The Weight (21 page)

I stayed still.

“Your eyes. Your eyes, that’d set you off.
That’s
what those glasses are about, huh?”

“Why are you playing me? I haven’t done anything for you to treat me like this. You know damn well, anyone gets a look at my eyes, they’d remember.”

“They would. And, yeah, I did.”

“But she didn’t?”

“Where’s all this going, Caine?”

No more “Sugar.” No more “have one on me” cigarette. Good. If he’d acted like we were pals, I wouldn’t have bought it.

And he’d know that
. So maybe it wasn’t as good a sign as I thought.

Fuck it. I’m no good at this sideways stuff. I just went for it.

“You think I got off cheap, don’t you?”

“Five years? Far as I’m concerned, you lucked out when that girl ID’ed you. Wasn’t for that, you’d still be where you belong.”

“Lucked out? Right. If that girl had never ID’ed me, you’d still have been waiting when I came back to my place, that’s what you’re selling?”

“One man’s luck is another man’s loss. And I
still
say you got off cheap.”

“Let’s say I did. But if the sex-crimes cops hadn’t gotten her to ID me, you wouldn’t be saying what you just said. That’s true, too.”

“Okay. But I’m still waiting for the punch line.”

“I want to get off the RSO list.”

“So you can sue the city? It’s a little late for that now, don’t you think?”

“Five years—”

“I’m not a lawyer,” the cop said, like he was proud of it. “If some shyster told you there was money in this, you’re brain-dead, Caine.
You
pleaded guilty. I don’t care if they found enough of some
other guy’s DNA to fill every test tube in Quantico, it wouldn’t do you any good.”

“I don’t have a lawyer. I’m not going to sue anybody. You know why I took that plea.”

“So? What, then?”

“So that DNA, it
would
do me some good. A lot of good.”

“You brought up the RSO, not me.”

“Right. You know what that means, being a Registered Sex Offender? I maxed out, but I
still
got to keep an address, let them know when I move, stuff like that.”

“Cramps your style, does it?”

“No, that’s not it. They don’t actually
do
anything. It’s just a stupid Web site. And you know who uses it the most?”

“Uses what the most?”

“This ‘registry’ thing. The people who use it most are those … ‘pedophiles,’ they call them. See, what they do, when they’re trying to worm their way in someplace, like with a single mother who’s living with her little daughter, they tell her to check them out. On this Web site, I mean. When that comes up empty, it’s like the government is saying, ‘This guy, he’s all right,’ see?”

“How come you know this?” Woods asked me. He was way too casual—I could see he really wanted to know.

“When I first went in—on the last bit, I mean—they put me in this group for sex offenders. It was supposed to be voluntary, but all of them know, if they don’t go, the Parole Board’s gonna nail them.”

“And you didn’t want to call attention to yourself, so you played along?”

“On the nose. I didn’t last long—they threw me out—but that was one of the things they talked about in ‘group.’

“They talked about this registry a
lot
. Some of them, they were all … outraged, like. It was a violation of their rights, they were branded for life, blah-blah. But a couple of them said the truth: that was one scam they could never use
again
, which was a shame because it always worked.
That’s
how I know about it.”

Woods went back to looking bored. “So what d’you want, Caine? You think I’m going to sign an affidavit or something?”

“I
think
you want the same thing I do.”

“What? Justice for the victim?” The cop took a drag of his smoke. For a second, I was sorry I quit—he sure made it look like it tasted good.

“Not for her. For him.”

“Jesus. You did too many fucking crossword puzzles up there, Caine.”

“What d’you get out of making fun of me, cop? I know I’m no Einstein, but I don’t need to be one to add
this
up.”

“Huh?”

“The guy who raped that girl, he owes you guys for doing it. But he also owes me, for doing the time.”

“You want me to help you find him so you can shake him down?”

“You get a kick out of saying things like that? I thought you were a right guy. You fucking well know what I’m saying, but you’re still just jerking my chain. So how’s this? The guy who raped that girl, his life isn’t worth five years of my time. But I can’t find him without help, so I’ll settle for him going down. And he’d go down
hard
, no matter where he’s locked.”

“And I care about that because …?”

“I’m not asking you to tell me anything. Just listen. No way he was someone the girl knew, or you would have nailed him. He got away with that one, so he probably got away with a lot more. Maybe he still is.”

“Or maybe he’s already doing time on one of the others.”

“If you
know
that, just tell me. What could it hurt? Hurt you, I mean.”

“Oh, I know what you mean, pal. And even if I
did
know, I wouldn’t tell you—I’m not playing bloodhound for a hit man.”

“I’m not—”

“You’ve got no rep for that, I know. But for this guy, I’m betting you’d make an exception.”

“Try me and see.”

“Can’t,” the cop said. “Far as I know, nobody’s ever been convicted of that rape. Besides you, that is.”

“But he
could
be in the system, right? Those sex-crimes guys, they ‘solved’ the case, so they’re all done. But you might get a DNA match off someone who’s still locked up and—”

“If there
was
DNA, maybe. I never asked.”

“There you go. That proves we could help each other. If you want the help, that is.”

He changed position on the bench. Dropped his cigarette to the ground and stomped it
out
. “How come you didn’t go to Sex Crimes with this?”

“How come you knew I didn’t do it?”

“What do you want, Caine? I’m not asking again.”

