The Weight Read online

  Nearly five o’clock in the morning, and people were still staring at the car every time we stopped at a light. One time, it was a big black one like Solly’s, only it was one of those SUVs. It was painted a different kind of black from Solly’s. Even the windows were black.

  Somebody stuck a cell phone out the window. It was on Solly’s side, so I slumped in the seat, looked down. The SUV was playing some noise, sounded like an elephant stampede. Same stuff they play over the speakers at Rikers. That was another good thing about being sent way Upstate.

  Neon ribbons inside the SUV kept changing colors. The wheels were black, but the centers were gold; they kept spinning even with the wheels stopped.

  “Solly …”

  “I see him, kid. Just taking pictures with his cell phone. Every place I go with this car, they do that.”

  “What about your license plate?”

  “I should care?” Solly said. “This beauty, she’s as legit as it gets. Those kind”—tilting his head in the direction of the fancy black SUV—“they don’t know how to act.”

  We just kept driving. A long loop around the city, like old men taking a stroll in the park. Solly stayed in the right-hand lane on First, timing it so we rolled through on green. Way downtown, he caught a yellow light. Solly eased the big car to a stop, being real careful.

  Looking straight ahead, he asked me, “Is that place still open?”

  I didn’t know what place he meant, but as I turned to look out my window, a flash went off. By the time I got done blinking, Solly had the green and we took off.

  “I saw it,” he said, like he knew what I was thinking. “Just one of those ‘artiste’ dipshits running around with a camera. Probably wants to catch the sun coming up over the East River or something like that.”

  “You sure?”

  “How’m I gonna be ‘sure,’ Sugar? I’m saying, those kind, they’re all over the city now. Besides, this guy, he had a girl with him. Probably his fucking ‘assistant.’ Like an assistant you fuck, get it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Get over yourself, kid. Who’d want a picture of you? Some CIA surveillance team? Come on.”

  We just kept driving. When we got near Canal, Solly pulled to the curb.

  “In the back, there’s a suitcase. See it? Everything you need’s in there.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Get out, walk back the way we came. A little over two blocks. Then turn left. Maybe ten, twelve doors down, you’ll see a sign: ‘Voodoo Veils.’ It’s one of those art places. Above it, there’s a loft. This key”—he handed me a key attached to a little red tube by a short chain—“it opens the door next to that sign. You walk up two flights, you’re in your own place.”

  “What about—?”

  “It’s all in there,” Solly said. “Now get outta here before we start attracting attention. There’s a cell phone in the suitcase. Call me when you want to work.”

  “Who owns the—?”

  “Later,” he said.

  I knew I wasn’t getting anything else out of Solly, so I grabbed the suitcase out of the back, stepped out, and closed the door. I did it soft, out of respect for the car. Then I started walking.

  I only had a short distance to cover, but I was still glad it was already starting to get light out. I wasn’t worried about muggers—they stop working in the early morning, and I don’t look like a good target, anyway. But the cops, they do whatever they want.

  If a prowl car called me over, I’d have to go. Show them ID. They wouldn’t like the suitcase. Ask me if I minded if they looked inside. I’d have to say I did mind. Then they’d say they saw a gun in my belt, or make up anything they felt like. Once they looked inside that suitcase, I’d be cooked.

  But I made it okay.

  The little door was painted in slanted black-and-white stripes. Looked more like a pole than a door, especially being so narrow and all.

  The key Solly gave me worked. I stepped inside, closed the door behind me. The stairs didn’t have any lights. I stood there a second, getting my eyes used to the dark. I ran my hands over the key. The little red tube attached to it was metal—it felt cold in my hand. Why would Solly give me—? I twirled the little tube around a couple of times. It felt smooth except for a tiny little part near the far end. I ran my thumbnail around it, slow and careful. That part near the end was notched. I turned it and a little circle of light came out.

  I hadn’t ever seen such a tiny flashlight, but it sure threw enough light for me to climb the stairs. This’d be a good thing for a man to carry around, I thought.

