hammering again in the darkness until the metal shaft bent and then snapped off, its counterpart falling to the floor on the other side of the door.
With the knob off, I had an opening into which I could insert the third of my tools, which I drew from its pocket now, a tapered hacksaw. Only its long, narrow nose could fit into the hole, but that was enough. I began the process of cutting a squared-off horseshoe shape into the wood around the latch.
I had a bad moment when the blade caught and I couldn’t get it free. I was scared to pull too hard and maybe break the blade. For half a minute, while precious seconds ticked away, I knelt staring at it and did nothing. Then I began easing the blade slowly back and forth. After a tense minute I was able to dislodge it. I wiped my forehead on my sleeve. I started sawing again. Coming back at the same point from underneath, I was able to break through.
I was breathing heavily when the door finally swung open. The luminous dial of my wristwatch showed I’d taken almost an hour at my task. It was 3 PM now and it wasn’t unheard of for some of the staff to show up to work before 4. I had to move more quickly.
Or else—
Or else I’d be making the trip back down the airshaft without benefit of handholds and toeholds.
I picked up the broken halves of the doorknob, wrapped them up along with my tools in the felt square, and deposited the bundle in one corner of the empty box. Once inside the counting room, I closed the door and walked up to the safe.
It was the height of a man—a taller man than me. The dial was almost the size of a captain’s wheel from an old schooner, only made of cast iron rather than wood. There were eight stubby metal arms you could use to turn the thing and numbers painted onto the rim in white, zero through 99. No hacksaw or chisel would get you into this beauty. Nothing short of knowing the combination would.
So it was a good thing that I did.
I turned the dial clockwise to 75.
Sal Nicolazzo— Zio Nicolazzo , as he liked to call himself, Uncle Nick—was a sentimental man. A mean bastard, sure, a vicious man, a gambler who’d wager on anything anytime, the bloodier the better—all true. But he fancied himself a good family man who took care of his own. He had family members by birth and marriage on his payroll and even the ones who didn’t work for him he sent money to now and then, a little present when they needed it to keep them in the black.
I spun the dial back the other way to 23.
There was one relative, though, that he couldn’t send presents to, except for flowers once a week, regular as clockwork, to dress her headstone. Her name had been Adelaide Barrone and she’d been his kid sister’s younger daughter. Born in the U.S.A., served in the U.S. Army, died of malaria in North Africa in 1945. She’d been a WAC, and her dogtag number had been A-752344.
I turned the dial to 44.
The door to the safe swung open.
Sentimental bastard. I almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
The dough was stacked neatly and it took me only ten minutes to transfer it to the box. I stopped when the box was full and the safe was empty, a happy coincidence. I didn’t know how much I’d gotten. There’d be time to count it later.
If there was a later.
A grunt escaped my throat as I lifted the box. I felt a muscle spasm in my back, but didn’t put it down again. No time. I could buy all the heating pads I wanted when I got home.
I retraced my steps as quickly as I could, one lurching step at a time.
Corridor. Backstage. Kitchen.
The dumbwaiter, bless it, was waiting where I’d left it. I slid the box inside, then unwound the rope holding it up and climbed in next to the box. It was a tight fit. Hand over hand, I let the rope play out and the dumbwaiter slowly descended. When we settled at the bottom of the shaft, I peeked through the closed door—lights off, no signs of movement—before raising it. I backed out, pulled the box out after me. Groped
With the knob off, I had an opening into which I could insert the third of my tools, which I drew from its pocket now, a tapered hacksaw. Only its long, narrow nose could fit into the hole, but that was enough. I began the process of cutting a squared-off horseshoe shape into the wood around the latch.
I had a bad moment when the blade caught and I couldn’t get it free. I was scared to pull too hard and maybe break the blade. For half a minute, while precious seconds ticked away, I knelt staring at it and did nothing. Then I began easing the blade slowly back and forth. After a tense minute I was able to dislodge it. I wiped my forehead on my sleeve. I started sawing again. Coming back at the same point from underneath, I was able to break through.
I was breathing heavily when the door finally swung open. The luminous dial of my wristwatch showed I’d taken almost an hour at my task. It was 3 PM now and it wasn’t unheard of for some of the staff to show up to work before 4. I had to move more quickly.
Or else—
Or else I’d be making the trip back down the airshaft without benefit of handholds and toeholds.
I picked up the broken halves of the doorknob, wrapped them up along with my tools in the felt square, and deposited the bundle in one corner of the empty box. Once inside the counting room, I closed the door and walked up to the safe.
It was the height of a man—a taller man than me. The dial was almost the size of a captain’s wheel from an old schooner, only made of cast iron rather than wood. There were eight stubby metal arms you could use to turn the thing and numbers painted onto the rim in white, zero through 99. No hacksaw or chisel would get you into this beauty. Nothing short of knowing the combination would.
So it was a good thing that I did.
I turned the dial clockwise to 75.
Sal Nicolazzo— Zio Nicolazzo , as he liked to call himself, Uncle Nick—was a sentimental man. A mean bastard, sure, a vicious man, a gambler who’d wager on anything anytime, the bloodier the better—all true. But he fancied himself a good family man who took care of his own. He had family members by birth and marriage on his payroll and even the ones who didn’t work for him he sent money to now and then, a little present when they needed it to keep them in the black.
I spun the dial back the other way to 23.
There was one relative, though, that he couldn’t send presents to, except for flowers once a week, regular as clockwork, to dress her headstone. Her name had been Adelaide Barrone and she’d been his kid sister’s younger daughter. Born in the U.S.A., served in the U.S. Army, died of malaria in North Africa in 1945. She’d been a WAC, and her dogtag number had been A-752344.
I turned the dial to 44.
The door to the safe swung open.
Sentimental bastard. I almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
The dough was stacked neatly and it took me only ten minutes to transfer it to the box. I stopped when the box was full and the safe was empty, a happy coincidence. I didn’t know how much I’d gotten. There’d be time to count it later.
If there was a later.
A grunt escaped my throat as I lifted the box. I felt a muscle spasm in my back, but didn’t put it down again. No time. I could buy all the heating pads I wanted when I got home.
I retraced my steps as quickly as I could, one lurching step at a time.
Corridor. Backstage. Kitchen.
The dumbwaiter, bless it, was waiting where I’d left it. I slid the box inside, then unwound the rope holding it up and climbed in next to the box. It was a tight fit. Hand over hand, I let the rope play out and the dumbwaiter slowly descended. When we settled at the bottom of the shaft, I peeked through the closed door—lights off, no signs of movement—before raising it. I backed out, pulled the box out after me. Groped
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