The Anderson Tapes by Lawrence Sanders Page B

As much as I could. Not as complete as you’d wish, I’m sure, but interesting.
    ANDERSON: Tommy, I won’t shit you. You’ve got brains. You know I can’t pay out five bills for a wash if I wasn’t planning a hustle.
    Before you give me your report, give it to me straight—would it be worth it?
    HASKINS: Which apartment, darling?
    ANDERSON: All of them.
    HASKINS: Jesus Christ Almighty.
    ANDERSON: Would it be worth it?
    HASKINS: My God, yes!
    ANDERSON: Guess at the income?
    HASKINS: Guess? I’d guess a minimum of a hundred G’s. But maybe twice that.
    ANDERSON: You and I think alike. That’s what I guessed. All right, let’s have it.
    HASKINS: I typed out a report and one carbon on Snapper’s machine, so we could go over it together. Naturally you get both copies.
    ANDERSON: Naturally.
    HASKINS: All right … let’s start with the doormen. Three of them: Timothy O’Leary, Kenneth Ryan, Ed Bakely. In order, they’re on midnight to eight A.M., eight A.M. to four P.M., four P.M. to midnight. O’Leary, the guy on midnight to eight A.M., is the lush.
    An ex-cop. When one of them takes his day off, the other two work twelve-hour shifts and get paid double. Occasionally, like around Christmas, two of them are off at once, and the union sends over a temporary. Okay?
    ANDERSON: Go ahead.
    HASKINS: I have all this in the report in more detail, darling, but I just want to go over the highlights with you in case you have any questions.
    ANDERSON: Go ahead.
    HASKINS: The super. Ivan Block. A Hungarian, I think, or maybe a Pole. A wino. He lives in the basement. He’s there twenty-four hours a day, six days a week. On Mondays he goes to visit his married sister in New Jersey. In case of emergency, the super next door at five-three-seven East Seventy-third Street fills in for him.
    He also fills in when Block takes his two-week vacation every May.
    Block is sixty-four years old and blind in one eye. His basement apartment is one room and bath. Ryan hinted that he’s a cheap son of a bitch. He may have something under the mattress.
    ANDERSON: Maybe. These Old World farts don’t believe in banks.
    Let’s get on with it. I don’t want to spend too much time here. This place bugs me.
    HASKINS: Literally, I’m sure. I just saw one. Suite One A, first floor, off the lobby. Dr. Erwin Leister, MD, an internist.
    ANDERSON: What’s that?
    HASKINS: A doctor who specializes in internal medicine. One nurse, one combination secretary-receptionist. Office hours from about nine A.M. to six P.M. Occasionally he’s there later. Usually the nurse and secretary are gone by five thirty. The headshrinker is Dr. Dmitri Rubicoff, Suite One B. He’s got one secretary-nurse. Office hours usually from nine to nine. Occasionally later. Snapper will give you a more complete rundown on these doctors after Thursday.
    ANDERSON: You’re doing fine.
    HASKINS: Two apartments on each floor. By the way, the lobby floor is called one. Up one flight and you’re on floor two. The top floor is the fifth, where the terraces are.
    ANDERSON: I know.
    HASKINS: Second floor. Apartment Two A. Eric Sabine. A male interior decorator who sounds divine. His apartment got a big write-up in the Times last year. I looked it up. Original Picassos and Klees. A nice collection of pre-Columbian art. A gorgeous nine-by twelve Oriental carpet that’s valued at twenty G’s. In the photo in the Times he was wearing three rings that looked legit.
    Not really my type, darling, but obviously loaded. I shouldn’t have any trouble finding out more about him if you’re interested.
    ANDERSON: We’ll see.
    HASKINS: Apartment Two B. Mr. and Mrs. Aron Rabinowitz. Rich, young Jews. He’s in a Wall Street law firm. Junior partner. They’re active in opera and ballet and theater groups. Shit like that. Very liberal. This is one of the three apartments I actually cased. She was home, delighted to talk about the proposed Second Avenue subway and the plight of the poor. Modern