Me? I don’t do drugs at all. I don’t drink anymore, either. Gave up that and smoking a long time ago, too. Not because I didn’t enjoy those things, and not because they were “bad” for me. It’s because they were getting in the way of doing my job. I need all my senses sharp. I need to be at my best at all times. My mind has to be clear, my body ready to do anything I ask it to do. You get messed up with that kind of shit and it affects your performance.
My girls let me use the cars whenever I need them. If there’s trouble and I have to dump the car, I just tell them to report it stolen. I’ll clean it up, make sure there are no fingerprints or anything else can lead back to me, then I leave it someplace where it won’t be found right away. Once, I even got a little creative and torched one of them. Hell, let some damn insurance company pony up the dough to replace it.
I have false identities, plenty of them, and I use them if I have to. But I don’t like to go to that well too often because the cops, the smarter ones, eventually pick up on that and the identities become worthless. They can also make up a trail easier to follow than if you use your own name. To make them work for you, you’re best having dozens of them. And who wants to keep up with that? But I have to admit I do like coming up with aliases. Ricky Miranda. Saul Goodman. Tony Leonetti. Philip Armstrong. Paul Nowicki, Kenny Walsh, Mikey Leiman. Those are some of them. I like to hit as many different ethnic groups as I can. Sometimes I just use a variation of my name, sometimes by giving myself a middle initial. And I like playing around with different poses for the driver’s licenses. But one thing I don’t fool around with is fake passports. First off, that’s getting tougher and tougher to pull off because of 9/11 and Homeland Security. You don’t want to fuck with those dudes. Besides, because I’ve done time I’m pretty sure I’m on some kind of fucking “can’t leave the country” list.
I’m not a big fan of disguises, which isn’t to say I haven’t used a few over the years. But if I do, they’re usually simple. Sunglasses. A moustache. A beard. A hat. The simpler, the better. You’d be amazed at how one little thing, if it’s prominent enough, can change your appearance enough so no one can recognize you without it. The human brain is fallible. It can be played with. Magicians know that. Houdini knew it better than anyone. Today, Penn and Teller and that Copperfield asshole who made the Statue of Liberty disappear know it. Thieves know it too, at least the good ones do. Now you see it, now you don’t. Something as simple as a moustache, beard, sunglasses, or hat can draw a potential witness’s attention enough so that’s all they see. The more they see, the less they really see.
Bottom line: I’m not a slug. I don’t leave a trail, paper or otherwise. My footprint is nonexistent.
I left Miami Thursday, May 14th. Coincidentally, it was my old man’s birthday. The son-of-a-bitch croaked nearly fifteen years ago, but the bastard is seared into my head and May 14th doesn’t come without me thinking about him. He’s the demon that keeps on giving.
Birthdays were never a big deal around our house anyway. The old man said parties were for girls, not that he ever threw one for my sister, either.
I once asked my mother why I never got a birthday party and she said, “Francis, your birthday is in August. All your friends were away in August. That’s why we didn’t throw you a party. But don’t you remember that party we gave you when you were three years old?”
“Yeah, sure, Ma, I can remember everything that ever happened to me. You know, I’m one of those genius savants that can remember stuff all the way back to the womb.”
“Don’t you remember? You had a wonderful time. You had a party hat and you had one of those blowing noisemaker things and you had a cake and you even tried to blow out the candles.” She laughed. “I had to help you because you couldn’t reach the candle on the other end of the cake. Don’t you remember that?”
“You got any pictures, Ma?”
“I don’t think we had a camera back then, Francis. But I wouldn’t lie to you.”
Yeah, right. She wouldn’t lie to me. That’s a laugh. Like no one ever lies to a kid.
I travel light. Minimal amount of clothing and I never carry my work tools with me. When I get where I’m going I buy a whole new wardrobe and anything else I need. I don’t boost any of it. I’m a thief but I’m no two-bit, petty crook.
The trip north takes around twenty-eight hours. I ride the bus till I get bored. Then I hop off and find a motel for the night. The next day, same thing till I get where I’m headed. But I got no schedule. I got no one to answer to except me.
My bus left from Collins Avenue at 6:59 a.m. The route goes up through Florida, Georgia, South Carolina, North Carolina, Virginia, Washington, D.C., Maryland, New Jersey, and into the city. I read. I sleep. I listen to music. Maybe I strike up a conversation with the passenger next to me. When they ask me what I do for a living I make shit up. That’s the fun part. Let’s face it, I’m a damn good liar. Why shouldn’t I be? I’ve had plenty of practice.
Charlie Floyd
I live around fifty miles outside Hartford in a little town called Sedgwick. It’s what some people might call “picaresque.” So picaresque it even has a town square. It also has a history, as do most small towns in New England. There was even one of those Revolutionary War battles close by. I chose it because it’s near the water and because it wasn’t Hartford, where I was based. There’s probably more crime in Hartford than any other place in Connecticut, except maybe for New Haven, only a lot of it is the kind of crime for which we don’t keep statistics. It’s the kind of crime where your pockets are picked and you’re nowhere near the scene of the crime. That’s because Hartford, as the state capitol, is where the politicians are.