  Two flights, like Solly said. There wasn’t any door—the whole floor was open space. I played the flash around. The beam was powerful, but real narrow, so it was slow work.

  Finally, I found a lamp. At least, I thought it was a lamp—looked like an upside-down cone on a long piece of metal. I couldn’t see how to turn it on, but I found the wire and felt around. There was a big flat thing in the wire. I pushed on it and the light came on. I guessed you were supposed to step on that flat thing to turn on the lamp.

  It didn’t throw much light, and all of it was pointed down. But it was enough for me to get a picture of the place.

  There wasn’t much up there. Mostly empty space. A thick pad on the floor had a pillow, so I guessed it was supposed to be the bed. One of those refrigerator cubes, looked new. The sink looked like it had come with the building. In a corner, toilet and shower stall.

  Kind of like a convict’s dream cell. But I didn’t see a TV or a radio, so I guess it really wasn’t, even with all that space.

  I wanted to look around the place some more. I wanted to open the suitcase. Not just to count the money, to see what else Solly put in there.

  But it was still too dark. And I was bone-tired. Solly already knows where I am, is what I was thinking.

  Besides, if Solly was going to do something to me, it would only be to get the money. And if he wanted the money, he’d already had a dozen chances to take me out.

  I know what to do when there’s rules. I just follow them. I guess I was supposed to wait for Solly to call. No. That’s wrong. He said to call him if I wanted to work. No, wait. When I wanted to work, is what he said.

  Why would I want to work anytime soon? I had money. It was all in this suitcase, right?

  My head hurt from all that. I flopped down on the pad, faceup, one hand on the suitcase. I don’t remember closing my eyes.

  When I came around, I could see the whole place. A kind of dirty light came down over everything. I looked up. It was a skylight. One of those old ones, kind of looks like a tent if you’re on the roof. Probably came with the building, and hadn’t been cleaned since.

  I used to be good at time. I mean, I could kind of feel what time it was. But the last five years changed that. Bells and sirens. Hacks running their clubs over the bars, like an iron piano that only played one song. Inside, it isn’t light that tells you what time it is. You might never see the sky at night. Or see it at all, depending on how tight they had you locked down.

  Same thing for chow: In some parts of the place, they’d bring the food to you, shove it through a slot. Other parts, you had to be outside your cell for the count, then march down to eat. After a while, I couldn’t feel the time anymore.

  I looked at my watch. It was the same one I had been wearing when they took me. Cheap plastic thing, with a rubber strap. It had been good for the job I was on—no tick-tick, you could press a little button and it would light up. And it was always on the nose.

  But it was blank now. I guess the battery had run dead. The prison’s supposed to give you back whatever you had on you when you checked in. It’d never be that much. Anything like a pistol or a knife, that’d be in some evidence bin. Personal stuff, you could sign and get someone to come and pick it up for you. Nobody in my line of work would ever do that.

  But if you’re holding a pile of garbage when they take you down, the prison makes sure to keep it for you. It’s th
eir last chance to remind you where you came from.

  My watch was like that. If it had been a Rolex, it would have been lost somewhere along the line.

  Lots of guys, they’d never stop bitching about all the jewelry that got taken off them. Gold chains, rings … stuff like that. You’d never know if they even had all that in the first place. You listen to them, you’d think they were all big-time. And if anyone saw you listening, they’d know you weren’t.

  The only reason I took the watch, it was mine. I didn’t strap it on, just signed for it. They make you do that. My first night out, I put it on my wrist. Don’t know why I hadn’t just thrown it away.

  When I got done with the toilet, I finally opened the suitcase. On top, new stuff, still in the wrapping. Three of everything: briefs, undershirts, pairs of socks. The bills were underneath, in those plastic bags you can seal up just by pushing the top pieces together. Thirty-six of them, all the same—two stacks of hundreds, side by side. Ten K in each one. Three hundred and sixty thou.

