Part 11 (1/2)

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 this planet. 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 was than what than what is is.

Only thing missing was the girls walking by. n.o.body 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 ”fellows.h.i.+p” 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 n.a.z.i 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.

Some guys had a whole library of paperback books. They put them all on the juggle, rent them out. It doesn't matter what you lend-in prison, you borrow two, you pay back three.

The tattoo artists always have plenty of business. Even guys who come in covered in ink, they always want more. Like Eddie told me, the cops keep a record of all your tats. You can change your hair, grow a beard, stuff like that. But ink, especially just past the knuckles-like LOVE LOVE on one hand and on one hand and HATE HATE on the other-that's forever. You can walk around in a long-sleeved s.h.i.+rt even in the summer, but you can't wear a pair of gloves. on the other-that's forever. You can walk around in a long-sleeved s.h.i.+rt even in the summer, but you can't wear a pair of gloves.

A good thief would be hard to pick out of a lineup; the best best thief would be invisible. I already had my size going against me, never mind the scar and the different-colored eyes. I sure didn't need more. thief would be invisible. I already had my size going against me, never mind the scar and the different-colored eyes. I sure didn't need more.

Doing time, there's really a lot of choices. And even when all you can do is try and stay alive, that's still something to do. As long as you don't spend too much time thinking about it.

But once you get out, there's no rules-only laws. So you have to find something with rules. Like a job, maybe. It doesn't matter if it's working an a.s.sembly line or collecting debts, every job has its own rules. Always things you're supposed to do and things you're not.

If your whole life is outside the law, the rules are much tighter. Say you're a thief-you never want to take a muscle job. A loan shark pays you to break a guy's arm; you do it even once, it's like diving off a cliff. Once you break enough bones, they expect you to step up to doing hits. Or maybe one of the guys that owes, you end up totaling him, even when you didn't mean to. I remember something Ken once said: I'm not a hired hand, pal. I'm what you call self-employed, get it? I'm not a hired hand, pal. I'm what you call self-employed, get it?

In prison, that's the way you want it. It's okay to be friendly to different guys, but you don't ever want to be with with them. them.

See, if you're with a prison crew, that's got rules, too. You follow them too close, you're never getting out.

That's why I always do the same things. I live good. Not for show, for real. I eat good, have decent clothes, a good car, that kind of thing. I keep case money, so I always have enough to get by even if there's no good job coming for a while. That lets me pa.s.s up the shaky-looking stuff. A true pro, he never lets himself get desperate.

So I still had about eighty grand stashed from before I went in, but I'd picked the wrong spot for it. I'd been staying with this girl for a while. You move in with a girl, you never know when you'll be leaving, and you can't be sure you'll ever be back. So I never bring anything with me that I can't walk away from, and I always keep a place I can walk back to.

You have to expect a girl to go through your stuff. Every girl I ever moved in with did that.

I hate handcuffs. Always dangling open, ready to snap closed. I'm not putting myself where I'd always be one dime-drop away from going back to prison.

So, when I move in with a girl, I always bring enough stuff over so she thinks she's got a hold on me. Stuff too big to just carry out, like a TV. Or even a lot of clothes I don't care about. They're always sure you'll have have to come back, even if it's only to pick up your stuff. to come back, even if it's only to pick up your stuff.

I heard stories about girls pouring bleach on a guy's clothes when they got mad. That's why I'd never let a girl buy me anything I'm not ready to throw away. Or lend me money. Or put me on her cell-phone plan.

This last girl, she told me she was a student. I told her I hung drywall-what other kind of job could an ex-con expect to get if he was trying to go straight? Interior work; I was on the night s.h.i.+ft. She lived on Central Park West, in the nineties. Three bedrooms. A huge place for just one person. It used to be her mother's.

I figured the girl would still be there-n.o.body gives up a rent-controlled apartment in this city. So my money would probably still be where I'd hid it, in a hole I made in the top of one of the closets. She was always saying the plaster was moldy, made her clothes smell. So, when she had to go someplace for a weekend, I emptied all the closets and rough-sanded the insides. Then I painted them, fresh, bright white.

