Andrew Vachss - The Weight

Some of the shot-callers spent too much time in Ad-Seg. Once they snapped that it was really going to be forever, it drove them nuts. They used those cell phones all the time, texting members outside about who needed to be hit.

If you’re in that guy’s crew, there’s no way out. If you say out loud that he’s having people hit for no reason, you’ll be the next to go. And even if you keep quiet, you could end up on that same list anyway.

Yeah, that was the real difference. Instead of scheming to get out, everyone was scheming how to make their life better right where they were. You can’t even plan an escape without some help. My last time up, the gangs trusted each other a lot more, too. Now being crewed up didn’t mean you were safe. Not even from your own guys.

Outside, I never went near dope. In my line of work, nobody trusts a junkie. You get a rep for that, you’re done.

For sex fiends, it’s even worse. A junkie might kick his habit. An alkie might get off the booze. But no sex fiend ever gets off his train. Everybody knows that. Except maybe the people who run those bullshit “programs.”

Or maybe they do know. It’s a pretty good hustle. The State pays you to do something that can’t be done, so you don’t get blamed when one of them goes right back to doing what he likes to do after he’s been cut loose.

There’s another part about that “treatment” thing-it probably makes them harder to catch the next time. Those slimy fucks may call it “group,” but all they’re doing is passing around trade secrets. How this one slipped up with something on his computer, or this one took pictures with his phone and never deleted them. I guess you go through enough of those programs, you learn a bunch of new tricks.

So, yeah, probably it does look like the treatment works. I mean, how are they going to “relapse”-that’s what they call it, when a sex sicko gets caught the next time, “relapse”-when they spend years learning how not to get caught the next time?

What I did was: watch a lot of TV, read some books, work out every damn day. I even answered some of “Marcy’s” letters, just to make sure Solly knew I was holding tight.

When I wrote Marcy that we’d pick up right where we left off, Solly’d understand that meant I’d be looking for my money.

Before I knew it, I’d already done the minimum.

The two weasels they sent up to decide what they’d “recommend” to the whole Board came with pages of reasons to deny me. I gave them a couple more. The man asked me, “Have you attempted to make any sort of restitution to your victim?”

“I don’t have a victim,” I told him.

“You’re saying you’re innocent.”

“Bring in a polygraph, you’ll see it for yourself.”

“It’s common knowledge that sociopaths are immune to polygraph examinations,” the woman said. “A polygraph doesn’t detect lies, it measures consciousness of guilt. And it’s clear from your record that you qualify.”

“Qualify as what?”

“A sociopath,” she said, real fussy-like. “You exhibit a pervasive pattern of conduct which-”

“Sure. I get it. Look, you’re not going to stamp my ticket no matter what, so just call it off, okay? I’m missing a show I always watch.”

“What show is that?” the woman asked, like she really was curious.

“This whole place,” I told her.

People on the other side of the law from me, I never tell them the truth. By now, it’s more than just a habit; it’s who I am. So, even when I did what they wanted me to do, I kept it to myself.

Like how they were always saying I should be “reflecting” on my crime. I actually did that.

I spent a lot of time thinking about the crime.

A lot of time hating.

Not the girl. It wasn’t her fault I was in there. If she picked me, she must have believed I was the guy who did it. Or else she got pressured into it. That happens, too.

I didn’t hate her-I hated the rapist. He fucked us both , I thought to myself. But I felt dirty just thinking of it like that, so I changed it. He hurt us both. That was better.

I’m not a killer by nature, the way some guys are. I don’t go looking for it; I don’t get a kick out of it, nothing like that. But, for this guy, I’d make an exception. I’d really like killing him. Specially if I could tell him why first.

It’d be extra great if the girl he raped got to watch.

I thought about that all the time. I even dreamed about the guy who did it. But I could never see his face.

I didn’t think the girl had seen it, either. But maybe she knew something . Something the cops never connected to anything. Or even asked her about.

What I couldn’t figure out was, how was I going to ask her?

The one good thing about maxing out is you’re off paper the minute they close the gate behind you.

After that, they don’t give a fuck. Why should they? Some cons are psycho mad dogs who’d tear a hole in your throat with their teeth for looking at them wrong. But the ones the guards in Ad-Seg really hated were the gassers-the ones who were so mental that they’d save up their own shit just so they could throw it at anyone passing by.

Too dangerous to be in Population, but they’re fine for the street. Like doing time cures people or something.

You just walk through the gate, get on the bus. They’ve got one going downstate every day. Costs more than a plane ride, but they can charge whatever they want-there’s no competition. Like with the collect calls. You can only call collect if the person you’re calling agrees to accept it… and that means they pay through the nose for every minute. The phone company splits the take with the prison. They got guys in here for working that same kind of racket on the street.

I’d X’ed out my old apartment the minute they’d clamped the cuffs on. I wouldn’t ask anyone to go back there for me; anything of mine was long gone by now. The super wouldn’t know nothing. The landlord was some company name. And the cops weren’t running a storage facility.

I didn’t have much in there, anyway.

They’d vouchered what I had on me when I was picked up. Only the three grand and change got turned into six C-notes.

I wondered what they’d done with the pistol, but I wasn’t worried about trace evidence on any of my clothes. After the job, we’d all gone back to this place Solly had rented. Left every stitch of clothes in these plastic bags he’d left behind. Took a good, long hot shower. Rubbed ourselves down with alcohol. Nails, hair, everything.

Then we each put on the stuff we’d been wearing when we first met up there.

“A good thief takes money, not chances,” Solly said. He was always saying it.

He believed it, too. Solly never went along on any job he put together.

I had a phone number for him. I knew it was just a pay phone, someplace in Manhattan. Indoors, so nobody could try and set up shop with it.

But first I had things to do.

I had almost seven hundred left over-what I had on the books and my gate money. Not enough. I wasn’t going anywhere near my share until I was carrying more than high hopes.