The Weight Part 6

You just walk through the gate, get on the bus. They've got one going downstate every day. Costs more than a plane ride, but they can charge whatever they want-there's no compet.i.tion. Like with the collect calls. You can only call collect if the person you're calling agrees to accept it...and that means they pay through the nose for every minute. The phone company splits the take with the prison. They got guys in here for working that same kind of racket on the street.

I'd X'ed out my old apartment the minute they'd clamped the cuffs on. I wouldn't ask anyone to go back there for me; anything of mine was long gone by now. The super wouldn't know nothing. The landlord was some company name. And the cops weren't running a storage facility.

I didn't have much in there, anyway.

They'd vouchered what I had on me when I was picked up. Only the three grand and change got turned into six C-notes.

I wondered what they'd done with the pistol, but I wasn't worried about trace evidence on any of my clothes. After the job, we'd all gone back to this place Solly had rented. Left every st.i.tch of clothes in these plastic bags he'd left behind. Took a good, long hot shower. Rubbed ourselves down with alcohol. Nails, hair, everything.

Then we each put on the stuff we'd been wearing when we first met up there.

"A good thief takes money, not chances," Solly said. He was always saying it.

He believed it, too. Solly never went along on any job he put together.

I had a phone number for him. I knew it was just a pay phone, someplace in Manhattan. Indoors, so n.o.body could try and set up shop with it.

But first I had things to do.

I had almost seven hundred left over-what I had on the books and my gate money. Not enough. I wasn't going anywhere near my share until I was carrying more than high hopes.

The money was enough for a prepaid cell and a night at this hotel every loser in the city knows about. One step above a flophouse, and they still charge over a hundred a night. Taxes, you know.

I didn't even bother to undress. The room made my cell look ritzy. The lock wouldn't stop a drunk who forgot his room number, never mind a guy who knew where to kick. No phone.

I could smell the disinfectant they probably hosed down the dump with every day. Didn't see any roaches, but I wasn't going to take a chance on bedbugs-or worse-in that foul-looking pad they called a mattress.

After I fixed the place so I'd get some warning if anyone tried to visit me, I rolled up my jacket on the floor and closed my eyes.

The next morning, I found a pay phone.

"What?" is all the guy at the other end said.

"I'm an old pal of Solly's," I said. "Haven't seen him for quite a while. About five years."

"Ain't no Solly here, friend."

"Let me leave you my number, just in case he walks by."

When he didn't hang up, I knew I was connected.

I went back to that fleabag. They kick you out at eleven-thirty in the morning, pounding on the doors like they had search warrants. When I hadn't heard anything by noon, I checked in for another night, just to be off the street.

The same desk clerk took my money. If he remembered me from the night before, you couldn't tell. I signed the register with a different name. He didn't look at it, just gave me the key and the usual speech about how I'd be held responsible if...It was a long list; I walked off while he was still talking.

My new cell rang a little after dark. I pushed the b.u.t.ton, heard: "Don't say my name." Solly's voice.

"Okay."

"Say something that'll show me you're who I think you are. Nothing stupid, understand?"

I knew then that Solly had already recognized my voice from the "Okay." Solly liked me. He knew I was certified stand-up. h.e.l.l, he knew I'd just finished proving it all over again. But he never had too high an opinion of my IQ.

"Thanks for the warning," I said.

I could hear him chuckling before he said, "You got a place?"

"No."

"Good. Why don't you drop by? We'll talk over old times."

"When?"

"I'll keep a light on for you."

The light was at the back of an old apartment building, hanging over the stone steps down to the bas.e.m.e.nt. It sat inside a little cage of wire mesh. You couldn't break the light by accident, and if you tried to poke something through the wire, a pair of giant navigation lights like they use on fishing boats would blast off right in your eyes.

There was a camera mounted behind the door. The lens was like the peephole for an apartment door, and the camera's motor drive would start firing as soon as the lights went on. A cable ran from the camera to some kind of computer. Solly once told me that even if someone used a battering ram on the door, their pictures would be in a safe place before they could get to the computer, so I guessed the computer automatically sent the pictures someplace else.

I didn't know all this because Solly trusted me. I know why he told me. Me and anyone else who knew where to find him. That's why I called and got the okay from him first.

Even so, I stood under the light long enough for him to see whatever he needed. Then I rapped two knuckles on the door. Three times, tap-tap-tap. I waited a couple of seconds, then I did it again. Seven, that time. Another wait before I slapped my palm against the panel. You had three shots to hit blackjack, and a flat palm counted as an ace.

I heard the metal-against-metal sound of a deadbolt being thrown open. Heavy metal. I didn't wait after that. Just turned the k.n.o.b and stepped inside, pulling the door shut behind me.

The room was so dark all I could make out was the shape of a man behind a desk.

"What more do you need?" I said.

"I didn't get to be this old taking chances," Solly said. Not from behind the desk. That shape was a dummy. If you walked in shooting, you'd be punching holes in some plastic thing with clothes on it. Solly would be off to the side, one of those old Jew submachine guns in his lap. One long burp, everything on the wrong side of the barrel is dead.

And if more men were waiting outside, Solly still had an out. There was a second room behind the first one. Nothing in there but a giant freezer and piles of old books. And a door that would take him out to the hall. By the time anyone got a flashlight working, he'd be upstairs, in the apartment he lived in.

I'd never been in that apartment. Couldn't even tell you what floor it was on. Or even if Solly was telling the truth about it. What he told me was all I knew. I never asked him any questions.

