I told those assholes over and over again not to bring weapons. What was I supposed to do, fucking frisk them when we met up? If I’d known they were packing they never would have got out the fucking door. There’s a reason I have a strict no weapons policy. Someone once said, if you show a gun in the first act it has to go off in the second act. And if you pack heat, chances are eventually you’re going to use it. Or someone else will. That’s what happened. And I was the one who wound up paying the price.
There’s a time and a place for violence, but not in someone else’s home. Not when it can blow back on me like it did.
That wasn’t going to happen again. From now on, no more fucking partners, and no fucking weapons. Armed robbery isn’t my thing. I’ll leave that to the brainless, no-neck punks who don’t know any better.
I put hours and hours into my craft. I research my targets. I know more about them, what they do, and how they live have than they do. I know the layout of the house. I know where they keep their valuables. I spend hours and hours casing the house before a heist. I know who lives in the house. I know who goes in and who goes out of the house. I know when they go in and when they go out. I’m no low-life, degenerate, small-time, drug-addicted crook.
After I got out of the joint, I realized I had to limit the possibility of any contact with my victims. That meant no more dinnertime robberies. No more climbing up the side of a house to gain access to the second floor. I would miss that part, the athleticism of it, but I still had to keep in shape. I’m over forty now and, like any athlete, my prime is in the rearview mirror. But the truth is, and I ain’t bragging, I’m in better shape now than I was at twenty-five. That coupled with experience made me a very effective thief.
When I was a kid I read a book about the great Houdini. “Now you see it, now you don’t.” And what you see isn’t always what’s there. I saw a lot of myself in him. He was the best at what he did. No one could touch him, no one could figure out how he did what he did. He was always in fucking A-plus shape, right up till the time he died from that sucker punch in the gut. Houdini is my idol, and like with all idols, my goal is to learn from him and surpass him. He let his guard down and that’s what did him in. That ain’t gonna happen to me.
I would strike in the dead of night, when everyone was asleep. I would never venture up to the second floor again. That meant I had to forget about jewelry. Instead, I had to find something valuable that was kept downstairs, something I would have easy access to, something that was left out in the open.
The answer was simple: silver. It was easy to spot and easy to move. I could either have it melted down and got the value of the silver, or even better, if it was antique silver with a pedigree, I could peddle it outside the country for big bucks. I’d still need a fence, but with better merchandise I could demand a better split.
I spent days researching silver. Once I was finished I knew everything there was to know about this precious metal. I was an expert at telling the good shit from the plated. I knew which pieces had value beyond the silver content and with them I would be stealing history. The first time I got a Paul Revere piece in my hands I felt an honest-to-God electrical jolt.
And by the time I finished teaching myself all I needed to know, I was ready to begin a new life.
I was a born-again thief.
Charlie Floyd
My mom used to say, “Man proposes, God disposes,” which was just her way of saying you can make plans all you want, but they usually mean shit, so you’d better be prepared to think on your feet and go with your instincts, so there’s always the risk of failure.
A man who is afraid to fail is a man who never succeeds. That’s not my mom, it’s me.
I hate to fail. It doesn’t happen often but when it does you don’t want to be around me. I snap at people. I throw things. Sometimes I go to a dark place, a very dark place in my head. But I’ve learned to stay on top of it and on those rare occasions when I do fail it only spurs me to try harder. I failed plenty when I was working in law enforcement, especially in the beginning when I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. But failure and learning from that failure only made me a better investigator.
Always give yourself options. Figure out all the possible scenarios, then choose the most likely and start there. If that doesn’t pan out, move on to the next option. It’s not rocket science, just good, old-fashioned, tedious, often boring, police work.
I grabbed a legal-size yellow pad and wrote while Manny and I chucked ideas against the wall to see what stuck. We wound up with several options and scenarios. We were confident one of them, or maybe a combination, would wind up in us putting Francis Hoyt where he belonged.
By the time we’d finished, we had a pretty comprehensive list along with a tentative division of labor. In the beginning, we would work on our own. But as we got closer to the target we’d team up. Two separate lines eventually intersecting and becoming one headed in the same direction.
