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.”
“That’s true.”
“And I know it’s a buyer’s market now, so you can probably get into a new car really cheap. But you finished paying off your