The Weight

by Andrew Vachss

  The law makes you aim high. Take down a bank or stick up a liquor store, it’s still an armed robbery. If they’re going to lump it all in that same bag, why take a ten-year risk for cigarette money?

  Must be the way those black-glove guys start thinking after a while. Once they’ve got the girl captured, they know what’s next. Even if they let her go, they’re still going down forever—that kind of thing, it’s probably got twenty different crimes tied up in it. Murder, that’s Life, too. So why let her go, maybe have her testify against you?

  But on a professional piece of work, the cops usually know where to look. And they’re not the only ones.

  It was Ken that changed that, a long time ago. Solly told me Ken was the first heister who wouldn’t pay tax on his work. Used to be, you pulled a job in anyone’s territory, you had to let them slice a little off the top. Probably started back when the families were only taking Sicilians. I even heard you had to ask their permission first.

  Solly really admired Ken. He never got tired of telling stories about him. Not what you might think, though. What he liked about Ken the best was the way the man stuck pins in so many balloons.

  “You go up to some poor bastard, working his ass off to support his family, and you sell him fucking ‘protection,’ yeah? He don’t pay, you bust his place up, then you go back and tell him, ‘See? The cops can’t protect you, but we can.’ That’s not a man’s work. Me, I do a man’s work.

  “So—you gonna protect me? You got cops that’ll look the other way, judges on your payroll? That’s some insurance I wouldn’t mind buying.

  “That’s what Ken told them at the sit-down,” Solly told me. “And when they said, yeah, they did have that kind of juice but they couldn’t put their names on the table—could they?—Ken, he says:

  “Why is that, then? ’Cause you’d be giving me info on dirty cops and crooked judges, yeah? And maybe I could trade that, if I got in a jam, is that about right?

  “So the dagos, they all nod, like the fucking movies, you know? And Kenny says:

  “That door swings both ways, doesn’t it? If I come to you about a job of work I’m going to do, or even if I pay your tax after the work is done, and you get jammed, what’s to stop you from trading that?

  “I thought it was gonna be the O.K. Corral right there,” Solly said. “But Kenny sliced into them first. Had a whole list of family men who’d turned rat. And the big shots at that table, they couldn’t deny it. So Kenny says,

  “Tell me a guy who’ll give up a boss wouldn’t give me up. Can you do that?

  “It was quiet for a minute. Then one of the older guys—a real survivor, he must have been—he says, ‘We let you slide on the tax, word gets around, then nobody pays.’ But Kenny, he’s ready for that one.

  “ ‘Only way word gets around is if one of you spreads it.”

  “The man had steel balls,” Solly said to me. “But it wasn’t just that. Ken made sense. He had a rep. Not just for being crazy—which he was, I grant you—but for keeping it low-key. No flashy suits. No diamond rings. No nightclubs. You see what I’m saying?

  “The man was a master. No trademarks, no patterns. It could be a bank one time, a truckload of furs—only way you could tell it was Ken’s work was by how smooth it went.

  “So what would be in it for Ken to brag about not having to pay tax? Nothing. He’d be killing his own golden goose. His game was no-ego, see? The family guys knew he was telling the truth: if they made a deal with Ken, nobody was gonna hear about it from him.”

  Only Ken wasn’t around anymore. Which gave me a real problem with Solly being so generous.

  He’d gone to a lot of trouble, setting me up like he had. The cops didn’t know Stanley Jay Wilson, but Solly knew him. Knew him real well. Where he banked, what car he was driving … even the business he was supposed to be in.

  I didn’t like that last part. I’d been using that “personal trainer” tag for a while before I did my last bit. But, truth is, I don’t know the first damn thing about how to do it. I picked up some lingo from magazines, and I guess I look like someone who should know that stuff. It wasn’t like I actually had to convince anyone.

  But I’d never mentioned this to any of the guys I ever worked with. It isn’t the kind of thing you talk about.

  So how did Solly know?