First, I would check with my sources in the state attorney general’s office. I still had a few friends over there. Not many, but a few. And maybe they weren’t exactly friends, but they were still talking to me. It’s not that I was gone long enough for there to be a lot of turnover. More like I wasn’t exactly a favorite son over there. I guess I’m an acquired taste that wasn’t acquired by too many people. I stepped on toes. I pissed people off. I drove some of them crazy. I was a loose cannon who refused to do things according to procedure. Did I sometimes cross the line? Sure. But I got results. The way I figured, proper procedure was what I made it. Sometimes, I’m sure I came off as an arrogant son-of-a-bitch. That’s probably because at times that’s what I was. Did it bother me? Not really. I knew I was good at what I did so why shouldn’t everyone else? But I thought that because I was good at what I did. Make that very good. But I’m not one of those full-of-himself, douchebag megalomaniacs. There were some things I was piss poor at. Not a lot. But a few. Like paperwork. Like working as part of a team. Like bowing to my superiors. Probably because I didn’t think there was anyone superior to me. But the proof was in the pudding. I was an ace at nailing people who deserved to be nailed. I worked harder than everyone else. I gave a shit. Sometimes, that’s all it takes and you’d be surprised at how many people don’t.
To begin with, my job was to obtain as much information as I could on Hoyt’s activities in this neck of the woods. Hoyt had worked the area previously, so he had roots here, as well as in New York, New Jersey, and Massachusetts. This meant there was a file on him in all these states. I’d look for anyone who’d worked his cases. Manny claimed that if he wanted access to that kind of information he’d have to go through all kinds of bureaucratic red tape and he didn’t want to waste the time or the effort. I couldn’t blame him. That’s the part of the job I hated. The red tape. The petty bullshit. Lazy, frightened people protecting their asses. State authorities don’t always cooperate with each other. Jealousy and spite can rear its ugly head. That’s where I came in. Manny was sure I could get the kind of cooperation he couldn’t. At least in Connecticut. He was probably right. I knew the right buttons to push and I wasn’t afraid to push them.
While I worked my sources, Manny would head down to the city to see what he could sniff out. We knew Hoyt doesn’t work in a haphazard way. He chooses his targets very carefully, which means hours of research. Manny, who was far more used to this coming from the world of academia, would check out the libraries, where Hoyt was likely to go to find information about the richest families in the area. According to Manny he used sources like Who’s Who and architectural magazines, as well as periodicals like House and Garden, People, and Entertainment Weekly. Anything that ran information about the lifestyles of the rich and famous. These are the kinds of people I’ve dealt with people my whole life. The privileged and the entitled. They’re vain and they’re stupid and most of them, especially the ones with “new” money, like to flaunt their wealth and status. I have a hard time feeling sorry for them w
hen they get robbed, unlike the poor, working slob who’s living from paycheck to paycheck. Violent crimes against them piss me off, but I can’t get all hot and bothered about these rich people who advertise their wealth and are shocked when someone wants to take it from them. Still, they’re victims of crimes and they deserve to be protected and the people who commit these crimes, people like Hoyt, aren’t heroes. They’re just a little smarter than your average hit ’em over the head or shoot ’em stick-up artists. But that doesn’t mean they get a free pass from me, and certainly not from Manny.
“Why wouldn’t he use libraries in the towns he’s planning to hit?” I asked.
“Because, my good friend, Francis Hoyt is smarter than that. He would more likely use libraries far from the areas he plans to work. Somewhere he would be anonymous and could blend in with the crowd.”
“New York City.”
“Yes, New York City,” Manny echoed with a big, fat Cuban smile on his face. “But he will never steal from apartments, only houses. That is why he has never been active in New York City, though he spends a lot of time there. New York City is where we will find people who know him.”
“Women?”
Manny nodded.
“Over the years, he has had many girlfriends. He wines them and he dines them then he leaves them. But only after he has made sure they are loyal to him. I have found several over the years, but none of them will speak of him. Most will not even admit that they knew him. We will try to find the ones he has up here and perhaps, between the two of us, we can persuade them to help us.”
