RNs. Mary was an LPN.”
“She was probably getting fifteen, sixteen bucks an hour,” Rene said. “But how is that pertinent?”
“We’ve been told she was worried about money.”
“What’s that got to do with how much money
we
earn? How much money do you
earn
, okay?”
“Did she mention any threatening telephone calls or letters?”
“No.”
“Would you know if she owed money to anyone?”
“Yes,” Jenna said. “She owed me a buck seventy-five for bus fare. Her transit card gave out, so I ran her through on mine.”
· · ·
Later, Rene told her mother that the shvartzeh had grilled her like a common criminal.
“It’s what we get,” her mother said.
Jenna later asked her boyfriend, who was a lawyer, if she could sue Carella for treating her like a common streetwalker.
“How were you sitting?” her boy friend asked.
6
C OOKIE B OY NEVER WENT FOR THE BIG SCORE . H E FIGURED THAT WAS FOR AMATEURS . E VERYBODY WAS IN THE business for money, sure, but amateurs were also in it for the glamour and the thrill, the goddamn glory. Amateurs thought of themselves as movie stars. Get past security in a luxury high-rise overlooking the park, pick the lock on the door, crack the safe behind the framed Rembrandt on the wall, walk off with a fortune. Thank you, thank, you, this is an honor. I also want to thank my mother, my drama coach, and my police dog.
Amateurs.
America was a nation of lucky amateurs.
Cookie Boy never even
thought
of the big score. He’d see a lady in a sable coat that dusted her ankles, strutting out of a luxury building, doorman whistling for a cab, holding an umbrella for her, whisking her inside the taxi, Cookie Boy walked right on by. Sure, you managed to get in her pad you’d find a couple more furs, loads of diamonds, priceless artwork, whatever. Which you had to get
out
with, don’t forget. Even if you got past security once, going in, you still had to get past them a
second
time, going out. Not only going out, but going out with a shitpot full of stolen goods, try explaining
that
to the members of the Academy, thank you all, I love you all so very much, this is such a great honor.
What Cookie Boy had learned early on in his career was that even poor people had treasures. Whether it wasa locket that used to be Grandma’s they kept in a candy tin, or five hundred bucks hidden in the bottom rail of a venetian blind, everybody had something. Well, not everybody. He didn’t go into tenement apartments in Diamondback, for example, where he wouldn’t find anything but cockroaches and empty crack vials.
Cookie Boy chose to walk the middle ground.
He considered himself a moderate.
He knew there were people in the profession who felt that if you were going to take the chance of going in at all, then you might as well go for the big one. You were looking at the same time whether you walked off with Grandma’s locket or the rich lady’s sable. It was all burglary. Well, there were different
degrees
of burglary, depending on whether you went in armed—he
never
went in armed, that was foolish—or whether it was the daytime or the nighttime or whether it was a dwelling or a place of business, or whether the place was occupied at the time or not. All of these factors determined how long you could stay in prison, where Cookie Boy had never been, and where he never intended to go, thank you very much.
But the amateur thinking went: If you’re looking at five, ten, twenty, whatever, depending on the particular circumstances, God forbid you should
kill
somebody during the commission, which made it a felony murder and you were looking at the long one, baby—
But the amateur thinking went: Suppose you were looking at ten in the slammer, that wasn’t going to change no matter
what
you stole, the price of admission was ten in the slammer, got it? You wanted to play, you had to understand you were looking at ten down the line if you got caught.
Cookie Boy never intended to get
“She was probably getting fifteen, sixteen bucks an hour,” Rene said. “But how is that pertinent?”
“We’ve been told she was worried about money.”
“What’s that got to do with how much money
we
earn? How much money do you
earn
, okay?”
“Did she mention any threatening telephone calls or letters?”
“No.”
“Would you know if she owed money to anyone?”
“Yes,” Jenna said. “She owed me a buck seventy-five for bus fare. Her transit card gave out, so I ran her through on mine.”
· · ·
Later, Rene told her mother that the shvartzeh had grilled her like a common criminal.
“It’s what we get,” her mother said.
Jenna later asked her boyfriend, who was a lawyer, if she could sue Carella for treating her like a common streetwalker.
“How were you sitting?” her boy friend asked.
6
C OOKIE B OY NEVER WENT FOR THE BIG SCORE . H E FIGURED THAT WAS FOR AMATEURS . E VERYBODY WAS IN THE business for money, sure, but amateurs were also in it for the glamour and the thrill, the goddamn glory. Amateurs thought of themselves as movie stars. Get past security in a luxury high-rise overlooking the park, pick the lock on the door, crack the safe behind the framed Rembrandt on the wall, walk off with a fortune. Thank you, thank, you, this is an honor. I also want to thank my mother, my drama coach, and my police dog.
Amateurs.
America was a nation of lucky amateurs.
Cookie Boy never even
thought
of the big score. He’d see a lady in a sable coat that dusted her ankles, strutting out of a luxury building, doorman whistling for a cab, holding an umbrella for her, whisking her inside the taxi, Cookie Boy walked right on by. Sure, you managed to get in her pad you’d find a couple more furs, loads of diamonds, priceless artwork, whatever. Which you had to get
out
with, don’t forget. Even if you got past security once, going in, you still had to get past them a
second
time, going out. Not only going out, but going out with a shitpot full of stolen goods, try explaining
that
to the members of the Academy, thank you all, I love you all so very much, this is such a great honor.
What Cookie Boy had learned early on in his career was that even poor people had treasures. Whether it wasa locket that used to be Grandma’s they kept in a candy tin, or five hundred bucks hidden in the bottom rail of a venetian blind, everybody had something. Well, not everybody. He didn’t go into tenement apartments in Diamondback, for example, where he wouldn’t find anything but cockroaches and empty crack vials.
Cookie Boy chose to walk the middle ground.
He considered himself a moderate.
He knew there were people in the profession who felt that if you were going to take the chance of going in at all, then you might as well go for the big one. You were looking at the same time whether you walked off with Grandma’s locket or the rich lady’s sable. It was all burglary. Well, there were different
degrees
of burglary, depending on whether you went in armed—he
never
went in armed, that was foolish—or whether it was the daytime or the nighttime or whether it was a dwelling or a place of business, or whether the place was occupied at the time or not. All of these factors determined how long you could stay in prison, where Cookie Boy had never been, and where he never intended to go, thank you very much.
But the amateur thinking went: If you’re looking at five, ten, twenty, whatever, depending on the particular circumstances, God forbid you should
kill
somebody during the commission, which made it a felony murder and you were looking at the long one, baby—
But the amateur thinking went: Suppose you were looking at ten in the slammer, that wasn’t going to change no matter
what
you stole, the price of admission was ten in the slammer, got it? You wanted to play, you had to understand you were looking at ten down the line if you got caught.
Cookie Boy never intended to get
Similar Books