Driving up I-91 then CT-77S, depending on traffic, it can take anywhere from an hour to an hour and a half to get from Sedgwick to Hartford. One of the benefits of retirement is I can choose my time of departure, meaning I don’t have to fight commuter traffic.
I was used to breezing straight through security, into the building where I had my office. Everyone knew me so I never even had to flash my ID or badge. But now that I’m just an ordinary citizen and it’s been a year since I retired, the gatekeepers have changed. That means whenever I go back there, and it isn’t often—usually just to drop by and chew the fat with old friends—I’m not special anymore. That means I have to go through the same rigmarole as everyone else. What hasn’t changed is my ability to talk myself into (and out of) just about anything.
I didn’t take it personally that the guard eyed me suspiciously. Maybe it was the cowboy boots. Or the Stetson. Whatever it was I’ve learned long ago not to take anything personally.
I explained who I was to the bored guard at the security station. I knew what he was thinking. He was counting the days to retirement. Been there, done that. I showed him my old ID, explained why I was carrying, and he waved me through the metal detector.
Instead of going to my old office I headed straight to the attorney general’s office. I was looking for George Facinelli or, as we used to call him fondly, Georgie Porgie. He didn’t seem to mind. In fact, I believe he kind of liked it. I was the one who gave him that name when I spotted him in the diner across the street digging into a big bowl of chocolate pudding. Sure enough, Georgie likes his pudding and pie. I also liked to refer to him as the oldest living assistant attorney general because he’s held that position nearly twenty years through three different administrations. Georgie is a low-key, under-the-radar kind of guy, but he knows exactly where all the bodies are buried. You want to really know what’s going on in the AG’s office you talk to Georgie. That doesn’t mean Georgie’ll talk to you, though. He’s discreet, which is why he’s lasted so long on the job.
“What the hell are you doing here, Floyd?” he asked when he spotted me strolling toward his desk. His jacket was hanging on the back of his chair. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, the top two buttons were open, and his tie was loosened. His hair, or what he had left of it, which should be gray like th
e rest of us who work in this business, was dyed a weird shade of reddish brown. Somehow it looked okay on Georgie. When he stood up I noticed his belly had grown substantially in the year since I’d last seen him.
“Come here, Charlie. I’m gonna give you a great big hug, whether you like it or not.”
He did. And you know something, it felt good, so I hugged him back, not because I wanted something from him but because I actually missed the fat man. Or maybe it was the office I missed. Or the job. Well, it was something I missed, so let’s just leave it at that.
Georgie’s hug lingered well after he completed his embrace. Something else lingered. It was this sweet smell around his desk. Was it cinnamon?
“I’ve missed you, Porgie. I was in the ’hood so I figured I’d stop by and say hello.”
“And feed me a line of bullshit?”
“That, too.”
“As I recall you were pretty good at that.”
“My specialty. What’s that smell?”
He looked blank for a moment. “Oh, that. It’s cinnamon.”
“I thought so. What’s that all about?”
He leaned in close. “I read somewhere women respond to the scent of cinnamon. It’s supposed to drive them crazy. So, I went out and found this cinnamon spray and I’ve sprayed myself and the area around my desk for the past couple days.”
“Does it work?”
He frowned. “Not yet. But I’m gonna give it some time. I’m kinda getting used to it, though I have to admit I’ve developed a constant urge for toast.”
He looked at his watch.
“Almost time for lunch, Charlie.”
“Always time for lunch, Porgie. I’m buying.”
“Somehow I’m sure I’ll wind up paying for it.”
“You know me too well.”
We wound up at Dino’s, the diner across the street from the office. When the waitress, Greta, spotted Georgie and me, she broke into a wide grin. “Well, as I live and breathe, Charlie Floyd is back in town. Must mean the rodeo ain’t far behind.”
“Slumming,” I said.
“You’re in the right place for it. I just happen to have your old table available.”
“I guess all those years of over-tipping is finally paying off,” I said.
“Funny, that’s not the way I remember it. Let’s see how you do now that you’re retired, Mr. Big Spender. How come you’re not down in Florida at one of them century cities, with the rest of the old folks?”
“They wouldn’t let me in. Said I was a menace to society.
She laughed. So did Georgie.
She led us to a table at the back of the diner. It was where she used to stash us back in the day. It wouldn’t be quiet once the lunch rush arrived but it was now, since we were the only ones seated back there.
“You boys need menus?”
“Unless you’ve changed anything in the last year, Greta, I think we’re good.”
“I’d tell you boys about today’s specials only we haven’t got any.”
“Everything’s special at Dino’s,” said Georgie.
“Aren’t you the sweet talker?” said Greta, squeezing his arm.
I ordered the turkey club. Georgie the shish kabob or as he preferred to call it, “chicken on a stick.”
“So, what brings you to Dante’s third circle in Hell, Charlie? I thought once you retired we’d never see you again.”
“No such luck. I’m here on a…” I didn’t know quite what to call it so the word that came out of my mouth was “case.”
“You out on your own now?”
“I suppose I am. Ever hear of a dude named Francis Hoyt?”
“Are you kidding? Everyone around here knows him.”
