The Weight (11 page)

We came to another door. When I followed Solly through it, I saw he had a lot of choices from there: take the stairs to his right, walk straight out the front door, or open another door.

He played the flash over that other door. “This one, it only opens from the inside. It’s about a foot or so drop from there. Not so much, but you could break your ankle, you’re not expecting it.”

The old man jumped down. I followed him. The door closed itself behind us. Solly lit it up for a second—it looked like part of the wall. I knew he wasn’t bragging, just showing me he still had things under control.

The alley wasn’t even wide enough to get a car through, so it was pretty clean. No Dumpsters, so no homeless guys camped out waiting for a refill. And no rats to fight them for the kind of garbage you can eat.

At the end of the alley, there was this high chain-link gate. It wouldn’t keep anyone out if they wanted to climb, but who does that just to go dice-rolling on a blanket?

Not a good shortcut, either.

Solly opened the lock with a key he had. He pointed a finger at the place where the wall ended, just inside the gate. I looked where he was pointing. I couldn’t see anything for a few seconds. Then there was a long, thin flash of light. When it went away, I could see what Solly meant: slivers of mirror glass up there, set at an angle. If you looked at the left one, you could see what was coming up the sidewalk on the right. Same for the other side.

“You watch this one,” he said.

When we each had a “clear,” I went out first. I walked to my right. Not fast, but not so slow you’d notice. Solly caught up to me before we got to the corner.

We just walked along, side by side. It probably looked like we both knew where we were going, but only Solly did.

A few blocks from Solly’s dump, there was this classy-looking high-rise, all glass and chrome. That’s how this city is. There’s no such thing as neighborhoods, like you have in Brooklyn or Queens. In Manhattan, you could have ten-million-dollar houses on one block and crumbling old slums on the next. It’s split up so tight that they’ve even got special names for every few blocks.

I don’t think any of that crap really sticks. Guys who came up in Hell’s Kitchen would be, I don’t know, proud of it, I guess. There was this Irish guy I used to know, Ken. “Catch me telling folks I was born in fucking ‘Clinton,’ ” I heard him say one time.

On the rich blocks, there wouldn’t be any alleys—the buildings are stacked together so tight not even light could shine through. But on the other blocks, they have backyards. Little ones, sure. And all fenced off and everything. But you could still go through a whole block without stepping on the sidewalk if you had to.

Solly walked right in the front door. There was a guy at a curved desk made out of some kind of dark marble. He was wearing a blue jacket with “WynterGreene” embroidered in gold letters on the pocket over his heart.

“Mr. Vizner,” he said, smiling.

“Anthony, meet my nephew. Jerome, this is Anthony. He’s in charge of making sure everything around here works the way it’s supposed to.”

The guy in the jacket got a little red in the face, Solly giving him a compliment like that.

“I’m pleased to meet you,” I said, holding out my hand.

The guy in the jacket seemed a little confused, but he finally shook hands with me.

“Gets those manners from his mother,” Solly said, like I’d done something weird.

We walked over to the elevator cars. Three of them were already standing open. Solly made a move with his hand. I got in; he was right behind me.

“This time of night, you want an attended car, you have to signal for one,” he said.

The car stopped on 13. I followed Solly out. We walked on a thick dark carpet until we got to a door with “13F” on a little panel next to it. Solly opened the door with a key.

Inside, it was like a showroom, all brand-new stuff.

“Have a seat,” Solly told me.

I found a chair—I guess it was a chair, because it was only big enough for one person. Solly sat on this little couch-thing.

“Solomon Vizner, that’s me. They know I travel a lot. I tip good. Always pay the maintenance on time; they take it right out of my bank account.”

“What’s maintenance?”

“To keep the place up. The concierge—the guy at the front desk. The guy who shovels the sidewalk, the guy who takes out the garbage, the guy who vacuums the hallways … there’s the taxes, too. Naturally. And if something breaks, they have to fix it.”

“The landlord—”

“I’m the landlord, Sugar. Kind of, anyway. See, I own this unit. That’s what they call them in this place, units.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah, it’s a pretty good place. I got in when it first opened, almost fifteen years ago. Could’ve sold it for double that a little while back. Now … it’s still worth more than I paid, but that ride’s probably over. Not that I care—I got no reason to sell.”

“But you don’t really live here?”

“Nah. Who could do business in a place like this? They got cameras all around, and if you don’t live here, you have to sign this guest book. Can you see anyone coming to visit me doing that?”

He was right. I couldn’t even see
Solly
in this place, never mind some of the guys he puts jobs together for. I felt like he wasn’t just showing the place to me, he was showing me respect, too.

“Anyone takes a look in here, it’s like some maid just got finished, right?” he said. “But so what? The building, they give you that service. For extra, of course. That’s a racket. I hire my own. You remember Ken?”

“Yeah,” I said. He was that Irish guy I used to know. Well, maybe not
know
, exactly. But I looked up to him. Everybody did.

“He’s gone on, God rest the crazy mick bastard’s soul. Ken, he was a good man. Once did a longer stretch than you just wrapped up, never even nibbled at the cheese.”

“He wouldn’t.”

“No. Ken, he was a piece of rebar.”

“You mean tough?”

“Sure, tough. But that’s not what I mean. You pour too much concrete without you got rebar in it, it won’t hold together. That was Ken, see? You have him in on a job, he’s the one who holds it together, even when things go bad. He was doing that, doing
just
that, when he cashed out.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Armored car. You don’t see much of those anymore, except when there’s an inside man. But this was a straight takedown. Perfect timing. Like a Swiss watch. Only, a squad car just stumbles
across it. Shouldn’t’ve happened—we had their patrol route down to the minute. But there they were.

