“They’re the fuckups.”
“No, but you know what? What I would say, Sally, is we’re okay. You know what? Money don’t mean a fucking thing. I’ll say it to all of them. ’Cause with all the money in the world, you can’t spend it.”
Sal: “I know that.”
“All right,” Ralphie concluded, “so consider ourselves lucky. Does that make sense?”
“Of course,” Sal said, happy to believe he was free and clear. Sal, who still had to go to work at the Trade Center every day as if nothing had happened, said the Port Authority police were concentrating on a Brinks employee they believed was in on the robbery, which was wrong and that made Sal happy. He was even more delighted that after the robbery, the Port Authority was forced to change its security. Now all employees had to get new IDs that were checked under an ultraviolet light. Sal called it “an ultra light.”
“There’s things, there’s ribbons in there,” he said.
“No shit,” Ralph said.
“It’s wild to see how you fucked up everything and made them change their whole system,” Sal said.
Ralphie: “It’s supposed to be the most secure building in the whole world.”
Sal: “Well, how do you say it? After the cow got out of the kennel? Some shit like that.”
The resurgence of self-confidence inspired Ralphie and Sal to get back in their old scheming mode, to come up with a list of scams to commit now that they weren’t going to jail for stealing piles of foreign currency they couldn’t spend. This was normal. People like Ralphie—who wouldn’t be caught dead working an honest day in his life—spent hours dreaming up scams. Anything could inspire them. A conversation in the subway. A conductor talking about picking up his paycheck at the Bergen Street stop would send Ralphie into a tailspin of speculation: Where is the money kept? When does it come in? Is there somebody inside who could be bought off? Chatting with Sal, Ralphie knew it was all right to suggest schemes, but it was not all right to create crime. He tried not to forget this FBI warning as he began recording his talks with Sal. It would turn out that with Sal, creating crime was not a problem. Sal was a willing participant. In fact, at times Sal seemed to be trying to outdo Ralphie. He bragged about all the crimes he knew about. He especially liked to brag about crimes involving celebrities. He talked of a friend of his hitting the celebrity jackpot.
“He already took Madonna’s dress that time that was worth a fortune. Remember that place?”
Ralphie: “Who?”
Sal: “There was a place around here that had it.”
Ralphie: “Madonna’s?”
Sal: “She had a storage room in Manhattan and they stole it.”
Ralphie: “Madonna?”
Sal: “Yeah, Madonna. Madonna the babe.”
“Yeah?” said Ralphie, always willing to listen. “Go ahead.”
Sal: “You know the dress she wore in ‘Like a Virgin’? It was worth fucking money.”
Ralphie: “No shit.”
The two knock-around guys began to perform a Mafia version of the dozens, seeing who could come up with the best scam. Ralphie suggested selling fake oil paintings as “masterpieces” over the Internet. Sal did him three better.
First, he suggested selling an original Wizard of Oz screenplay stolen from some kid’s grandfather. Then he suggested a blackmail scheme that involved photographs of a married Staten Island college professor engaged in sexual acts with a married sanitation worker. Then he suggested renting a drug-sniffing dog from a corrupt cop and checking out warehouses on the Brooklyn and New Jersey waterfront.
“It’s got to be a good dog,” Sal said. “A smart one that knows.”
Ralphie said, “Well, a fucking dog’s a dog, no?”
Sal said, “Well, he’s got to be one that’s going to walk up to the fucking gate and smell it and start scratching on the door. I know that’s it. I tag it. Bingo. That’s one. There’s fucking four thousand rooms. I walk him through the whole fucking building in the
“No, but you know what? What I would say, Sally, is we’re okay. You know what? Money don’t mean a fucking thing. I’ll say it to all of them. ’Cause with all the money in the world, you can’t spend it.”
Sal: “I know that.”
“All right,” Ralphie concluded, “so consider ourselves lucky. Does that make sense?”
“Of course,” Sal said, happy to believe he was free and clear. Sal, who still had to go to work at the Trade Center every day as if nothing had happened, said the Port Authority police were concentrating on a Brinks employee they believed was in on the robbery, which was wrong and that made Sal happy. He was even more delighted that after the robbery, the Port Authority was forced to change its security. Now all employees had to get new IDs that were checked under an ultraviolet light. Sal called it “an ultra light.”
“There’s things, there’s ribbons in there,” he said.
“No shit,” Ralph said.
“It’s wild to see how you fucked up everything and made them change their whole system,” Sal said.
Ralphie: “It’s supposed to be the most secure building in the whole world.”
Sal: “Well, how do you say it? After the cow got out of the kennel? Some shit like that.”
The resurgence of self-confidence inspired Ralphie and Sal to get back in their old scheming mode, to come up with a list of scams to commit now that they weren’t going to jail for stealing piles of foreign currency they couldn’t spend. This was normal. People like Ralphie—who wouldn’t be caught dead working an honest day in his life—spent hours dreaming up scams. Anything could inspire them. A conversation in the subway. A conductor talking about picking up his paycheck at the Bergen Street stop would send Ralphie into a tailspin of speculation: Where is the money kept? When does it come in? Is there somebody inside who could be bought off? Chatting with Sal, Ralphie knew it was all right to suggest schemes, but it was not all right to create crime. He tried not to forget this FBI warning as he began recording his talks with Sal. It would turn out that with Sal, creating crime was not a problem. Sal was a willing participant. In fact, at times Sal seemed to be trying to outdo Ralphie. He bragged about all the crimes he knew about. He especially liked to brag about crimes involving celebrities. He talked of a friend of his hitting the celebrity jackpot.
“He already took Madonna’s dress that time that was worth a fortune. Remember that place?”
Ralphie: “Who?”
Sal: “There was a place around here that had it.”
Ralphie: “Madonna’s?”
Sal: “She had a storage room in Manhattan and they stole it.”
Ralphie: “Madonna?”
Sal: “Yeah, Madonna. Madonna the babe.”
“Yeah?” said Ralphie, always willing to listen. “Go ahead.”
Sal: “You know the dress she wore in ‘Like a Virgin’? It was worth fucking money.”
Ralphie: “No shit.”
The two knock-around guys began to perform a Mafia version of the dozens, seeing who could come up with the best scam. Ralphie suggested selling fake oil paintings as “masterpieces” over the Internet. Sal did him three better.
First, he suggested selling an original Wizard of Oz screenplay stolen from some kid’s grandfather. Then he suggested a blackmail scheme that involved photographs of a married Staten Island college professor engaged in sexual acts with a married sanitation worker. Then he suggested renting a drug-sniffing dog from a corrupt cop and checking out warehouses on the Brooklyn and New Jersey waterfront.
“It’s got to be a good dog,” Sal said. “A smart one that knows.”
Ralphie said, “Well, a fucking dog’s a dog, no?”
Sal said, “Well, he’s got to be one that’s going to walk up to the fucking gate and smell it and start scratching on the door. I know that’s it. I tag it. Bingo. That’s one. There’s fucking four thousand rooms. I walk him through the whole fucking building in the
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