  A towel, also in plastic. Toothpaste, toothbrush, mouthwash, shampoo. Comb, soap, nail file. Pack of three disposable razors, shaving cream.

  Then another towel. Loose cash, mostly twenties. Two cell phones: the prepaid one Solly had told me about, and another one—a real one. Half a dozen envelopes, address and stamps already on them.

  There was also a gym bag with a shoulder strap, the kind a serious bodybuilder would carry. I opened it. In one of the inside pockets, a driver’s license with my picture on it. Visa card. Registration for a 2007 Mustang. Insurance, paid through the end of the year. Scotch-taped to the registration was “Home Depot parking lot,” and an address.

  Business cards. A bank statement. Stack of checks. An ATM card, with one of those little sticky papers on it. “PIN number,” it said. And a single key, stamped “303.”

  I figured the address on the business cards was one of those private-mailbox places, and the phone number would be that second cell.

  Stanley Jay Wilson, personal trainer, had a little more than two grand in checking, another eleven in savings.

  And three names that could be either first or last ones.

  Everything I needed to find a place to live. Plus the message Solly didn’t need to write out: find one quick.

  That bank account was in Queens. Forest Hills. I took the subway.

  The bank manager was a guy about my age, but nothing fit him right. Too loose, all around. Even the skin on his face.

  He tapped keys, looked at a computer screen on his desk. “I hope you’re going to get a good deal this time, Mr. Wilson.”

  “Me, too,” I said. I didn’t know what else to say.

  “That is, if you’re about to do what I think you’re going to be doing.”

  “I just came here to—”

  “You were such a steady saver,” he said, like I’d done something to let him down. “Two hundred dollars a week, like clockwork. You had quite a fine balance built up. Money that could have been working for you. I understand how you would need a car for your line of work, especially if you have clients out on the Island.”

  “That’s true.”

  “And I know it’s a buyer’s market now, so you can probably get into a new car really cheap. But you finished paying off your car loan a couple of months ago. That was … just about eight hundred dollars a month. Imagine if you put that money into savings instead of starting a new loan.”

  “Well, I—”

  “Yes, I know. Some of the dealers are offering these ‘no interest’ loans, but you’re an intelligent man, so I don’t have to explain that they make that up in the price of the car, especially on a trade-in.”

  “Hmmm …”

  A little color came into his face. “You take the car as a business expense, don’t you?”

  “Uh … sure.”

  “All right, look at it this way: the mileage allowance has gone up considerably. Your car certainly isn’t that old. And, with your loan paid off, you don’t have to carry the mandatory collision insurance, either.”

  “I never thought of that.”

  “How would you like to triple what your money is earning, starting today?”

  “Sure I would. Only …”

  “Instead of taking ten thousand out of your savings account to add to your car as a trade-in, you could turn that money into a CD. As you know, with the prime rate so low today, we’re forced to pay a really low interest rate on savings. But we have a dynamite promotional offer, starting this week. If you’re willing to purchase a thirteen-month CD with that ten thousand, we can give you a guaranteed two-point-two-five-percent return. Plus the safety and security of true FDIC insurance coverage. How does that sound?”

  “It actually sounds pretty good,” I told him.

  “And if you continue to do all your banking online, we can also give you free ATM usage. We have branches all over New York. I see you’ve only used your card … very rarely. One, two, three … eleven times in five years. So I guess that privilege wouldn’t be so valuable to you. Still, you never know when you’re going to need cash, anytime, day or night.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Well, we could offer you a choice of premiums, actually. Here, look this over while I print out your statement as of this morning.”

  He handed me a strip of heavy, slick paper, with the bank’s name at the top. I could get a tote bag, an emergency road kit, a free safe-deposit box …

  “This looks pretty good to me,” I said, handing it back to him, with my finger pointing out what I meant.

  “Oh, it is. Everyone should have a safe-deposit box, for valuable papers, or bonds, or … well, anything you want to make sure is always protected, no matter where you live.”

