THOMAS HASKINS (ALIAS TIMOTHY Hawkins, Terence Hall, etc.); thirty-two; 5 feet 4 inches; 128 pounds; faint white scar on left temple; slight figure; blond hair bleached whiter; a confessed male homosexual. This man’s record included two arrests on charges of molesting male juveniles. Charges dropped when parents refused to prosecute. Arrested on 18 March, 1964, during raid on bucket shop operation at 1432 Wall Street, Manhattan. Charge dropped. Arrested on 23 October, 1964, on conspiracy to defraud, complaint of Mrs. Eloise MacLevy, 41105 Central Park West, Manhattan, claiming subject had mulcted her of $10,131.36 while promising her high return on investment in pork-belly futures. Charge dropped. Last known address: 713 West Seventy-sixth Street, New York City. Subject lived with sister (see below).
Cynthia “Snapper” Haskins; thirty-six; 5 feet 8 inches; 148 pounds; red hair (dyed; frequently wore wigs); no physical scars. Four convictions for shoplifting, three for prostitution, and one for fraud, in that she charged $1,061.78 worth of merchandise against a stolen credit card of the Buy-Everything Credit Co., Inc., 4501 Marvella Street, Los Angeles, California. Subject had served a total of four years, seven months, thirteen days in the Women’s House of Detention, Manhattan; Barnaby House for Women, Losset, New York; and the McAllister Home for Women, Carburn, New York. Subject was author of I Was a B-Girl (Smith & Townsend, published 10 March, 1963) and Women’s Prison: A Story of Lust and Frustration (Nu-World Publishing Corp., published 26 July, 1964).
The premises at 713 West Seventy-sixth Street, New York, were under surveillance by the Bureau of Narcotics, Department of the Treasury. The following is transcription BN-DT-TH-0018-95GT, from a tape recording of the same number (except that the final digits are 95G). Those present have been identified by voice prints and by internal and external evidence. The date and time have not been determined exactly.
HASKINS: … so we’re on the old uppers, darling. The sad story of our lives. Would you like a stick?
ANDERSON: No. You go ahead. What about you, Snap?
CYNTHIA: We live. I boost a little, and Tommy hustles his ass. We get by.
ANDERSON: I got something for you.
CYNTHIA: Both of us?
ANDERSON: Yes.
CYNTHIA: How much?
ANDERSON: Five bills. Shouldn’t take over a week. No sweat.
HASKINS: Sounds divine.
CYNTHIA: Let’s hear it.
ANDERSON: I’ll tell you what you need to know. After that … no questions.
HASKINS: Wouldn’t dream, darling.
ANDERSON: There’s this house on the East Side. I’ll leave you the address and everything I know about the schedules of the doormen and the super. Tommy, I want a complete list of everyone who lives in the place or who works there. That includes day-only servants, doormen, and super. Anything and everything. Names, ages, businesses they’re in, daily schedules—the whole schmear.
HASKINS: A lark, darling.
ANDERSON: Snap, there are two professional offices on the ground floor, one a doctor, one a psychiatrist. I want you to look around. Furnishings? Safes? Maybe paintings on the walls? Shoe boxes in the back closet? These fucking doctors collect a lot in cash and never declare. Look it over and decide how you’ll handle it. Then let me know before you move.
CYNTHIA: Like you said—no sweat. How do we contact you, Duke?
ANDERSON: I’ll call at noon every Friday until you’re set. Is your phone clean?
CYNTHIA: Here … I’ll write it down. It’s a phone booth in a candy store on West End Avenue. I’ll be there at twelve o’clock every Friday.
ANDERSON: All right.
CYNTHIA: A little something down?
ANDERSON: Two bills.
CYNTHIA: You’re a darling.
HASKINS: He’s a sweetheart, a messenger from heaven. How’s your love life, Duke?
ANDERSON: All right.
HASKINS: I saw Ingrid the other night. She heard you were out. She asked about you. Do you want to see her?
ANDERSON: I don’t know.
HASKINS: She wants to see you.
ANDERSON: Yes? All right. Is she still at the old place?
HASKINS: She is indeed, darling. You don’t blame her … do you?
ANDERSON: No. It wasn’t her fault. I got busted from my own stupidity. How did she look?
HASKINS: The same. The pale, white little mouse made of wire and steel. The essence of bitchery.
ANDERSON: Yes.