The message looked like all the others sent by the Castle;
“Departure set for June 19 at 0600. Go to location B, wear a business suit and hat, and carry all your valuables in a small bag with no other luggage. A black Cadillac sedan will pull up, the driver will say:
“I saw you in Mexico City.”
Your answer is:
“No, it must have been Vera Cruz.”
You will be taken to the rendezvous point. Confirm receipt and destroy.”
Location B was the sidewalk at Central Park West and 89th Street on the park side. He followed strict safety procedures and took a subway to Grand Central Station where he lingered for some twenty minutes at various newsstands, then he walked a few blocks west and took a bus up Broadway to 79th Street where he entered the park, stopping as often as possible to check that no one was following him. After meandering through several isolated park walks he emerged at 89th at location B five minutes early and sat on a park bench. A black Cadillac pulled up and he went through the routine with the driver. The car took a left turn at 95th Street toward the Hudson River. The driver looked like a typical mob soldier: long sideburns, dark glasses, oily hair carefully slicked back, expensive suit and tie. He remained silent and drove slowly and cautiously.
“I’m taking you to the entrance of the George Washington Bridge where you get off and wait two minutes for the next driver of this car using the same routine.”
Everything went smoothly. The second driver was much younger, probably no more than twenty-three, with the same kind of plastered black hair, sun glasses and an open Hawaiian shirt under a fancy sports jacket. He was chewing gum and smiled at Fred every time he glanced at him sideways. He even made a strained effort at small talk,
“Nice weather, hey buddy?”
“Yeah, sure is.”
“Wonder who’s gonna win the pennant this year.”
“I don’t follow baseball.”
“Football fan, eh?”
“No, strictly boxing…”
“You know, I think you’re right. I like boxing better, more for tough guys, eh? Jimmy Braddock’s my favorite.”
Things began to change when they turned right on the New Jersey side to Palisades parkway and the punk driver suddenly stopped at the first rest area,
“Hey buddy, hope you don’t mind, I gotta take a piss!”
Fred understood something was wrong. He cautiously switched his gun from his shoulder holster to his front jacket pocket and got out of the car as he kept a close eye on the young man with the greasy hair. He was just a few feet away pretending he was taking a leak. The punk fumbled a bit then turned around with his gun drawn. But he was much too slow and Fred already had him covered with his .45. He shot him twice in the chest. The punk’s body was jerked violently back by the impact of the bullets fired at close range. He fell into the bushes without a sound. Fred was immediately on top of him and noticing that he was still unexpectedly alive, shot him a third time in the back of the head. He then dragged the body that was bleeding profusely, further into the bushes behind an overflowing garbage dumpster. He quickly removed the car keys, wallet, money and gun, and drove off heading south toward the Holland Tunnel. Fred expected a backup car covering the gunman but there were no cars following him as he turned repeatedly in and out of the residential neighborhoods. They probably instructed the punk to take a different itinerary. He got through the tunnel and parked the car off Canal Street several blocks south of Lafayette. Fred approached his building on Great Jones carefully; of course “they” could also already be inside, waiting for him. He circled the block twice and finally went in through the back delivery entrance.
At 10 a.m. on a Sunday the whole building was fast asleep. The artists were recovering from their Saturday night festivities and the laborers staying in bed as late as possible. Fred quickly changed his clothes, packed a suitcase, and hid the remaining equipment: mines, mask, goggles, wet suit and fins under the floor boards in the kitchen, rolling up the rug and placing the table over it after wiring the mines and the detonator to the floor boards. In less than fifteen minutes he was ready to leave, suitcase in hand, when he heard the clanking sound of the elevator stopping and several high pitched voices that sounded as though they were arguing. Fred double locked the front door and pushed the police lock into place. That would hopefully give him a ten, maybe even a fifteen minute head start. The super’s excited voice sounded more than aggravated,
“Look fella, I really don’t care if you are from the Federal Bureau of Investigation or the U.S. Army! All I know is that Mr. Chapman ain’t here and that he left days ago!”
A rough Brooklyn accent shot back:
“Oh yeah? Well we been told the guy is in there right now! And we have a warrant to break the door down if necessary!”
“Show me the damned warrant, I know my rights! You’re destroying private property!”
“Oh, shut up!”
“G-men don’t talk like that, mister!”
Fred looked through the peephole. The super, an excited little man with unruly gray hair and his shirt only half tucked in his pants, was talking up to this big guy in an expensive suit who wasn’t FBI at all. He instantly recognized Joe Licata, the enforcer for Genovese and Anastasia. It meant there was a big contract out on his head.
Fred moved to the far end of the loft and opened the window to the fire escape. The roof was just one flight above and he checked that no one was posted immediately below. Licata was beginning to bang on the door as he cursed the super. Fred went through the window, carefully shutting it behind him, then he climbed up to the roof where he also managed to bolt the door to the stairwell.
Two big black sedans were double-parked in the street below and a couple of men in dark suits and hats were standing around, talking and smoking. He couldn’t linger on the roof and wait for them to leave. On Licata’s signal they’d come up and blast the door open. He could try to either go down the inside staircase or cross over to the next two or three rooftops and wait there until the gangsters lost patience and cleared out. Licata was still banging on the door and the super kept on yelling and threatening to call the cops. The racket would eventually wake up the neighborhood and create more problems for Licata and company if the cops were to investigate a complaint.
Fred slipped across to the next rooftop easing the suitcase ahead of him and kept on going until he reached the end of the block. The door on the last roof was open and he slowly went down the stairwell to the ground floor. Licata left the building and got in one of the cars, cursing the super who kept on yelling,
“See, I told you! The man ain’t around, he just ain’t here, and that’s all!”
“Ah, go to hell!”
“Hey watch your language, mister!”
The gangsters drove off. Two hours earlier a Genovese soldier had fumbled his assignment winding up shot dead on the Palisades Parkway. The intended victim was the same Vincent Chapman who was now on the run.
Fred waited until both cars had turned the corner then he walked to First Avenue and took two buses to the Hotel Pennsylvania in front of Penn Station at 33rd Street and Seventh Avenue. He registered as Lawrence Hills, a radio technician from Miami. Once in the room he quickly destroyed any trace of Vincent Chapman and called for train schedules to New Orleans.
If Licata and the New York underworld wanted him dead, Maria Nicolosi was surely involved and the Italian naval intelligence network had been infiltrated and was no longer secure. Furthermore the FBI and the US Navy were looking for him as well. An alternative escape method was required unknown to the New York group and there was only a tight window of a few hours to get out of town. He left the room without checking out and walked into the station where he purchased a one-way ticket to Washington for that afternoon. Then a few minutes later, wearing glasses and a false mustache, he bought a round trip ticket to New Orleans at another window. The train was leaving in four hours, just enough time for what he needed to do.
He took a taxi to 103rd Street and organized the studio as his safe house of last resort. He bought all kinds of household supplies from the local grocery store and placed some $5,000 in cash under the floorboards inside the closet leaving a full set of clothes hanging above and enough toiletries in the washroom. Finally he paid the three months’ rent in advance telling the landlord that he had to travel on War Department business and would be back soon. Then he took the subway back to Penn Station with barely one hour to spare.