—Ed and Paris?
—Yeah.
—Fuck! Oh fuck! Oh man, oh fuck, oh man. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
—Yeah Russ. Oh fuck indeed.
Around then I got my shit together enough to get us out through my window, onto the fire escape and into his place through his window before the cops could show. They came up the stairs pretty stealthily, but once they saw the ripped tape on my door they went in like gangbusters. I watched from Russ’s peephole until they left. When I turned around, Russ had a little chrome .22 stuck in my face.
—Sorry, man, but I gotta go. So just give me the key, OK?
I nodded at my jacket on his couch.
—In the pocket.
He glanced to the right and I swept my left hand up to slap the gun away from my face. I kept a hold on his wrist as I grabbed his shirt with my right hand, stepped in and kneed him in the crotch. He sank to the floor and I covered his mouth to make sure he wouldn’t groan too loud. I took his gun, flicked on the TV to check the news and, just like it happens in old gangster movies, they were talking about my “crimes” on the news. That’s when I went in the bathroom and started shaving.
I think I gave Russ a concussion when I nailed him with the bat the second time. I wouldn’t care except that I’m having trouble getting him to focus and make sense.
—I’m sorry, man, I’m so damn sorry. This never. Oh, God, I’m sorry.
—Russ, we need to talk now, man, I need to know things. Russ!
—No, man, no more, you don’t, like, want to. Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m such a sorry sack of shit.
—Russ. Russ, calm down and talk to me, OK?
He stays on the couch, holding the ice bag on his head, rocking back and forth and looking away whenever I try to catch his eye and get him to focus.
I’ve traded my jacket for one of his, a lined windbreaker with a Yankees patch on the back. Fucking Yankees. They think they own the world. Nothing else of his fits me, but I did find a pair of wraparound sunglasses that hide the bruises around my eyes pretty well. I also grabbed his little Walkman radio. I can stay up on the news and the headphones will help my disguise, such as it is.
—Russ, Russ! Come on, man, it’s time to go. Come on.
—No. No, man. I’m gonna stay here.
—Russ, the cops aren’t that dumb, they’ll be back and, if not, then Roman will.
—Fuck that, I don’t fucking care. Oh, I’m so fucked.
—Russ, Ed and Paris have already been here once.
He stops rocking and looks up at me.
—Shit, Hank, we gotta go.
We go out the window again.
We use the rooftops to avoid the cops on the streets below and circle the block to First Avenue
. There’s a chopper cruising the area, but it seems to be focused on the blocks east of Avenue A, over by the projects. We catch a big break when we see some guys working on one of the roofs. They’re patching holes in the tar paper, their backs to us. We just sneak in through the roof access door they’ve propped open with a piece of brick. Down the stairs and we exit onto First. We walk right past two of New York’s finest, I flag a cab and we’re gone. So much for police gauntlets.
Russ slumps in the seat and lets his head loll back. He’s worse than I thought. I get him to look at me and I cover his right eye with my hand, then pull it away suddenly and watch how his pupil dilates, then do the same thing with his left eye. The right one is OK, but the left dilates irregularly. He must be pretty fucking scrambled in there. On top of that, blood is starting to leak out of his cap. I didn’t have time to patch him up at the apartment and all my first-aid stuff is in my bag in Roman’s car. I took a huge wad of toilet paper, soaked it in some vodka I found under his sink, stuck it on his head, and crammed a ski cap on him to hold it in place.
The cab is just cruising north and the driver wants a specific destination. I give Russ a little shake.
—Russ, hey, Russ. How about it, man? Why don’t you show me what it’s all about?
—What what’s about? What?
—Russ, where to, Russ?
The cabbie is getting testy just driving up First. I tell him to head for the West Side Highway. I shake the blue storage unit key in Russ’s face.
—How ’bout it, Russ? Let’s go take a look.
He focuses on the key.
—Hey, man, that’s my key.
—What’s it for, Russ? What’s it for?
—Fuck, man, how’d you get my key?
—What’s it for?
—It’s, like, my unit, man.
—Where?
—Mini Storage. Chelsea.