  And how come he told me so much stuff about himself? It was like he wanted us to be even up on info about each other.

  I knew this much: Solly never did anything just to be doing it. “It’s all investment,” he once told me. “Risk against gain. Everything in life always comes down to that.”

  That’s why my first stop was this Verizon store. The kid in the red shirt called up my account on his screen, said they were really sorry about my phone getting smashed on the subway platform, and sold me a new one.

  The place was kind of frantic, people running in and out, arguing about credit, getting their friends to cosign for them, trading up to a fancier model … so the kid I got just told me to pick out whatever I wanted—it’d go on my next bill.

  I told him I didn’t want my wife to know I’d broken another phone, so I wanted to pay cash.

  That got his attention. “So I’m guessing, maybe your new phone wouldn’t need a GPS …?”

  I threw him an extra twenty for being so considerate. And put a fifty on top of that to get a new number right away. He didn’t act surprised.

  It took one of those instaprint joints only a few minutes to make me some new business cards.

  Still not enough. I drove over to a Toyota dealer closer to the city but still in Queens. Traded the Mustang in on a used—they called it “pre-owned”—2004 Camry.

  That bank manager had been right. The salesman hardly listened to me tell him my kids were too big for car seats now, so the Mustang wouldn’t work. We went back and forth a couple of times, but I wasn’t going to spend the whole day there, and I made sure he’d see that.

  “My car’s only got thirteen thousand miles on it,” I told him. “Yours has got almost seventy-five. And it’s three years older, too. I told my wife I was taking the day off, and I’d be driving a different car home tonight. So I’m gonna do that. Started first thing this morning. So far, I’ve been to five dealers. I want a Camry. I’m taking the best offer. So tell me yours. Then I can say yes or no and be done with it.”

  “We’ll beat any—”

  “Jesus Christ. All you guys say the same thing. Fine. Never mind the ‘check with my manager’ routine, either, okay? You take my Mustang, I take the Camry. I’m not asking you for cash back. Which I should. So—what’s it gonna be?”

  The Camry felt solid. I don’t know much about cars, but I knew this beige one I was driving looked like a million other cars on the road.

  Sure, I traded the Mustang away, even though I knew Solly could trace it easy enough if he wanted to.

  There was still another reason to get rid of the Mustang, a more important one. Say a guy wants to sell you a really top-shelf piece. Only half-price. Looks brand-new, sure. But you never know where that gun’s been. Or what it was used for.

  That Mustang had been bought new, while I was still locked up. With thirteen thousand–plus miles on the odometer, it still looked new. But I hadn’t put those miles on myself.

  I figured they’d detail the Mustang before they put it out on the lot, so if I duct-taped that GPS’ed phone Solly gave me under the front fender, they’d find it. I had to wait until I could find a better place.

  I was just ahead of the outbound traffic by the time all the paperwork was done. I knew it would be smooth sailing to just past the outer edge of Queens, which is where I wanted to go.

  First, I stopped at a cemetery. The thing was huge. Almost empty that time of day. I paid my respects to some guy who cashed in thirty years ago. Then I scooped up enough sod to slip Solly’s phone under it, with the ringer turned off.

  Soon as I saw the place, I knew it had been what I thought it was when I read the
ad: “One bedroom, furnished, immaculate. No smoking, no pets. Quiet neighborhood. Must pass credit check. Rent includes all utilities.”

  The woman who answered the door took a little step back when she saw me. I was neat and clean, but I couldn’t do anything about my size and that scar.

  “You’re so … big,” the woman said, like she was answering just what I’d been thinking.

  “Yes, ma’am. I guess it comes with the territory.”

  “Are you some kind of … bouncer or something?”

  “Oh no, ma’am. I’m a personal trainer. I also sell fitness equipment. So I’m always in one gym or another, it seems.”

  “Well … come in,” she said. Still a little flustered, but calming down quick. I wondered if her husband had a problem with bookies.