"So?" Solly says. "Come on over and sit with an old friend."

A soft light showed me Solly's chair and another one, empty. One, only. Solly never let more than one person at a time in his bas.e.m.e.nt.

That's what he told me, anyway.

I sat down. The chair looked old. It was comfortable, though. And soft, real soft. You sank deep down into it. Like sitting in quicksand.

There was some kind of little table to my right. Fresh ashtray, little box of matches.

"Go ahead," Solly told me. "Don't worry about the windows. I got a machine, filters out the smoke."

What he meant was, the bas.e.m.e.nt windows had all been bricked up.

"I gave it up."

"Yeah? Good for you, kid. You want something to drink, maybe?"

"No thanks."

"Relax, okay? I was gonna do anything, I could have done it already."

"I know."

"You got the money, right?"

"The money you sent me Upstate? Yeah. I appreciate that. Made the time a lot easier. Those magazines, too. I never heard of cons subscribing to magazines before."

"Depends on the joint," Solly said. "Some, you can mail in just about anything. Others, you'd be lucky to get even a letter from your own lawyer."

"Yeah. Well, like I said, Solly, I'm grateful and all, but-"

"-where's the rest of your money, huh?"

"I don't care where where it is." it is."

"You didn't use to be this cute, Sugar. What'd you do, take one of those college courses while you were away?"

"I'm not the one being cute here, Solly. Everyone else got their money. Me, I waited a long time for mine. I don't even know how much there is, but we had to have cleared enough to give me a vacation. A long vacation."

"You don't want to work anymore?"

"f.u.c.k, what is is this? I don't know how big a pie there is to slice, but I know it won't be enough for me to live on the rest of my life, okay? So, yeah, I'm going back to work. But not for a while. There's something I've got to do first." this? I don't know how big a pie there is to slice, but I know it won't be enough for me to live on the rest of my life, okay? So, yeah, I'm going back to work. But not for a while. There's something I've got to do first."

"What are you-?"

"Just give me my f.u.c.king money, Solly."

"Ah. Now, that's that's the Sugar I know. You want the numbers; I got the numbers. The stones came out to around five mil, retail. Even when loose stones are GIA-registered, you can still usually get about half for them. Overseas, I mean." the Sugar I know. You want the numbers; I got the numbers. The stones came out to around five mil, retail. Even when loose stones are GIA-registered, you can still usually get about half for them. Overseas, I mean."

When Solly said "overseas," I knew he meant Asia. Just something I found out on my own. Solly never tells people anything, except what to do.

"So," he said, "figure around two-point-five. Take off expenses, came out to a little more than two. You, Big Matt, and Jessop did the job, so it's a three-way split."

He didn't bother to say that it was a three-way split of half half. That's always Solly's deal. He sets up the job, does all the planning, deals with disposing of whatever the team he puts together takes, turns it into cash. For that, his piece is 50 percent.

One time, Solly even had to turn cash into cash. The thick stack of bills we found in one of the safe-deposit boxes I pried open sure looked used, but Solly said the consecutive serial numbers meant it couldn't be spent here. "Overseas," again.

I figured that box belonged to a bent cop. That's what some of them do-take cash out of the buy-money bin and replace it with their own stuff. The count comes out right, so n.o.body catches wise. Maybe that blows a buy-and-bust for the narco boys somewhere down the line, but a cop on the take wouldn't care about that. What he'd want was a way to track down his own own money, in case some guy like me got his hands on it. money, in case some guy like me got his hands on it.

"So I've got about three-fifty coming."

"Not quite. Pretty close, though."

"You didn't send me that that much money while I was-" much money while I was-"

"You think I'd take off for that?" He sounded insulted.

I just shrugged.

"Big Matt and Jessop each anted up five. Me, I put up ten. Only fair, am I right? In fact, I didn't send even that much. You end up with a salary of about seventy-five K a year, Sugar. Three sixty-nine, total."

"Fair enough."

"Yeah, it is is. And it might even be that you come out ahead."

"Yeah? You You do a pound for that much money?" do a pound for that much money?"

"I don't mean that," he said, waving his hand like he was brushing away a pesky fly. "The statute of limitations-"

"It's up."

"It's up for you you, Sugar. Big Matt and Jessop, they both took off right after they got paid. Me, I spent some time down in Florida. Couple of years, in fact.

"The only thing keeping the heat off is that this was just money. No big-deal 'cold case,' like an unsolved murder. n.o.body's gonna do a TV show about some drill-through heist. But if either of the others got popped for something else... else... who knows?" who knows?"

"Big Matt wouldn't give us up."

"I agree," he said, real solemn.

"And you put this Jessop guy in yourself."

"That I could have been wrong about."

"What!?"

"Jessop has been...hard to reach lately."

"Maybe somebody took him off the count," I said. That happens to men like us more than usual, I'm pretty sure. You steal for a living, you're going to make people mad. You pull off a big job and start living too large, you call attention to yourself.

And it doesn't matter who who notices. Not too many people are real thieves anymore. Some punks, they think you're holding heavy cash, they might come in shooting. That's not a win-or-lose for you; it's just three different ways to lose. notices. Not too many people are real thieves anymore. Some punks, they think you're holding heavy cash, they might come in shooting. That's not a win-or-lose for you; it's just three different ways to lose.

You win a gunfight in your own place, the cops still aren't going away. Self-defense isn't worth much if you can't explain how you got your hands on all that cash the dead guys had been trying to jack you for.