I’d broken another phone, so I wanted to pay cash.
That got his attention. “So I’m guessing, maybe your new phone wouldn’t need a GPS …?”
I threw him an extra twenty for being so considerate. And put a fifty on top of that to get a new number right away. He didn’t act surprised.
It took one of those instaprint joints only a few minutes to make me some new business cards.
Still not enough. I drove over to a Toyota dealer closer to the city but still in Queens. Traded the Mustang in on a used—they called it “pre-owned”—2004 Camry.
That bank manager had been right. The salesman hardly listened to me tell him my kids were too big for car seats now, so the Mustang wouldn’t work. We went back and forth a couple of times, but I wasn’t going to spend the whole day there, and I made sure he’d see that.
“My car’s only got thirteen thousand miles on it,” I told him. “Yours has got almost seventy-five. And it’s three years older, too. I told my wife I was taking the day off, and I’d be driving a different car home tonight. So I’m gonna do that. Started first thing this morning. So far, I’ve been to five dealers. I want a Camry. I’m taking the best offer. So tell me yours. Then I can say yes or no and be done with it.”
“We’ll beat any—”
“Jesus Christ. All you guys say the same thing. Fine. Never mind the ‘check with my manager’ routine, either, okay? You take my Mustang, I take the Camry. I’m not asking you for cash back. Which I should. So—what’s it gonna be?”
The Camry felt solid. I don’t know much about cars, but I knew this beige one I was driving looked like a million other cars on the road.
Sure, I traded the Mustang away, even though I knew Solly could trace it easy enough if he wanted to.
There was still another reason to get rid of the Mustang, a more important one. Say a guy wants to sell you a really top-shelf piece. Only half-price. Looks brand-new, sure. But you never know where that gun’s been. Or what it was used for.
That Mustang had been bought new, while I was still locked up. With thirteen thousand–plus miles on the odometer, it still looked new. But I hadn’t put those miles on myself.
I figured they’d detail the Mustang before they put it out on the lot, so if I duct-taped that GPS’ed phone Solly gave me under the front fender, they’d find it. I had to wait until I could find a better place.
I was just ahead of the outbound traffic by the time all the paperwork was done. I knew it would be smooth sailing to just past the outer edge of Queens, which is where I wanted to go.
First, I stopped at a cemetery. The thing was huge. Almost empty that time of day. I paid my respects to some guy who cashed in thirty years ago. Then I scooped up enough sod to slip Solly’s phone under it, with the ringer turned off.
Soon as I saw the place, I knew it had been what I thought it was when I read the ad: “One bedroom, furnished, immaculate. No smoking, no pets. Quiet neighborhood. Must pass credit check. Rent includes all utilities.”
The woman who answered the door took a little step back when she saw me. I was neat and clean, but I couldn’t do anything about my size and that scar.
“You’re so … big,” the woman said, like she was answering just what I’d been thinking.
“Yes, ma’am. I guess it comes with the territory.”
“Are you some kind of … bouncer or something?”
“Oh no, ma’am. I’m a personal trainer. I also sell fitness equipment. So I’m always in one gym or another, it seems.”
“Well … come in,” she said. Still a little flustered, but calming down quick. I wondered if her husband had a problem with bookies.
After I told her that I never smoked—“How would that look, in my business?”—and I didn’t have a pet, she got right down to it. Eleven hundred a month, plus one month’s rent and one month’s security. “You couldn’t come close to a place for that much in the city.”
The apartment was over the garage. Looked fresh-painted. Press-on fake-wood paneling. The furniture was all cheap stuff, but it looked new. The only reason I bothered to look around is, if you don’t do that, it makes landlords suspicious.