libraries and cartedout as many books on the subject as he had time to read. He absorbed all the knowledge available, stored it, and shared it with no one. Then, when that knowledge would do him the most good, Jimmy Ryan would figure a way to put it to use.
Ryan planted his first bug when he was twelve.
He was living with a plumber, George Richards, who had a short-fuse temper and a wife with a flirtatious eye. They both drank heavily and often took the frustrations of a night’s drunk out on the boy. The wife, Elaine, began her assaults with an angry voice and ended them with an even louder flurry of slaps, leaving Jimmy with a series of welts and bruises hidden under his shirts and sweaters. Afterward, she scolded him into silence and backed the warnings with hard hits across already reddened flesh.
Jimmy Ryan never uttered a word.
Instead, he laid a wire inside the main bedroom of the Richardses’ two-story stucco house in Peekskill, New York. The wire was wrapped around a wooden board under the queen-size mattress. It connected to a remote mini-recorder taped under a bureau next to the bed. On those tapes, Jimmy listened and learned about the couple he was told to call Mom and Dad.
He heard about their mounting debts and backed-up loans. He laughed as George boasted about customers he double-billed and how Elaine had her doctor file false medical claims in return for half the insurance check. But the best tapes of all, and the ones that would extract the sweetest justice, involved Elaine and her lover, Carl, a real estate attorney who also happened to be her brother-in-law. They shared two passionate afternoons a week, finishing their lovemaking just before Jimmy got home from school. All of it, from moans of pleasure to rants against George, was picked up by Jimmy’s spool of tape.
On the night he was sent away, packed valise in his left hand, Jimmy stood before George and Elaine.
“We’re sorry it didn’t work out,” Elaine told him, already on her third gin and tonic.
Jimmy nodded, checking the inside pocket of his tattered hunting jacket, making sure the dozen tapes were safely tucked away.
“Gonna miss having you here,” George said, holding a longneck bottle of beer.
“I have a gift for you,” Jimmy told George. “To thank you for what you did for me.”
“You kiddin’?” George rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You got me a gift?” He turned to Elaine, hitting her with a scornful gaze, then looked back at Jimmy with a smile.
Jimmy reached into his pocket and took out the set of tapes, neatly wrapped in flowered tissue paper and held together with a ribbon.
“Want me to open it now?” George asked, taking the package and holding it in both hands.
“Maybe you should wait,” Jimmy said, looking over at Elaine. “Until you’re by yourself.”
“Thank you,” George said, nodding his head. “I’ll never forget you doin’ this.”
Jimmy buttoned his coat and picked up his valise. “I know,” he said.
He walked past George and Elaine for the last time, toward the front door, a waiting car, and another set of parents.
• • •
T HE WOMAN IN the red pumps knocked on the door to Room 1211, silver bracelet jangling against her wrist.
“It’s like she’s knockin’ on the front hood of the car,” Calise said. “It’s so damn clear.”
“Narcotics have their guys in place?” Jimmy asked, head down, fingers adjusting a series of sound dials.
“They got four in the next suite,” Fitz said. “And three more in a stairwell down the hall. She gets jammed up, should take less than a minute to get to her.”
“Unless they’re asleep,” Calise said. “Which is always fuckin’ possible with those dimrods.”
The door handle snapped open and a man’s voice warmly greeted the woman. He spoke in a thick Spanish accent.
“She’s in,” Jimmy said, sitting straight up and flipping a red switch on to full volume.
“How long you givin’ her?”
Ryan planted his first bug when he was twelve.
He was living with a plumber, George Richards, who had a short-fuse temper and a wife with a flirtatious eye. They both drank heavily and often took the frustrations of a night’s drunk out on the boy. The wife, Elaine, began her assaults with an angry voice and ended them with an even louder flurry of slaps, leaving Jimmy with a series of welts and bruises hidden under his shirts and sweaters. Afterward, she scolded him into silence and backed the warnings with hard hits across already reddened flesh.
Jimmy Ryan never uttered a word.
Instead, he laid a wire inside the main bedroom of the Richardses’ two-story stucco house in Peekskill, New York. The wire was wrapped around a wooden board under the queen-size mattress. It connected to a remote mini-recorder taped under a bureau next to the bed. On those tapes, Jimmy listened and learned about the couple he was told to call Mom and Dad.
He heard about their mounting debts and backed-up loans. He laughed as George boasted about customers he double-billed and how Elaine had her doctor file false medical claims in return for half the insurance check. But the best tapes of all, and the ones that would extract the sweetest justice, involved Elaine and her lover, Carl, a real estate attorney who also happened to be her brother-in-law. They shared two passionate afternoons a week, finishing their lovemaking just before Jimmy got home from school. All of it, from moans of pleasure to rants against George, was picked up by Jimmy’s spool of tape.
On the night he was sent away, packed valise in his left hand, Jimmy stood before George and Elaine.
“We’re sorry it didn’t work out,” Elaine told him, already on her third gin and tonic.
Jimmy nodded, checking the inside pocket of his tattered hunting jacket, making sure the dozen tapes were safely tucked away.
“Gonna miss having you here,” George said, holding a longneck bottle of beer.
“I have a gift for you,” Jimmy told George. “To thank you for what you did for me.”
“You kiddin’?” George rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You got me a gift?” He turned to Elaine, hitting her with a scornful gaze, then looked back at Jimmy with a smile.
Jimmy reached into his pocket and took out the set of tapes, neatly wrapped in flowered tissue paper and held together with a ribbon.
“Want me to open it now?” George asked, taking the package and holding it in both hands.
“Maybe you should wait,” Jimmy said, looking over at Elaine. “Until you’re by yourself.”
“Thank you,” George said, nodding his head. “I’ll never forget you doin’ this.”
Jimmy buttoned his coat and picked up his valise. “I know,” he said.
He walked past George and Elaine for the last time, toward the front door, a waiting car, and another set of parents.
• • •
T HE WOMAN IN the red pumps knocked on the door to Room 1211, silver bracelet jangling against her wrist.
“It’s like she’s knockin’ on the front hood of the car,” Calise said. “It’s so damn clear.”
“Narcotics have their guys in place?” Jimmy asked, head down, fingers adjusting a series of sound dials.
“They got four in the next suite,” Fitz said. “And three more in a stairwell down the hall. She gets jammed up, should take less than a minute to get to her.”
“Unless they’re asleep,” Calise said. “Which is always fuckin’ possible with those dimrods.”
The door handle snapped open and a man’s voice warmly greeted the woman. He spoke in a thick Spanish accent.
“She’s in,” Jimmy said, sitting straight up and flipping a red switch on to full volume.
“How long you givin’ her?”
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