费城，我来了
由于巴塞特(Bassett )曾经将我的作案手法泄漏出去，走进任何一家戏服公司购买一件制服，对于我来说已经成为不可能的事情了。尽管如此，纽约的伟大之处就是，如果你想要的话，你可以得到任何东西。最后，我被带到一家位于Bowery街下的一家商店，它看上去就像狄更斯笔下的东西。它的主人老汤姆也是一样。一件难以形容的，扣紧扣子的毛衣松散的挂在老汤姆瘦弱的身材上，他那破礼帽的侧边露出一簇簇灰白的头发。不是很高的礼帽，毕竟还是高礼帽。苍白，消瘦的脸颊，令人惊奇的皱纹，还有一口不牢靠的假牙，说话时断断续续。他那双深沉，内陷的眼睛冷冰冰的瞥过来，充满怀疑，直到我向他表明身份，才满意。
在商店的前面，沿着墙壁是一箱箱色情图书和照片，以及放着没有标签衣服的架子。后面的房间非常凌乱。他有一套徽章模具，可以制作任何人想要的各种各样的徽章，还有各种枪支。我对他展示给我的三管气枪非常着迷，你从来没有见过这么疯狂的东西。扣动三个不同的扳机可以将气压子弹从不同的枪管中射出。这里没有什么非法的东西是他不能提供给你的，从铁丝网到家具。还有，我最感兴趣的是他能够提供任何类型的制服。他给了我一件警察制服，在各方面都非常完美：盾牌，肩章，甚至还有警察分局编号。
尽管外表苍老，他还是个活泼开朗的老家伙，他最大的乐趣就是讨价还价。我有个标准的模式。不管他给我报什么价格，我只给一半。当我们成交后他就会哼哼鼻子，嘴巴发出咯咯的声音。
当我们需要的时候，威尔逊（Wilson）带来第三个人代替Eagen。乔佩兰戈（Joe Perlango）在东部最贫穷的地方出生，一找到机会就离开了学校，结婚很早，在作为汽车制造的助手四处奔波后，被吸引到A&P卡车公司（没有把握，gravitated into sticking up A & P trucks）。威尔逊Wilson认识他很长时间并且强烈推荐他。所有我想知道的是：“他会守时吗，他会按指令行事吗？”
他满足这两个要求，我就给他这个机会。虽然我从来没有这么喜欢他。任何时候我们需要第三个人的时候，我都让威尔逊（Wilson）联系他。有一段时间，我们不怎么需要他，因为我们一直在城外动手。事实上，我们在费城做了好几个月的案子后，警察的保护变得松懈，足够让我们在纽约干一票。在百老汇和阿姆斯特丹大道之间的第110号街上的Corn Exchange银行，对我来说简直太完美了。所有那些活动，任何人都需要（这里翻译不准确）。在百老汇的拐角处有一个地铁站，离银行大约一百英尺，整个上午人们都从那里涌出来。
每个角落都有一个交通警察，由于交通太拥挤，街区里根本就没有停车地方。这是我不得不用佩兰戈（Perlango）的一个特殊原因。在门童打开银行的门几分钟后，冰块搬运工开车到路边，从卡车上搬下一篮子碎冰，扛在肩膀上，按响门铃。门童让他进去后，他将冰块放在水冷却器周围，然后出来开车离开。
我脑海中浮现的问题更加关注在卡车上，而不是冰块搬运工。如果我能够让他搬运完冰块并且离开，我很乐意这样做。如果我认为他对所发生的事情有影响，就有必要将他控制住，并且由佩兰戈（Perlango）将卡车开走。
在抢劫的那天早晨，我穿着警察制服从地铁中走出来，在拐角处与同事挥手致意，然后继续往前走。按响银行门铃，当门童打开门时，我问他我能不能用他的浴室。
一进去，我掏出枪说，“抢劫。”他吓坏了，我竭力让他明白当冰块搬运工到来时，什么也不会发生在他身上。但是，我又要让他害怕。“我每时每刻都在盯着你，”我说。“如果你的脸上有任何我不喜欢的表情，你就麻烦了。”
冰块搬运工进来，非常快乐。“你好，警官，”他开心地大声说，他在水冷却器周围堆放冰块的时候，我们愉快的谈论起现在犯罪激增的情况。做完后，他没有直接离开，他走向门童。“我的信件在哪？”
门童指着桌子。“就在那边。”冰块搬运工拿起信封，看了看上面的名字，点了点头，走了出去。他边走边吹着悦耳的乐曲。
原文：
•Philadelphia, Here I Come
One of the things Bassett had done for me in blowing my M.O. was to make it impossible for me to walk into any theatrical costume agency and buy a uniform. Still, the great thing about New York is that you can get anything you want if you want it bad enough. At length, I was directed to a shop on the lower Bowery which looked like something right out of Dickens.