I tell the cabbie to take us to Chelsea Mini Storage. Russ flops back in his seat and I go through his pockets for cash so I’ll be able to pay for the cab when we arrive. Along with Bud, my money is in Roman’s car. I find seventy-eight bucks, some credit cards, the jimmy tools he used to pick my lock and a pack of Big Red. I take his wallet and the gum.
They want you to sign in before they’ll let you go up. Russ is still too shaky to trust with other people, so I sign his name and give the guy in the booth the unit number. He doesn’t ask for ID or anything, just gives me two passes, tells us to wear them at all times and points to the elevator.
The elevator operator asks for our pass numbers. I tell him both. Russ just stands there and shakes his head every now and then. The elevator guy keeps glancing at us. Between Russ’s lumpy head and my nearly bald white scalp, we look like we just escaped from the terminal cancer ward. The elevator stops on the fourth floor and we get out.
Corridors and corridors of doors, perfectly identical except for the numbers. Russ is no help showing the way, so we wander until we find 413d.
I have to rattle the lock to get it open and then the bolt sticks, but finally there we are, looking into a fifteen-by-fifteen cubicle with a huge black hockey bag sitting in the exact middle of the floor. I lead Russ in, turn on the fluorescent light, shut the door behind us, go over and unzip the bag.
When Roman told me they were all looking for an “object,” I had visions of jewel-encrusted black birds, little gold statuettes, or the Ark of the Covenant. Apparently, what he meant to say was that they were all looking for a bag stuffed full with bundles and bundles and bundles of cash.
I stare at all the twenties and fifties and hundreds and Russ gestures at the room.
—I could have gotten the five-by-five unit for cheaper, but I wanted the bigger one so I’d, like, have more room to count it in.
Russ counts the twenties and fifties while I handle the hundreds and it’s a good thing he got the extra floor space because once we start spreading out all this cash, it takes up a lot of fucking room. It’s the kind of money that makes a man stupid, very stupid. Russ, for instance, has been very stupid.
He met Ed and Paris at the youth camp in Montana.
—We hit it off, me and Ed and Paris, cuz we were all, like, into comic books, like, the X-Men and Fantastic Four and the Avengers and shit. We got to go into town every now and then on, like, weekends and I was good at boosting stuff, so I’d, like, boost all these comics and share ’em with Ed and Paris. That shit, those comic books, they’re just more fun when you can talk to someone about ’em, so me and Ed and Paris, like, talked comics. We were all due to go home about the same time and we figured to hook up, cuz I was, like, planning a move to the city. But, like, one of the counselor guys, he took a shine to Ed and tried to, like, get over with him, like, tried to rape him and all and Ed and Paris cut his throat, so they ended up getting shipped out to do real time.
I hit five hundred thousand dollars and stop counting for a minute. The pile of uncounted money is still huge.
—Anyways, I went home, but, like, I kept sending comics to them cuz I felt sorry for ’em in the juvie facility when all they fucking did was kill a fucking, like, child-molesting raper. We were, what, like twelve or thirteen when it all went down and they didn’t come back for a while until they were e
ighteen and by then they had gotten all into the weights and had studied and gotten their high school diplomas. But they were really grateful I had, like, stayed in touch and sent them the comics and shit. Their mom had written them off after they sliced the counselor guy, so they didn’t really have, like, a home anymore and I had a flop in Spanish Harlem. So they came and stayed with me.
At first I tried to count all the bills, but now I just rifle each pack to make sure they’re all hundreds, assume it’s a full ten grand and stack them up. I put another one on the stack and I take a break and chew a piece of Big Red while Russ talks and stacks the smaller bills.
—By that time, I was already boosting stuff pretty much left and right. Mmm. I was, like, into a little B and E, but mostly it was real harmless stuff. But Ed and Paris, they had, like, they had, like, got a higher education doing that hard juvie time. They were, like, right into the strong-arm stuff: mugging, a little muscle for the loan sharks, carjacking, some hijacking, like, liquor and cigs and stuff. Then they moved into armed robbery. Mmm.
Little pauses start creeping into Russ’s story. From time to time, his eyes fuzz out for a moment then he shakes his head, gives a little “mmm,” and gets back on track. He’s still stacking bills, but he’s starting to have trouble keeping them in the right piles. I move over and begin straightening things out. He nods a little thanks and I point at the wall. He leans back and continues his story.