  After I told her that I never smoked—“How would that look, in my business?”—and I didn’t have a pet, she got right down to it. Eleven hundred a month, plus one month’s rent and one month’s security. “You couldn’t come close to a place for that much in the city.”

  The apartment was over the garage. Looked fresh-painted. Press-on fake-wood paneling. The furniture was all cheap stuff, but it looked new. The only reason I bothered to look around is, if you don’t do that, it makes landlords suspicious.

  “It looks perfect to me,” I said. “Except for one thing.”

  “What’s that?” she said, hands on her hips like I’d just said she was putting on weight.

  “Where would I be able to park my car? The last thing I need is another damn ticket.”

  “Oh! That’s easy. Come on downstairs and I’ll show you.”

  I thought she’d head for the side door. That was the one we came in by—the front was just a couple of windows. But there was a back door, too, right off the downstairs kitchen. “See?” she said, pointing at a blacktop slab laid down in their backyard. “It’s not indoor parking, I know. But you never have to worry about getting a ticket.”

  “I’m sold,” I told her.

  “You don’t have …?”

  “Loud parties?”

  She smiled.

  “Ma’am, by the time I’m done working, all I want is a hot shower and plenty of sleep. A lot of my work is at night. Some of it, it’s even out of town. If that carpet you put down is as good as it looks, you’ll probably never even know when I’m here and when I’m not.”

  “Well, that seems fine.”

  “I hope so. Could I leave you a deposit while you’re waiting for the credit check to come back?”

  “Why, certainly, Mr.…”

  “Wilson, ma’am. Stanley Wilson. My friends call me Stan,” I said, taking out my driver’s license while I was talking. I took something else out, too: thirty-three hundred-dollar bills. “If this is okay, I’ll just leave it with you. If you’re not satisfied with the credit check, just give me a call and I’ll come back to pick it up.”

  She fingered the money. The tip of her tongue shot out of her lips for just a split second.

  “This is … unusual, isn’t it?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “To pay in cash, I mean?”

  “It’s what I prefer, actually. I mean, I’ll be happy to write a check instead if you—”

  “No. No, that’s all right. I guess I …”

  “Most of my clients pay me in cash,” I said, like we were sharing a secret.

  “You mean, you’d always be paying your rent that way?”

  “Yes, ma’am. You did say utilities were included, didn’t you?”

  “Of course. I mean … Oh, I see. You wouldn’t have to write checks to Con Edison, either. But the phone would be your—”

  I held up my cell phone, smiled at her again. “The bank automatically deducts every month’s bill out of my account. If you wanted, I could have them do the same thing with—”

  “Oh no. No, that’s all right. Why go to all that trouble?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You have very good manners.”

  “My mother thanks you,” I said, remembering how Solly had handled that back in his fancy building.

  She gave me a full smile at that, but she didn’t say anything.

  “Would you be able to tell me when you expect the credit check to be completed?” I asked her. “I don’t want to be stuck—”

  “Oh, you won’t be,” she said. “This is Monday. Thursday’s the fifteenth. If you moved in on Saturday, the rent would have to run from the fifteenth to the fifteenth instead of from the first every month. Would that be all right?”

  “Sure. But would you mind calling me as soon as you’re sure, either way, so I can make my plans?”

  “I’m sure you’ll pass the credit check, Mr. Wilson. My name is McGrew, by the way. Mary Margaret McGrew, if you can believe that. My friends call me Margo.”

  “I hope we can be friends, then.”

  I wasn’t exactly knocked off my pins when she called my new cell early Wednesday morning and told me I had passed the credit check. I knew I’d done that the second she saw all that cash. She said I could move in Thursday if I wanted—the rent was going to start on the fifteenth, anyway.

  There’s no way that apartment was legit; the city makes you get a Certificate of Occupancy for any rental unit, but a lot of folks convert a basement or put something up over their garage. They’re not going to report the income, so the last thing they need is a paper trail. If they get caught, it’s heavy fines. The tell is “utilities included”—they can’t have two different names on bills going to the same address.

