Andrew Vachss - The Weight

But I made it okay.

The little door was painted in slanted black-and-white stripes. Looked more like a pole than a door, especially being so narrow and all.

The key Solly gave me worked. I stepped inside, closed the door behind me. The stairs didn’t have any lights. I stood there a second, getting my eyes used to the dark. I ran my hands over the key. The little red tube attached to it was metal-it felt cold in my hand. Why would Solly give me-? I twirled the little tube around a couple of times. It felt smooth except for a tiny little part near the far end. I ran my thumbnail around it, slow and careful. That part near the end was notched. I turned it and a little circle of light came out.

I hadn’t ever seen such a tiny flashlight, but it sure threw enough light for me to climb the stairs. This’d be a good thing for a man to carry around , I thought.

Two flights, like Solly said. There wasn’t any door-the whole floor was open space. I played the flash around. The beam was powerful, but real narrow, so it was slow work.

Finally, I found a lamp. At least, I thought it was a lamp-looked like an upside-down cone on a long piece of metal. I couldn’t see how to turn it on, but I found the wire and felt around. There was a big flat thing in the wire. I pushed on it and the light came on. I guessed you were supposed to step on that flat thing to turn on the lamp.

It didn’t throw much light, and all of it was pointed down. But it was enough for me to get a picture of the place.

There wasn’t much up there. Mostly empty space. A thick pad on the floor had a pillow, so I guessed it was supposed to be the bed. One of those refrigerator cubes, looked new. The sink looked like it had come with the building. In a corner, toilet and shower stall.

Kind of like a convict’s dream cell. But I didn’t see a TV or a radio, so I guess it really wasn’t, even with all that space.

I wanted to look around the place some more. I wanted to open the suitcase. Not just to count the money, to see what else Solly put in there.

But it was still too dark. And I was bone-tired. Solly already knows where I am , is what I was thinking.

Besides, if Solly was going to do something to me, it would only be to get the money. And if he wanted the money, he’d already had a dozen chances to take me out.

I know what to do when there’s rules. I just follow them. I guess I was supposed to wait for Solly to call. No. That’s wrong. He said to call him if I wanted to work. No, wait. When I wanted to work, is what he said.

Why would I want to work anytime soon? I had money. It was all in this suitcase, right?

My head hurt from all that. I flopped down on the pad, faceup, one hand on the suitcase. I don’t remember closing my eyes.

When I came around, I could see the whole place. A kind of dirty light came down over everything. I looked up. It was a skylight. One of those old ones, kind of looks like a tent if you’re on the roof. Probably came with the building, and hadn’t been cleaned since.

I used to be good at time. I mean, I could kind of feel what time it was. But the last five years changed that. Bells and sirens. Hacks running their clubs over the bars, like an iron piano that only played one song. Inside, it isn’t light that tells you what time it is. You might never see the sky at night. Or see it at all, depending on how tight they had you locked down.

Same thing for chow: In some parts of the place, they’d bring the food to you, shove it through a slot. Other parts, you had to be outside your cell for the count, then march down to eat. After a while, I couldn’t feel the time anymore.

I looked at my watch. It was the same one I had been wearing when they took me. Cheap plastic thing, with a rubber strap. It had been good for the job I was on-no tick-tick, you could press a little button and it would light up. And it was always on the nose.

But it was blank now. I guess the battery had run dead. The prison’s supposed to give you back whatever you had on you when you checked in. It’d never be that much. Anything like a pistol or a knife, that’d be in some evidence bin. Personal stuff, you could sign and get someone to come and pick it up for you. Nobody in my line of work would ever do that.

But if you’re holding a pile of garbage when they take you down, the prison makes sure to keep it for you. It’s their last chance to remind you where you came from.

My watch was like that. If it had been a Rolex, it would have been lost somewhere along the line.

Lots of guys, they’d never stop bitching about all the jewelry that got taken off them. Gold chains, rings… stuff like that. You’d never know if they even had all that in the first place. You listen to them, you’d think they were all big-time. And if anyone saw you listening, they’d know you weren’t.

The only reason I took the watch, it was mine. I didn’t strap it on, just signed for it. They make you do that. My first night out, I put it on my wrist. Don’t know why I hadn’t just thrown it away.

When I got done with the toilet, I finally opened the suitcase. On top, new stuff, still in the wrapping. Three of everything: briefs, undershirts, pairs of socks. The bills were underneath, in those plastic bags you can seal up just by pushing the top pieces together. Thirty-six of them, all the same-two stacks of hundreds, side by side. Ten K in each one. Three hundred and sixty thou.

A towel, also in plastic. Toothpaste, toothbrush, mouthwash, shampoo. Comb, soap, nail file. Pack of three disposable razors, shaving cream.

Then another towel. Loose cash, mostly twenties. Two cell phones: the prepaid one Solly had told me about, and another one-a real one. Half a dozen envelopes, address and stamps already on them.

There was also a gym bag with a shoulder strap, the kind a serious bodybuilder would carry. I opened it. In one of the inside pockets, a driver’s license with my picture on it. Visa card. Registration for a 2007 Mustang. Insurance, paid through the end of the year. Scotch-taped to the registration was “Home Depot parking lot,” and an address.

Business cards. A bank statement. Stack of checks. An ATM card, with one of those little sticky papers on it. “PIN number,” it said. And a single key, stamped “303.”

I figured the address on the business cards was one of those private-mailbox places, and the phone number would be that second cell.

Stanley Jay Wilson, personal trainer, had a little more than two grand in checking, another eleven in savings.

And three names that could be either first or last ones.

Everything I needed to find a place to live. Plus the message Solly didn’t need to write out: find one quick .

That bank account was in Queens. Forest Hills. I took the subway.

The bank manager was a guy about my age, but nothing fit him right. Too loose, all around. Even the skin on his face.

He tapped keys, looked at a computer screen on his desk. “I hope you’re going to get a good deal this time, Mr. Wilson.”

“Me, too,” I said. I didn’t know what else to say.

“That is, if you’re about to do what I think you’re going to be doing.”

“I just came here to-”

“You were such a steady saver,” he said, like I’d done something to let him down. “Two hundred dollars a week, like clockwork. You had quite a fine balance built up. Money that could have been working for you. I understand how you would need a car for your line of work, especially if you have clients out on the Island.”