  “Sold,” I said, holding out my hand.

  He shook it like he’d just closed a million-dollar deal.

  When I left the bank, I left a lot of money behind. I don’t mean that CD—I mean three hundred K in the little safe-deposit box. I really had to pack it in careful; the “box” was more like a long, hollow metal slot.

  The bank manager warned me not to lose the key to that box. If I lost it, they’d have to change the lock, and the charge for that was a hundred and fifty. He looked a little ashamed of himself for waiting to tell me that until after I bought the CD. I guess that’s why he waited to tell me the box was only free for a year. After that, it’d cost me twenty-five a month. I signed another card so they could automatically take that out of my checking account when the time came. I saw from the printout he handed me that they were already doing that with the bill for the cell-phone number on my business cards.

  I got back on the subway, a local headed toward Manhattan. But I got off after only a few stops. After that, I walked.

  If it wasn’t for the license number, I couldn’t have found the Mustang. It wasn’t even one o’clock in the afternoon, but the lot had a whole bunch of them. I knew mine was green, but even that didn’t narrow it down enough.

  When I found mine, I pushed a button on the key holder. The car beeped once, like telling me I’d been right.

  I got behind the wheel and headed back the way I’d just walked.

  It was righteous of Solly to set me up with all the ID. That was way past what the rule called for: if you ride the whole beef for everyone in on the job, all that means is your share has to be there when you make the door.

  Sometimes, it could be more than one guy going down, but the rules don’t change. You hold up your end, the other guys hold up theirs. Five men on the job, four get popped, that fifth man better be holding four shares. That’s why it’s better to have a planner—lots of things could happen to that fifth man over a few years.

  If you fall, it’s okay to do something for yourself. You don’t have to plead not guilty and take your chances. You can take a deal. If you can clear up a whole lot of cases for the cops, you might score a pretty decent offer. Doesn’t matter if you did them or not. Nobody cares. Solved is solved.
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  That doesn’t happen too often to guys who do my kind of work. Those deals, they’re usually for killers. Not hit men, sickos who get off on doing it. Those kind, they want to talk about what they did, unless they’re holding out for a book-and-movie deal.

  The cops, most of the time, they’ll respect you being a professional. It takes a long time for them to do that, though. My first time down, the cops told me, if I wouldn’t help myself, I’d be doing everyone else’s time for them. They also said I wouldn’t get any play from the DA unless they cleared it first.

  That’s all a lie. NYPD Special. The truth is, they always want a plea. Unless the case makes the papers, that is. Once the media gets hold of a case, then the DA’s Office has to play hardball. Otherwise, unless they’ve got you dead to rights, they don’t want a trial.

  Even the Legal Aid guys know this. They’ll sit down with you and tell you what they think the case is worth. Any armed robbery can land you with a quarter to do before your max-out date. Twenty-five years. It doesn’t matter whether you’re a first offender or a working pro, the top can’t be more than that. For one job, I mean. If you’ve been down before, every year you can cut from the top is worth a lot, because then your minimum is half your max. There’s always a going rate for pleas. Even for a guy like me.

  Sure, the cops’ll look me over, tell me, “You’ve got enough sheets for a king-sized bed.” Meaning, so many priors they wouldn’t fit on one piece of paper. Actually, what I’ve got is a lot of arrests. Only two convictions, and one of them a misdemeanor. Until I took the last one, I mean.

  But that’s just cop-talk. They know it’s not up to them. If some ADA wants to cut a few years off your time, there’s nothing they can say about it.

  It’s funny. The kind of work I do, the smoother the job goes, the more slack they can cut me if I get dropped. Armed robbery, that’s one thing. Armed robbery where you have to use the weapons, that’s another.

  There’s all these fine little edges. You break into a warehouse, cart away a truckload of loot, that’s something you can deal on. But if you break into a house, not so easy. Those cat-burglar guys, you never know what they were really after, see? But with guys like me, the cops know it’s always money. Only money.