I mixed a little lemon juice in with the paint; that's a trick I learned from an old guy who hired me to lift heavy stuff for him. I was supposed to be learning how to paint, but it never happened. This guy did tile, too, but he told me I didn't have the hands for that.

When she came back, I showed her my surprise. She loved it. I told her she couldn't put her stuff back in the closets for another couple of days. I had laid it all out on the beds in two of the rooms. She didn't care, she was so happy to see the closets looking so good.

And they did, for real. With the plaster re-covered, the primer, and the three coats of paint, you couldn't even see where I had planted the cash.

I hadn't planned on leaving it there long. But then I got popped for that rape I never did.

When you have money, you don't get all crazy about needing some more. Gives you time to think. Which is what I did, my first night in that over-the-garage apartment.

Maybe Francine-that was the girl's name-maybe she had a guy living there, like I had been. Or got married, even.

Or maybe she turned the place into a moneymaker, subletting it out for ten times the rent she she had to pay. A lot of people do that. It's a risk, because the building owners are always watching for those kind of moves. had to pay. A lot of people do that. It's a risk, because the building owners are always watching for those kind of moves.

Maybe the building had gone co-op. Francine might still be there, but probably she would have sold the apartment a couple of years back-Solly had said something about real estate going way up then.

The real problem was the five years. More than that, actually. I'd never expected to be gone more than a few days, so what could I tell Francine that wouldn't sound like complete bulls.h.i.+t? And it wasn't like she was, you know, crazy crazy about me or anything. about me or anything.

I balanced it out. Breaking into the place wouldn't be a hard job-they didn't have a doorman, at least when Francine lived there. But I'd have to do a lot of scoping it out first, and even then I'd still still need a lot of luck. need a lot of luck.

And if I pulled it off, what would I have? Eighty grand...and maybe Francine telling the cops about an ex-boyfriend who had painted those same closets where there was a chunk missing now.

I made the decision before I fell asleep. I was going to take a pa.s.s. I remember thinking how Solly would have been proud of me, just before I went out.

It's supposed to be tradition that the first thing a man does when he makes the gate is get himself some p.u.s.s.y. For sure, it's what everyone who's about to go says says they're going to do. they're going to do.

I think that's probably more about what's waiting for you than anything else. If you've got a wife, or a girlfriend-or even some woman you've been pen pals with, then probably it's true. Or if you're with a crew, they're supposed to have that all lined up and waiting for you. Throw you a party.

There's other ways. One old guy-h.e.l.l, he was probably younger than I am now, but this was during my first bit-he told me the only difference between getting married and picking up a hooker is that, one you buy, the other you rent. But he was in there for killing his wife, so even I could figure out that he probably wasn't wrapped too tight.

Finding a hooker used to be easy. Almost no-risk. At least not for me. Guys who worked the badger game, they'd tell their girls never to pick up anyone who looked like he could do damage. Plus, they'd want a guy in a suit if they could find one. A suit and one of those little briefcases.

There's a different play on that game, but it only works if the john is looking for underage. The girl has to look real young, and they work it like a shakedown, not a rough-off. I wouldn't be a good mark for that one, either.

But everything's so...extreme now. Either you pick a girl up off a stroll, or you use one of the out-call services. A stroller could be underage. Carrying anything from a disease to a straight razor. And you'd have to get it on in the car, real quick. An escort could be an undercover. Or a psycho who kept souvenirs.

Most of the strip clubs, they had private rooms where you could get whatever you were willing to pay for. But there's always some Law sniffing around those places. Not for the s.e.x, for the skim. So the undercovers spent their time in the upscale places. The more the joints charged, the more likely there was Law around somewhere.

On top of all that, I knew the owner of that jewelry store we'd hit was still trying to collect on the insurance. He had to sue to get that, which is how I knew about it, from the papers.

All the insurance company had was suspicion. n.o.body had ever been bagged for the crime, and real thieves had had done the work-even the cops told the papers that it had been a professional job. done the work-even the cops told the papers that it had been a professional job.