almost an hour and I’d say that the whole thing has become an obsession. You want to join the thieves’ hall of fame. You want recognition so bad that it’s distorted your thinking.”
The room grew quiet. Procane made a careful examination of his right thumb. Wiedstein discovered something interesting about the rug. Janet Whistler found a painting that she liked. The silence put on a little weight. It had grown fat by the time Procane said, “There’s a kernel of truth in what you say, of course.”
“You’d better tell him and get it over with,” Wiedstein said, still examining the rug.
Procane ended the inspection of his thumb, used it to smooth down his moustache, and said, “Yes, I rather think you’re right.”
For a moment or two I thought that we were going to get another fat silence, but Procane said, “We’d like you to join us, Mr. St. Ives.”
I didn’t hesitate. I said, “No chance.”
“Not as a participant.”
“Still no.”
“But as a witness.”
“It’s against the law.”
“You would be adequately compensated.”
“Not enough to die.”
“The risk would be minimal.”
“I’d make an unpleasant cripple.”
“I was thinking of around twenty-five thousand.”
“I’ll listen.”
“That’s all I ask.”
I still maintain that it was curiosity, not greed, that kept me from walking out. After all, I had just earned $10,000. In addition, there was $327 in my checking account and earlier in the year I had purchased $5,000 worth of highly touted common stocks that were still worth around $900 the last time I had looked at the financial page. So I was flush enough and therefore silly enough to listen to some thief tell me how he planned to steal a million dollars.
Actually, all three of them told it. When one of them dropped the story, another would pick it up and tell it for a while. Each of them spoke in the same flat, matter-of-fact tone, as if their plan to knock over a million-dollar heroin buy was no more interesting than a week they had once spent together in Memphis a long time ago.
After deciding that a heroin transaction would be his most likely prospect for a million-dollar steal, Procane’s next problem was to find one. It wasn’t easy and it wasn’t cheap. His first move had been to turn both Janet Whistler and Miles Wiedstein into addicts—in theory, at least. They found themselves a pusher and in two months bought enough from him to establish themselves as heavy users. After three months they claimed poverty and became pushers themselves, staking out a small slice of the upper East Side as their territory.
Their supplier was a Puerto Rican they knew only as Alfredo. Over the months they bought forty-six thousand dollars’ worth of low-grade heroin from him with money that supposedly came from their customers, but actually came from Procane. They threw the heroin down incinerators.
They had to act and talk like addicts and to do this, they had to associate with addicts. “It was difficult at first,” Janet Whistler said. “Later on I think we came to feel a little pity for them. It’s not a good way to be sick.”
It was Janet who eventually discovered the link they needed, an impoverished South American diplomat, very minor, who liked to fly up from Washington for New York parties. She met him at one given by Alfredo, the Puerto Rican supplier. Still using that same flat, totally unemotional tone she described how in bed the diplomat liked to boast of one of his embassy colleagues who, he claimed, was very big in the heroin smuggling trade. She said that it took a lot of time and a lot of care and an immense amount of flattery to get enough details out of him to make sure that he knew what he was talking about. Shortly after they became convinced that he did, the diplomat hinted that something big was about to happen. So Janet and Wiedstein set him up.
It was the usual arrangement, nothing fancy. Wiedstein burst into the hotel room and started
The room grew quiet. Procane made a careful examination of his right thumb. Wiedstein discovered something interesting about the rug. Janet Whistler found a painting that she liked. The silence put on a little weight. It had grown fat by the time Procane said, “There’s a kernel of truth in what you say, of course.”
“You’d better tell him and get it over with,” Wiedstein said, still examining the rug.
Procane ended the inspection of his thumb, used it to smooth down his moustache, and said, “Yes, I rather think you’re right.”
For a moment or two I thought that we were going to get another fat silence, but Procane said, “We’d like you to join us, Mr. St. Ives.”
I didn’t hesitate. I said, “No chance.”
“Not as a participant.”
“Still no.”
“But as a witness.”
“It’s against the law.”
“You would be adequately compensated.”
“Not enough to die.”
“The risk would be minimal.”
“I’d make an unpleasant cripple.”
“I was thinking of around twenty-five thousand.”
“I’ll listen.”
“That’s all I ask.”
I still maintain that it was curiosity, not greed, that kept me from walking out. After all, I had just earned $10,000. In addition, there was $327 in my checking account and earlier in the year I had purchased $5,000 worth of highly touted common stocks that were still worth around $900 the last time I had looked at the financial page. So I was flush enough and therefore silly enough to listen to some thief tell me how he planned to steal a million dollars.
Actually, all three of them told it. When one of them dropped the story, another would pick it up and tell it for a while. Each of them spoke in the same flat, matter-of-fact tone, as if their plan to knock over a million-dollar heroin buy was no more interesting than a week they had once spent together in Memphis a long time ago.
After deciding that a heroin transaction would be his most likely prospect for a million-dollar steal, Procane’s next problem was to find one. It wasn’t easy and it wasn’t cheap. His first move had been to turn both Janet Whistler and Miles Wiedstein into addicts—in theory, at least. They found themselves a pusher and in two months bought enough from him to establish themselves as heavy users. After three months they claimed poverty and became pushers themselves, staking out a small slice of the upper East Side as their territory.
Their supplier was a Puerto Rican they knew only as Alfredo. Over the months they bought forty-six thousand dollars’ worth of low-grade heroin from him with money that supposedly came from their customers, but actually came from Procane. They threw the heroin down incinerators.
They had to act and talk like addicts and to do this, they had to associate with addicts. “It was difficult at first,” Janet Whistler said. “Later on I think we came to feel a little pity for them. It’s not a good way to be sick.”
It was Janet who eventually discovered the link they needed, an impoverished South American diplomat, very minor, who liked to fly up from Washington for New York parties. She met him at one given by Alfredo, the Puerto Rican supplier. Still using that same flat, totally unemotional tone she described how in bed the diplomat liked to boast of one of his embassy colleagues who, he claimed, was very big in the heroin smuggling trade. She said that it took a lot of time and a lot of care and an immense amount of flattery to get enough details out of him to make sure that he knew what he was talking about. Shortly after they became convinced that he did, the diplomat hinted that something big was about to happen. So Janet and Wiedstein set him up.
It was the usual arrangement, nothing fancy. Wiedstein burst into the hotel room and started
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