He winked.
After we’d filled five legal size sheets with notes, I made a copy for each of us, plus one more for a file I started, then I drove Manny to the train station.
“Do you think perhaps I should rent my own vehicle, Charlie Floyd?” he asked as we pulled into the parking area.
“Not necessary, Manny. I don’t mind chauffeuring you around.”
He flashed a smile. “I have never had a chauffeur before. But I like the sound of it. Something tells me we are going to work very well together.”
“You think?”
“Yes, I do think.”
“I should have asked this before, but do you have any solid evidence Hoyt is actually up here yet?”
He shook his head. “Nothing solid. But he is either here or he is on his way. Of that, we can be sure. We are all creatures of habit, Charlie Floyd, even Francis Hoyt. He is either here or on his way here. I feel it in my bones. Even the unpredictable are predictable in their unpredictability.”
“Careful, Manny, you’re coming dangerously close to confusing the hell out of me. I have to tell you, I’m not all that good with abstract thinking. Nearly flunked philosophy in college. And don’t ask me why I even bothered.”
He laughed. “Even my wife says that sometimes she does not understand me, even when I am speaking English.”
“A common problem among married couples. My wife didn’t understand me, either. That’s probably why she’s not my wife anymore.”
“There is no danger of that happening to me. I love Esther and she loves me in return.”
“Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t saying there was. I’m sure you’re very happily married and you’re going to stay that way. Sometimes it’s best if there isn’t too much understanding between men and women, if you know what I mean.”
He nodded solemnly. “I am afraid I do.”
I pulled up in front of the station and Manny hopped out. He had a briefcase with him in which I assumed he had all kinds of information about Hoyt, including photographs he’d probably show around. He also had a list of likely libraries Hoyt might visit to do his research. The Mid-Manhattan Branch at 41st and Fifth Avenue, and the Main Branch across the street were on the list, as was the 68th Street Branch off First Avenue, and the Society Library on 79th Street, off Madison Avenue. I doubted Manny would get to all of them in one day. But there was no hurry. For the next five months at least, according to Manny, Hoyt would be up north.
“Give me a call and let me know what train you’re making back and I’ll pick you up.”
“There is no need for that, Charlie Floyd.”
“You’re my guest. We’re in this thing together now. It’s like we’re an old married couple.”
He grinned, flashing those pearly whites.
“You mean I will have to call if I cannot make it home for dinner.”
Manny made a joke. The first one I remember him making. So, I laughed. “Exactly.”
“I can stay at a hotel. I do not want to impose on your privacy.”
“I’ve got more than enough room. You’re staying with me. End of discussion.”
He smiled. “Thank you.”
“One more thing before you go.”
“Of course.”
“When we find him, and we will, who’s going to be good cop and who’s going to be bad cop?”
“With Francis Hoyt, we will both have to be bad.”
Francis Hoyt
Time to head north. Following the pigeons, I like to call it.
But this time there was another reason to get out of town. A cop. Some dumb-ass Miami cop named Perez. He got a bug up his ass for me. Who knows why? He almost got me last week only I was too quick for him. Still, he got his hands on me and I could see it in his face. He knew exactly who I was and what I do. And he had one big, fat hard-on for me.
I don’t need that shit. I finally got my dough from Artie, so it was time to saddle up and get out of Dodge.
I’ve got a soft spot in my heart for trains and buses. Sure, planes get you there faster but when you fly you leave a big, fat paper trail. What with the fucking Muslims and their 9/11 bullshit, Homeland Security is all over everyone’s ass, so you can’t just buy a ticket and pay for it in cash. Or else, red lights go off and bells ring. You’ve got to use a credit card. Breadcrumb. The ticket has your name on it. Breadcrumb. It has when you left, when you’ll arrive and where you land. More breadcrumbs. Jesus, you might as well provide the cops with your fuckin’ itinerary.