“I want you to tell the girl I didn’t do it. I want the chance to talk to her. I don’t think anybody ever really did. Nobody’s looking for this guy. But me,
I’d
look for him.”

“You carrying?”

“No, sir.” He had to be asking for some reason I didn’t understand. Anything I got caught “carrying” would guarantee me another few years inside a State box.

“You’d take a polygraph?”

“Right this minute.”

“And that’s the only crime you want to talk about?”

“Come on.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

“If you catch a terrorist from another country—catch him
here
, I mean—how come you ship him back where he came from for questioning?”

The cop didn’t say anything.

“I could be that other country for you. I find this guy, he’s going to tell me everything. Not just about the rape I did his time for, about every one he’s ever done.”

“Somehow, I can’t see you wearing a wire.”

“Wouldn’t need one. On every rape this guy committed, they found
something
. Maybe he’s got a trophy case. Maybe he takes pictures. Maybe he had a partner. I don’t know. But, whatever I
get, add it to what you already got, wouldn’t that be enough to nail him?”

The cop pinned me with his eyes. Wasting his time—I wasn’t going anywhere.

“I’ll get back to you,” he finally said.

“How?”

“That’s a good question.”

“I’ll call you, okay? Just say when.”

The cop looked at his wristwatch. Maybe it had one of those calendar things in it.

“I got two years until I pull the pin,” he said. “Retire. Me and the wife, we’ve already got a place picked out. Far from here.”

“It was worth a shot,” I said.

“I said two years, Caine, not two days. There’s benches by the other river, too. You know the Hospital for Special Surgery?”

“I can find it.”

“Just keep walking on Seventy-first; you’ll find a little bridge, takes you up to where you can look at the river over the FDR. Next Friday, two o’clock, I’ll be on that bridge.”

“Me, too.”

Walking around without a gun felt good. I never liked them—they always seemed to make things worse. But what I
really
didn’t like was guys who liked guns. Some of them, when they handed over what they were carrying so I could see all the special stuff for myself, it made me feel … slimy, like.

Not the gun itself, the whole idea. Like the way those guys in the Sex Offender Treatment Unit would be talking about the stuff they did. Just listening, it was like some of their—I don’t know what to call it—like some of what they were would rub off on you.

I don’t like being around the iron jockeys, either. I never felt right listening to them talk. Maybe that’s just me. Maybe I just don’t like
most
people.

I got shot once, a long time ago. The slug went into my upper arm, never touched bone. The doc in the ER was an Indian. Not
one of those guys you see in cowboy movies; from the country India. He said I must have done something very good in another life to have deserved such luck. I was a little fuzzy, but I could tell he believed what he was saying.

Turned out, the bullet just went in one side and out the other. A nick, they called it. That Indian doctor said the only danger would be infection. Not from the bullet, from not keeping it clean.

I remember asking him how come I couldn’t get an infection from a bullet. In prison, some guys would dip the points of their shanks in their own shit, so you could die from the poison after you were stabbed. I didn’t tell the doctor that, but I really did want to know.

“A projectile launched at supersonic speed would generate so much heat that it would be sterilized,” he said.

“What’s ‘supersonic’?”

“Did you hear the shot?”

“Yeah. After I—”

“You heard the shot because it broke the sound barrier. That’s what makes it supersonic.”

“Thanks.”

He gave me a confused kind of look. But maybe it was the drugs they were pumping into me that made me think that.

They didn’t even keep me. Just gave me a couple of more shots, cleaned it all out, and packed stuff inside before they taped me up.

The cops came. I knew they would. The ERs, they’re supposed to call in any gunshot wound, even if you tell them it was an accident. There’s docs you can go to who won’t call it in, but they charge an arm and a leg, even if they don’t have to take one off.

And—who knows?—they could be on some cop’s Rat Rolodex themselves. A doctor who gets nailed for writing scrips by the pound, he’d “cooperate” with the cops in a second—that prescription pad, that’s his moneymaker.

So the rule is, if you got shot doing something that could drop you down a well, that’s when you take the chance. Say you’ve got a cop’s slug in you, no way you can let a hospital take
that
out.

But with the bullet I took, I knew I was on solid ground.

What I told the cops: I never saw the shooter. I got no beef going with anyone. Broad daylight, probably one of those punks trying out his new nine. Or maybe it came from inside one of the buildings I was walking past.

What they told me: They can’t protect me if I don’t come clean with them. Maybe the next time, the shooter won’t miss.

They were as bored as I was. Without a slug to put under their microscopes, there was nothing they could do, and we all knew it.

Whatever they put in the wound finally dissolved, just like the doctor said. All it left was a little pucker mark, like a vaccination.

But when I went back to the gym, some of the guys looked at the arm and said it was ruined. They were really sorry for me. I didn’t get it at first. I mean, soon I was back lifting the same weight I always had, so what was the big deal?

One of them explained. He said that bullet had spoiled my skin. You could hide some stuff, like the blackheads they were always getting all over their backs and shoulders, but what I had would never look right.

I asked him, look right for what?

“You don’t compete?” He sounded kind of … disgusted, like I told him I didn’t wash my hands after I used the toilet or something. This was the same guy who was always telling me I had great genetics but I’d need some help if I ever wanted to get
really
big.

I didn’t go back to that gym.

Fuck it. Wasn’t like I was friends with anyone there or anything. I like working out by myself more, anyway.

I guess it depends on what you want it for. These guys, they were more worried about how good a suit of armor looked than how good it worked. Not me.