“We had two getaway cars. One was okay, on the far side of the money truck. The other one—the one Ken was supposed to take—it was on the wrong side. The cop car was already past it when they spotted the play. Probably went right to the radio. If Ken ran to the car he was supposed to take, they’d know the guy sitting behind the wheel was in on it, too.”

“I know the guy?”

“I already said—Oh, you mean the wheelman? Yeah. Sure. Everybody knows Buddha.”

“He’d wait.”

“Exactly! That’s what Ken knew. So he opened up on the squad car. By the time they had him down, probably twenty slugs in him, everybody else was long gone.”

“That’s a man.”

“You think everyone don’t know that? His daughter, she got his share. To this day, she’s got no idea where it came from. Ken didn’t leave a will. He didn’t have a straight-life cover like me; he was outlaw all the way. So, the way she got paid, different guys, they’d drop around, leave me the money they owed Ken. Just paying off a loan. They knew I’d take care of it.

“Must have been hard for the girl at first. She was still in high school. Private school, no less. But nobody could come around and explain until after the cops stopped nosing into the kid’s life. They must’ve thought Ken was as dumb as they are—like he was ever gonna leave his work stuff where he lived!

“Ken had a little house. Out on the Island, I think. Or close to it, anyway. The cops practically tore it apart, but there was nothing for them to find. His daughter, Grace, that
is
her name, she never knew a thing about her father’s business … and he never brought any of it home.”

“She got his whole share, though, right?”

“Of course,” he said, giving me one of those “What are you, stupid?” looks. “But not all at once. I mean, it had to be in cash;
what was she going to do, throw it all into a bank somewhere? I handled it for her.

“Anyway, she’s in college now. Or maybe she’s already finished—I don’t know how long it takes to be one of those social workers.”

“Me, either.”

“That’s okay. See, Grace, she’s my maid. Comes in once a week. I never stay here, so there’s really nothing for her to do. Plus, this is a quiet place to study, right?”

“Sure.”

“Only, being Ken’s daughter, she
has
to vacuum the place, do some dusting. I told her, by me, I don’t care—all I want is that cover story. I have a maid in once a week, why
wouldn’t
the place look all neat and perfect if anyone took a look? She says, sure, she understands. But she doesn’t actually listen to a damn word I say. When I come back here—I try to do that, every couple, three weeks—the envelopes I leave for her are gone. And there’s always new stuff in the refrigerator.

“See how smart this girl is? It’s always this health-food crap. That’s what
she
eats, not me. So she can have her meals in here, and, anyone looks, it’s like I’m living here, get it?”

“Yeah, I get it. But you’d do it anyway, right?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Take care of the girl. Even if the job went bad. Even if there
was
no share to hold for him.”

“Oh. Well, see, that was always part of Ken’s deal. Anything happens to him, I do that, sure.”

“He trusted you.”

“Ken? Hard to tell with a man like him. He just … believed in things. Catholic, he was. Wouldn’t spit on a priest, fucking
hated
nuns, but … Ah, who knows? Maybe he thought he could come back and haunt me or something.”

“Like a ghost?”

“A golem, more likely. But what am I, a mind reader now?”

I wasn’t going to ask Solly what a golem is—the last thing I wanted was for him to start going sideways before I got my money. “I was just … okay, why do
you
think she takes the money, Solly?”

“You mean, being Ken’s daughter? Oh, I told her a
good
story about that, believe me. I leave her five hundred a week. Paying off a loan. With what I told her I owed her father, I’ll be dead ten years and it still won’t be paid off. Grace, she knows: first week there’s no envelope, that means I’m not coming back. Then she won’t, either. But she knows where her bank account is, see?”

“That’s slick.”

“That’s me, kid. Mr. Angles. Now let’s go get your money.”

Solly hit “PG” on the elevator pad. When it stopped, it opened into an underground garage. A young black guy in some kind of uniform was waiting. Soon as he saw Solly, he stepped back.

“Mistah Vee!” a much older black man called out from the beat-up old easy chair he was sitting in, a few feet away. “Rex have your car ready for you in a snap.”

A monster black car rolled up. I never saw anything like it. Only had two doors, but it was bigger than any limo. More like a freight car than something you drive.

The black guy in the uniform hopped out, and went back to his post. The old guy held the door open for Solly. “The boy ain’t got a clue, do he, suh?”

“Which one, Lester?”

“Oh. Oh, I didn’t mean nothin’, Mistah Vee. I wasn’t saying nothin’ about your young man.” Meaning me, I guessed. “I was talking about Rex over there. He my sister’s youngest boy. Ain’t too swift, but the building, all they just wanted was someone stay down here, make sure it’s safe for the residents.”

“How many years we know each other?” Solly said.

“More than I likes to remember, suh.”

“Me, too. So why’re you still running that plantation game on me?”

The old black guy lowered his voice. “Been playing it safe so long, it’s all I know, I guess,” he said.

“Yeah,” Solly told him. “Guys like us, we got no choice, do we?”

He slipped the old guy a bill.

“Get in,” he told me.

There was no door handle, so I pushed the button where it should have been, and the door opened. From the outside, the car gleamed like it had been dipped in a pool of black ink. Inside, it looked new. Solly pulled away, slow and smooth. I couldn’t hear the engine.

“What the hell
is
this?” I couldn’t help asking him.

“Putz,” he said. “You never heard of the Lincoln Continental?”

“Sure. But …”

“Not
a
Lincoln Continental, Sugar;
the
Lincoln Continental. You know how they have them all with numbers, like the Mark III or the Mark IV, like that?”

“I guess so.”

“This one’s got no number. Know why? Because this is the first of the line. If they had a Mark I, that’s what this would be. Back when this was new, they built cars to last, not like the crap they make today.”

“They were all like this?”