I could drive but I don’t own a car. Never have. Not even as a teenager. My old man wouldn’t let me near his wreck, a 1979 Chevy pickup. What he thought I’d do to that old heap that hadn’t already been done to it beats the hell out of me. He was a mean sonuvabitch and he loved denying me things. You think that’s the reason I take things without asking? Maybe. Who the hell cares? I do what I do and let some asshole shrink try to figure out why.
My old man got a kick out of saying no. When I was a kid, I cried and I cried even harder when I saw that big, stupid smile on his face when I wanted something and he said no, I couldn’t have it. It didn’t matter what it is, the answer was no. Even before I got the words out of my mouth, I knew what the answer would be. And he’d laugh at me. Like it was some kind of big joke.
When I got older I got revenge.
“I’m not letting you near that fucking truck,” he said whenever I asked to use it, in that deep voice of his, loud enough so you could hear him halfway down the block. He’d even say it twice, in case I didn’t get the point.
I got the last laugh, though. Stole his keys after he came home drunk as a skunk one night. Soon as he hit the couch, I grabbed those keys, took the car, and ran it into a fucking ditch. On purpose. I brought the keys home, put ’em back on his dresser where he always kept them, and he never knew the fucking difference. You should have seen the look on his face when he went out the next day to drive it to work and it wasn’t there. “Who the fuck stole my truck,” he yelled. This time it was me who was laughing.
Cops didn’t find it till the next day. Cost him almost a grand to put it back together. My old man got even meaner for the next few days, but it was worth it, man. He never did find out I was the one who stole it and ran it into that ditch. But you better believe if I’d been at his deathbed just before he was ready to croak I would have told him just to see the goddamn look on his goddamn face.
; Owning a car means paying for insurance. Another breadcrumb. They break down, you gotta fix ’em. That’s a responsibility I don’t want or need. Another breadcrumb. I don’t rent cars, neither. You need a credit card for that and they take down your driver’s license info.
That doesn’t mean I don’t have access to motor vehicles. I do. They’re just not mine, at least on paper they’re not. I have one of my girlfriends buy them, with my dough, of course, and they’re registered in their name.
Women. I can get them to do almost anything. Okay, call them girlfriends if you want. That’s what they’d like to think. And listen, that’s how I treat them. Good. Real good. Like girlfriends should be treated. I’ve never had any complaints in that department. At least they haven’t complained to me. Maybe that’s ’cause they know if they did they’d be put back out on the street, where I found them. Let’s face it, they’re pretty much disposable. I mean, it’s not like I’m gonna settle down with any of them. They are a means to an end. None of them knows about the other, none of them live in the same city. I make sure of that. I try not to have more than two at a time. Too confusing. Besides, women are trouble and more than one woman doesn’t mean double trouble it means four times as much trouble. I know this makes it sound like I’m an asshole, like I hate women, but you know what, I wouldn’t argue with you there.
I don’t buy cheap crap or used cars. Brand-fucking-new cars, that’s all I buy. Evie’s even got one of those new hybrids. That’s what she wanted so that’s what she got. I believe in quality. You buy shit it turns to shit. Cars aren’t the only thing I give them. Clothing, jewelry, we eat at the best restaurants, and, oh yeah, maybe the most important thing, drugs. They are dependent on me for many things, but good drugs may be the most important. I know, that makes me even more of an asshole, but the truth is who’s getting hurt? It’s not like I stick needles in their arms. Some guys buy their women drinks, I prefer to supply them with the kinds of drugs that give them a buzz, make them happy. They’re happy, I’m happy. Yeah, sure, it’s a way of controlling them. I don’t deny that. And it’s not my fault if sometimes it goes beyond recreation. Don’t put that shit on me. It’s not like I’m the one who got them hooked. That’s on them. You gotta have self-control if you’re going to get anywhere in life and if they don’t have it, well it’s too fucking bad. They’re recreational drugs. None of the real dangerous, hard shit like meth or crack or maybe worst of all, horse. Do I really want to hang out with some strung-out junkie with holes up and down her arms?
Second Story Man Page 4