—So they get picked up again, this time it’s a pretty heavy beef. They pistol-whipped the security guard at this, like, ATM place. Mmm. Uh, then they were so convicted, but get this: They’re getting transferred out of town from Rikers to upstate and, like, the van they’re in, this is in winter, it slides on a patch of ice and flips. Now, the deputies. Mmm. The deputies, they were, like, required by law to put seat belts on the prisoners, but they didn’t wear their own. So the van flips, the deputies go flying, both DOA, and Ed and Paris, they unbuckle and walk away with bruises.
I’ve got the bills restacked properly now and I stop for a second and stare at them. I think about car accidents and seat belts and, in my mind, Rich flies past me and through the windshield. I start counting again.
—So this, like, Good Samaritan stops to check out the wreck and Ed and Paris, they clock the dude, take his keys and cash and they’re rollin’ back to the city, still in chains and coveralls. They show up at my place and we get them all squared away. They jack another car and blow town. Mmm. We’re all still basically kids at this point. It’s, like, ’89 or ’90 or so and we’re all, like, twenty or so. They cruise down south to Florida, where they end up doing wicked shit for these Cuban gangsters. Me. Mmm. Me, I just go along doing my thing, except I catch that acting bug, so I start taking, like, these classes and shit. The fucking New School. I did, ya know, I did, like, day player stuff on As the World Turns for a while and some downtown theater stuff, too. Hey, man, did you know I was in a Richard Foreman play? No shit, took my clothes off. But, like, I still stole an’ shit. That was my day job. Mmm.
The money is piling higher and higher. I think I’ve done the twenties and fifties. All that’s left are the hundreds. The many, many remaining hundreds. By looking at those counted piles and comparing them to what’s left in the bag, I’m starting to get a better idea of just how much money is here. My hands are shaking a bit and I make tight little fists until they stop.
—So they stayed down there in Florida for a few years, but they, like, got into some kind of beef with the Cubans and it ended pretty ugly. I’m not really up on all the details and such, but from what I gather, it was one of those, like, scenes with a bunch of guns, piles of coke, and a machete. Scarface kind of shit. Mmmm. So they had to blow and some, like, time had passed and they decided to come home and headed back up here. They, like, gave me a call out of the blue and I helped ’em to get a pad. Mmmm. To get a pad and, like, all situated and stuff. They were cool for a bit, but then they started this gig doing stickups at, like, high-stakes poker games and drug deals. They figured they could keep a lower profile if they, like, restrained their activities to the criminal community. Like, who’s gonna give a fuck, right?
I keep counting.
—For a while I helped out a bit, being, like, a technical adviser on a few jobs. I’d, you know, pick a lock or whatever. But the action was really just too fucking hot for me. High returns, but the risks were, like. Mmmm. I didn’t like the odds. Normal crime, the cops catch you and you’re just busted. The kind of shit they were pulling, other cons catch you robbing them and they’re gonna just fuck you all up. Anyway. Mmmm. Anyway, that’s about when I hooked them up with Lum. The Chinese kid. The one with the, like, red hair.
Russ is still sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, his eyes closed.
—I had met Lum through friends of, like, friends, and he was this kind of kid criminal prodigy. He wanted to be getting into heavier shit, so I set him up with Ed and Paris and they took him under their wing, sort of. Mmmm. So, at some point it all had to get, like, fucked up, and sure enough, it did. What happened was people, people in the life, got wind of what they were up to and some disinformation was floated their way through, like, usually reliable channels. They went in and hit this card game, thinking it was a bunch of bookies. Turned out it was a cop game.
And counting.
—Ed and Paris don’t even, like, blink. They just pull the job like it’s business as usual while all these cops are telling them how dead they are. Then, like, it gets messy, cuz one of the cops goes for his ankle piece. Ed and Paris aren’t fools. They, like, don’t want to kill any cops, but they bust the guy up bad and split with the kitty. Now they’re just red fucking hot and they’re trying to decide if they should blow town or, like, what, and that’s when Roman pops up. Mmmm. Roman, he was like this hotshot hero cop way back. Some kind of Serpico with a real hard-on for the law. ’Cept, story is, he had a bad gambling jones. So things happen, right? He makes a bet here and there, gets some debt, makes a couple small moves to clear it up and next thing you know, he’s a hard-core player. That’s the way the system works. Mmmmmm. At this stage, he’s a robbery dick and he’s already, like, dirty as hell. He tracks Ed and Paris down, I mean like a bloodhound. He just goes right to ’em. There’s this big Mexican face-off and he ends up showing all his cards. Turns out he’s been on to Ed and Paris for a while. Turns out he’s, like, this big fan, he’s, like, recognized their talents and wants to, like, manage them. And so that’s what he does. Takes over and makes them into stars. Mmmm.
