It was a sultry Indian-summer evening in Manhattan. The year, 1964. People on most of the city’s churning streets were focused on getting to or from somewhere. But on the upper west side, near Central Park West and West 79th St., the pace was slower, the vibe more subdued. Mostly residential, this part of town lacked the bustling bars and clubs responsible for the city’s cacophony and non-stop foot traffic. An out-of-place white Cadillac with Florida plates circled the block around the American Museum of Natural History, now closed. This was the get-away car for a brazen caper inside the museum which a gang of Miami beach-bums were successfully pulling off.