“I didn’t.”
“Let me amend that. Anyone who had anything to do with burglary and robbery knows him. I guess that was a little below your pay grade. Francis Hoyt, man, he’s a fucking legend around these parts.”
“How come if everyone knows who the fuck he is and what the fuck he does he’s still running around free as a bird?”
Georgie smiled. “Because he’s fucking Francis Hoyt, that’s why. He’s the crème de la crème. Why you interested in him?”
“I’ve been asked by someone to help find Hoyt and put him where he belongs.”
“Who?”
“I can’t say.” I don’t know why I said that. Manny hadn’t asked me to keep his part in this under wraps, but I didn’t think it was a good idea to broadcast his involvement.
Georgie leaned forward. “Charlie, this is Georgie Porgie you’re talking to. Anything you tell me stays right here.” He tapped the side of his head. “I’m a vault. Plenty of arrivals, no departures.”
“I’m sorry, Georgie. I just…”
He threw his hands up. “Say no more. I understand. What are you, a private investigator now?”
I hated private dicks when I was working for the state. They just got in the way. And there was something, I don’t know, disreputable about them. But I guess sometimes we become the thing we hate most. Maybe this was one of those times.
“This is totally unofficial, Georgie. I’ve got no professional standing now.”
Georgie winked and put a forefinger to his lips. “So, how can I help?”
“I’ve got good reason to believe that if Hoyt isn’t already here he’s certainly headed this way. I need to find people who know him. His fence. His girlfriends. Anyone he works with.”
“As I recall, he works alone.”
“That’s what I hear. But he’s got to be in contact with other people. He’s a thief, not a ghost.”
“You know that story about that Jersey thing, right?”
“I do.”
“Pretty ghost-like, if you ask me.”
“Has he been active around here the last couple years?”
Georgie laughed. “He’s active wherever there’s money, especially old money. New York, Connecticut, New Jersey, and Massachusetts, especially the Cape and the Vineyard. Hell, pretty much the entire Northeast coast, although I’ve heard stories about some Midwest break-ins that have his stamp on them. Trouble is, you never know where he’s going to hit and when. He hops around like a friggin’ kangaroo. But I’m no expert, Charlie. I just know what I hear.”
“Know anyone who is?”
“There’s a cop in Jersey who’s had a number of run-ins with him. I can track down his info. And I’ll dig around and see what else I can come up with.”
“I’d appreciate it, Georgie.”
He grinned. “It’s getting to you, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“Retirement. You’re not the type to sit home clipping coupons. This is good for you, man. It puts you back in the game. And if I can do anything I to make that happen I will.”
“Thanks, Georgie. I’ve gotta admit I was getting a little worried about all that free time on my hands. And let me tell you something. It isn’t free. There’s a price you pay in your soul for that so-called free time.”
“You don’t have to thank me. And you know, we really do miss you around here. You could always change your mind.”
“No, I can’t. I burned that bridge and there’s no going back. Maybe this is my second act. But I really do appreciate you’re getting that information for me.”
I wasn’t shining him on. I appreciated it so much that when it came time for dessert, I made Georgie order a big bowl of chocolate pudding and I even threw in a slice of pie for him to take back to the office.
Manny Perez
I am and always have been intoxicated by the aroma of libraries. They offer up the same sweet fragrance no matter where you go. It is the aphrodisiacal aroma of books, of words, of thoughts. As a child back in Havana, I found refuge there. My parents always knew where to find me after school or on a weekend. Never on the streets, playing with the other children, but rather wandering through the stacks, seeking out interesting books to read, books that would take me far away, to other places, ot
her worlds. When I found the right one I would take it and sit in a quiet corner of the library where I would devour it. Often, I would lose track of time and my mother would have to send one of my sisters to find me. It was an easy task. They always knew precisely where I could be found.
Most of the books were, of course, in Spanish, but occasionally I would find an alluring book in English and I would sit in a corner thumbing through the pages, delighting in the sound of foreign words that elicited images of America, the America I sometimes saw in the old black and white movies, the America of my imagination. I had never visited the forbidden land, only ninety miles to the north. It was the land of our enemy, we were taught in school. Our heroes were Fidel and Che and Raoul and Lenin. But at home that was not the case. America was the Promised Land, a land where dreams came true, a land where you could be anyone you wanted to be, do anything you wanted to do. We were, in my family, capitalists trapped on an island of socialism. We dreamed of democracy. We dreamed of freedom.
My father visited the United States once. He was the guest of a person I now know to be an American gangster. How my father came to know a man such as that is simple. He worked as a waiter, then desk clerk, then night manager at the grand Hotel Nacional de Cuba. There, in the late 1940s and 1950s, he met and served men and women like George Raft, Betty Grable, Rita Hayworth, Ernest Hemingway, the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, Cesar Romero, Gary Cooper, Fred Astaire, Tyrone Power, Lucky Luciano, and Meyer Lansky, whose photograph, I am told, still graces the bar at the hotel. Those were the days when Cuba was the stopping off point for all the cruise ships from the United States. It was a romantic time, a free-wheeling time when Cuba was the playground for Hollywood celebrities and high-level members of the mob.
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