any unwanted visitors away.”

“Okay.” The old man put a hand up to shade his eyes and squinted at the rows of white trucks in the lot below. “Is that tin covering the trucks?” he asked.

“It’s a porcelainized metal of some sort,” Rafe answered. “Why?”

“Will we have any trouble getting the new signs on it?”

“I don’t think so. We’ve got an electric drill and carborundum bits. Those things can drill throughsteel .”

“Mmm, that’s good,” the old man said, nodding.

“What about the license plate?” Chuck asked, sucking in on his cigarette.

“What about it?” the deaf man said.

“We’re grabbing the truck the night before the job, aren’t we?” he asked. He was truly an ugly man with the squat solidity of a gorilla, huge shoulders and long, dangling arms, massive hands, a square, short-snouted head. And yet he spoke quietly, almost gently.

“Yes, the night before the job,” the deaf man said.

“So they’ll be looking for it, won’t they? What I mean is, the watchman’ll call the cops either as soon as he hears that truck taking off, or as soon as he realizes it’s gone, depending on how much on the ball he is. Next thing you know a whole description is going out, you know how the cops work, don’t you? So next thing you know, the license plate is being flashed to every squad car in the city. So where does that leave us? So that’s what I meant when I asked about the plate.”