+So did its proprietor, Old Tom. A nondescript, buttoned-up sweater hung loosely on Old Tom’s emaciated frame, and tufts of gray hair protruded from the side of his battered top hat. Not a very tall top hat, but still a top hat. He had thin, pasty cheeks, marvelously wrinkled, and loose dentures which chopped his words into bits and pieces. His deep, sunken eyes took on an icy glow of suspicion until I was able to identify myself to his satisfaction.
In the front of the shop, along the side of the walls, were cases of pornographic books and pictures, and racks of clothing without labels. The rear room was incredibly cluttered. He had a collection of badge molds from which he could make any kind of badge anybody could possibly want. And all manner of guns.
I was particularly fascinated by a three-barreled gas gun he demonstrated for me. The craziest thing you ever saw. Three different triggers to shoot gas pellets out of each of the barrels. There was nothing he couldn’t get for you, as long as it was illegal. From barbed wire to furniture.
And, what I was most interested in, he could supply any kind of uniform. He got a cop’s uniform for me that was perfect in every respect: the shield, the shoulder piece, even the precinct number.
Despite his ancient appearance, he was a lively old fellow and his great joy was to bargain over the price. I had a standard formula with him. Whatever price he quoted to me I would pay him one half, and how he’d snort and cackle while we were getting to it.
Wilson came up with a third man to replace Eagen whenever we needed one. Joe Perlango had been born on the East Side in the worst kind of poverty, had left school the first chance he got, married very young, and, after hustling around as a helper on produce trucks, gravitated into sticking up A & P trucks. Wilson had known him for a long time and recommended him highly. All I wanted to know was: “Will he be there on time, and will he do what he’s told to do?”
He met those two requisites, I’ve got to give him that. I never took to him that much, though. Whenever we needed a third man I’d just leave it to Wilson to get in touch with him. For a while, we didn’t need him that much because we were making all of our forays out of town. As a matter of fact, it wasn’t until after I had been operating out of Philadelphia for several months that the police protection relaxed enough for us to take a whack at a New York bank.
The Corn Exchange Bank, on 110th Street between Broadway and Amsterdam Avenue, looked just about perfect to me. All the activity anybody would want. There was a subway kiosk on the Broadway corner about a hundred feet from the bank, and all through the morning hours the people came pouring out.
+A traffic cop was stationed at each of the corners, and because the traffic was so heavy there was no parking on the block at all. I had to use Perlango for one specific reason. A few minutes after the porter opened the bank, an iceman would drive up to the curb, take a basket of chopped ice out of his truck, put it up on his shoulder, and ring the bell. After the porter let him in, he would pack the ice around the water coolers before he came out and drove away.
The question that arose in my mind concerned not so much the iceman himself as the ice truck. If I could let him deliver his ice and go on his way, I’d be happy to. If I thought he was on to what was happening, it would be necessary to take him under control and have Perlango there to drive the truck away.
On the morning of the robbery I came strolling out of the subway in my police uniform, exchanged a fraternal wave with my colleague on the corner, and walked on. When the porter opened the door in answer to my ring, I asked him if I could use his bathroom.
Once inside, I took the gun out and said, “This is a robbery.” He was so frightened that I was still trying to make him understand that nothing was going to happen to him when the iceman came along. And then I was willing for him to be frightened again. “I’ll be watching you every second,” I said.
“If any expression appears on your face I don’t like, you’re in trouble.”
The iceman came in, just as happy as the day is long. “Hello, officer,” he chirped, and we had a pleasant little chat about the crime wave all the while he was piling the ice around the water coolers. Instead of walking out when he was finished, he turned to the porter. “Where’s my envelope?”
The porter pointed to the desk. “Right over there.” The iceman picked it up, looked at the name on it, nodded, and walked out. Whistling a happy tune as he went.