  The fines aren’t even the worst part of renting an illegal apartment. There’s no way to evict tenants, even if they don’t pay rent. You take a deadbeat to court, you’d just be pulling the covers off yourself.

  I’d spent Tuesday buying things. Enough to fill two good-sized suitcases and the shoulder duffel.

  I was the tenant from Heaven, she’d tell her husband. Paid cash, and I hadn’t even asked for a receipt, never mind a lease.

  She was the only one around when I came Thursday morning. Told me about ten times that I must be very strong to carry all that stuff upstairs in one trip.

  After she handed over the key, she gave me a little speech about not “changing” anything. Meaning the lock, I think she was saying.

  I was patient while she gave me another little speech: how the microwave worked, how it was better to leave the air-conditioning off when I wasn’t actually there, all this fussy stuff. She saved what I guess she thought was the big finish for last: the apartment not only had a flat-screen TV, it came with free cable.

  The only way to get her out of the place was to check my watch, grab my cell phone, and punch in some numbers.

  “I’ll let myself out,” she said.

  Probably let yourself back in soon as you’re sure I’ll be gone for a while, too, I thought, but I just gave her a little salute and went back to the conversation I was having with myself.

  You’d think a man with as much prison behind him as me would be an ace at killing time. And I guess I am, in some ways.

  As long as I know how to act, I can do it. In prison, it’s as clear as if they painted it on the walls. There’s only so many things you can do in there, make the time go by. So what you do is, you pick one, and get as deep as you can into it.

  Some guys, it’s the weights. They do it in groups, spot for each other, talk about “reps” and “delts” and stuff like it’s a secret code. There’s steroids for sale Inside, and they were gold to the body-boys. Mostly pills, but there was even needle stuff around. The trick was getting clean needles.

  Steroids aren’t much of a racket—you need tranqs to really bring the cash. You don’t have to risk a smuggle to do that. A lot of the loons on scrip, they’re happy to sell their meds. They don’t even want them in the first place … unless they’re saving them up until they get enough to check out. Some of them, you could see they’d already left. Locked up, sure, but not on this planet.

  Some cons
work on schemes. Letter-writing, that was always a good one. You just had to be careful. The real pros, they kept charts and everything, so they never got the women they were working mixed up. Once they got three, four of them on the string, just keeping up with the letters would take all day, every day. That’s why some cons have really fine handwriting, all that practice.

  There’re guys who can play cards. Or dominoes. Chess guys, they could even play by mail, have a couple of dozen games going on at the same time, all around the world.

  But if you run a racket, there’s no such thing as part-time. You have something going for you, there’s always going to be people who want it going to them.

  Gang guys, they always had business. Meetings, karate practice, praying, plotting … it all eats time.

  For some guys, doing time was no different from hanging out on the corner. Same routine: play the dozens, tell lies, brag about what they had going for them. Prison’s perfect for that. It’s a lot easier to lie about what was than what is.

  Only thing missing was the girls walking by. Nobody ever complained about that—you could be walking into a shark tank if the wrong guy took it the wrong way.

  Religion, that’s always big. No matter where they lock you, there’ll always be some “fellowship” or “ministry” or whatever. If you’re Christian, I mean. The Muslims have their own thing. A few Indians, they would get together, too. I hadn’t seen that before, but I guess there’s more of them Upstate than in the city.

  I remember asking Eddie how come there’s no Jews in there. “Oh, they got ’em,” Eddie had told me. “But not enough to form no crew. So they find their own ways to get by.”

  That’s also when Eddie told me about Reno, that Nazi guy. He was one of them. A Jew, I mean. I don’t know how Eddie found out, but when he told me, I got the joke. That’s what Eddie called it when you understood something—that you got the joke. See, when Eddie told Reno about me working undercover, he was telling him something else at the same time.