Counting.
—First, he pins the card game heist and all their other jobs on these niggers up in the Bronx. Those chumps get the Amadou Diallo treatment, so they don’t dispute any claims made against them. Next, he starts picking gigs for them, using his scoop from being on the force and all. He starts local, then pretty soon he’s got Ed, Paris and Lum working all over the tristate, right. Mmmm. I have my hand in, too, like, fence this or get that tool or ditch a car or whatever, nothing too big. Every now and then, Roman comes up with something superheavy and for those he sends in, like, his right-hand man. Bolo. Bolo was a longshoreman. Roman busted him for jacking cargo and then put him to work for the cause. Made Bolo his enforcer on the street. Mmmm. Tell you what. Seeing Ed, Paris, Lum and Bolo go into a room and work it over? That was, like, something else. Pure fear. Those boys all together just radiated fucking fear. People just gave them whatever the fuck and if they, like, got belligerent or some shit, then the hammer came down and that was that. Like, woe betide the motherfucker.
I look at what’s left uncounted in the bag. I’m in the home stretch.
—Mmmm. So, so, this goes for years, right. They work a handful of jobs a year, then lie low, then go at it again. All is well. Roman spots a potential job, does the research, sends in his team, they knock it down, he chills any possible heat and all the rest is profit. Roman, he still suffers from that gambling bug. So he’s, like, investing his share in Atlantic City stocks and bonds, if
ya get me. Bolo and Lum, they’re all about good times, so they just party down. Ed and Paris, they live like fucking monks; I mean, the duds and the wheels aside, these are very simple men. They go in for booze and whores, but no drugs, no gold, no bling, no fucking Lexus, no palace. Just that Caddie and the best guns money can buy. They stockpile their cash, like, not in a bank, but under a damn mattress or some shit. Mmmm.
I finish counting, lean against the wall next to Russ, stare at the money and chew more gum while he finishes the story.
—At some point, there’s a brouhaha. The boys are doing a chip heist. Silicon chips. The markup on that shit is, like, unreal. That tech shit, it’s, like, changed the whole economy. Anyway, turns out some other crew is already there making the same fucking heist. Gunfight, man. All hell and then some. Cops roll up on the scene and Ed, Paris, Bolo and Lum end up shooting their way out and this time they kack three officers. Mmmm. Well, that’s the kind of mess even Roman can’t clean up, so it’s time for the gang to, like, disband. Roman keeps Bolo stashed in Jersey so he can still use him if he needs to, but he, like, cuts Lum and the boys loose. Fine with Ed and Paris. They, like, pack their bags and head south again. Mmmm. They, like, stay mellow for a year, but then they get an idea and they give me a ring. See, Ed and Paris, they, like, want to retire, but they don’t figure they have quite enough put away, so they want to do a series of jobs, cash in their chips and head down to Mexico or someplace.
Mexico. I think about Mexican beer with a squeeze of lime.
—Mmmm. Mmmm. Ed, now Ed, he’s been, like, learning from Roman, so he’s got this plan. He wants to loop through the South and back up through the Midwest doing bank jobs. No major branches, he just wants to hit a whole shitload of little, like, farmers’ and merchants’ banks in all those little towns. They hook back up with Lum so he can be their wheelman and take care of any alarm action and technical issues. What they want from me is help with the cash. Mmmm. Bank cash is all dirty cash, so it has to be, like, cleaned off. They know I can’t really do that on my own, so that’s when they call Roman back in. Mmmm. Roman has all the connections, including, get this. Mmmm. Including the Russian Mafia, which is how those thugs Bert and Ernie got into this shit. Mmmm.
Caught Stealing Page 13
