Second Story Man Read online

  “Not any more I’m not.”

  “You know what they say. ‘Once a cop always a cop.’ Do you still dress like John Wayne?’”

  I laughed. “I never dressed like John Wayne.”

  “The cowboy hat, the boots…”

  “I still have ’em, and I still wear them from time to time, if that’s what you mean. But I never did learn how to ride a horse.”

  “I have a picture of you in my head, Charlie Floyd. And in that picture you are wearing a cowboy hat and cowboy boots. Just like John Wayne.”

  I wasn’t going to argue with him. That’s what I mean about Manny Perez. He doesn’t give up. Once he gets something in his head it’s hard to shake it out of there.

  “Maybe you should get to the point, Manny.”

  “Of course. The point.” He chuckled. “My wife calls me long-winded and perhaps she is right. Have you ever heard of a man named Francis Hoyt?”

  “Can’t say I have. But I’m sure you’re going to enlighten me.”

  He laughed. I liked Manny’s laugh. It was full and hearty and brimming with life. I could imagine him smiling, his head thrown back, his perfect white teeth set off by his dark Latin complexion. The opposite of my pale New England pallor.

  “That is what I shall most certainly do, though I am surprised you have not heard of Francis Hoyt, because he is one of the most renowned thieves in the world today.”

  “I never worked robbery, burglary or run-of-the-mill street crime. Homicides and white-collar crimes, that’s what interested me. Those other things, much too low-class for me to waste my time with. No challenge in chasing down petty crooks. You remember me, right? I’m a high-stakes kinda guy.”

  “Yes, I know that all too well and that is precisely why I am calling. And what you say explains why you do not know anything about Francis Hoyt. But if you have a moment or two, and since you are now a man of leisure, I am sure that you do, I shall enlighten you. Francis Hoyt is a genius. A talented, artistic, criminal genius. There has never been anyone like Francis Hoyt before and we should pray to God there never will be one like him in the future.”

  I pictured Manny crossing himself as he mentioned the Almighty.

  “I’m sure you didn’t call me to give me a history lesson on this guy Hoyt.”

  “No. That is most surely not the reason I am calling you. The reason I am calling you, Charlie Floyd, is that it is the month of May. Do you know what that means?”

  “April showers bring May flowers.”

  He laughed. “Yes, that is very true. But it also means something else. It means, the snowbirds head back north.”

  “And the significance of that would be?”

  “When the birds go north so do the predators.”

  “Manny, I know you well enough to know you’re a man of way many words. And believe me, no one enjoys hearing them more than I do. But I hate talking on the phone. This sounds like it has the makings of a very long conversation and for that I prefer face to face. And since you’re down there and I’m up here that’s going to be impossible.”

  “I am very glad you said that, Charlie Floyd, because you are absolutely correct. And that is why I am making a trip up to Connecticut to meet with you. In fact, I have a plane ticket that leaves Miami International Airport early tomorrow morning and arrives at Kennedy Airport at 11:42 a.m.”

  Jesus, he was really serious about this.

  “I hate to see you waste your money, Manny. Or the city of Miami waste theirs.”

  “If I am successful in my quest, it will be money well-spent.”

  “Truth is, I could probably use the company. But you might be wasting your time, so why don’t you give me a hint as to why you want this face-to-face with me.”

  “I shall provide you with far more than a hint, Charlie Floyd. You are going to help me capture Francis Hoyt with enough evidence to put him back where he belongs.”

  Manny Perez

  I love America. It is the land of the free and the home of the brave. America has been very good to me and when people are not good to it I become a very angry man and this is not a very pretty picture. Ask my wife, Esther, and she will tell you this is true. This is why I decided to join the Miami Police Department when I arrived here from Cuba almost twenty years ago. It was an opportunity for me to give back to a country that took me in and hugged me to its breast.

  I like order. If I see a thread dangling from a sweater or other item of clothing I need to pull on it. My wife, who is a born and bred American, originally from Chicago, calls me a “neat freak.” She says I am very close to having obsessive compulsive disorder. I do not believe that is true. I just like to see things in their proper place and I like to see people behave in a proper manner. That, I am sure, explains why I do what I do and why I love what I do. It is not the job I dreamed of having when I grew up as a child in Havana, but now it is my dream job.

  The idea to call Charlie Floyd, a man whom I came to admire because once he starts a job he does not stop until it comes to a proper end, came to me in a dream. Yes, a dream. I had not thought of Charlie Floyd in years but when I went to bed thinking about Francis Hoyt and how I was going to apprehend him and bring him to justice, I woke up thinking about Charlie Floyd. I do not believe in coincidences and I do not believe in visions. But yes, I suppose you could say that Charlie Floyd came to me in a vision.

  We are two very different people, Charlie Floyd and me. But I think that if Charlie Floyd saw a dangling thread he would also pull on it. Francis Hoyt is a dangling thread and that dangling thread must be pulled. But I needed help to pull it and that is why I called upon Charlie Floyd.

  There is no doubt in my mind that Charlie Floyd and I can bring this situation to a satisfying conclusion. That explains why I already had my airline ticket in my hand when I called my old friend. I knew that once I met with him and I told him the story of Francis Hoyt and what he has done and what he will do if not apprehended, how he insults every person who believes in law and order, how he laughs in our faces because we cannot catch him, he could not refuse to help me find him, capture him, and bring him before the bar of justice.

  When I disembarked from the airplane at Kennedy Airport Charlie Floyd was waiting for me at the baggage claim area. I had not seen him in almost five years but I recognized him immediately. He was wearing the very same cowboy hat and cowboy boots he was wearing when I met him in Miami five years ago. He claims he does not look like John Wayne and perhaps he is right when it comes to his facial features, but as far as I am concerned he is John Wayne, and that is probably something I would think even if he were not wearing a cowboy hat and cowboy boots.

  We greeted each other with a hug. We must have made a strange pair, since I am five-foot-seven in my stocking feet and Charlie Floyd is at least six-foot-two. When I informed my wife I was going to see him she smiled and said, “Mutt and Jeff.” I was not familiar with what she meant but when she explained the reference I had to smile, too.

  “Good to see you again, Manny,” he said.

  “The feeling is very mutual, Charlie Floyd. And I am very sorry I got you up so early.”

  “That’s okay. I’m an early riser. It’s a habit I can’t seem to break. Car’s parked in the lot, not far from here. But I should warn you it’s a bit of a drive back up to Connecticut. This time of day we shouldn’t hit much traffic. Still, you can count on about an hour and a half. I guess that’ll give you plenty of time to fill me in on why you’re here and how you think I can help you. But maybe you ought to visit the head first.”

  “That sounds A-okay to me,” I said, making a circle with my thumb and forefinger, something I learned from my son, Javier, when he was only three years old. “And not to worry, I have already visited, as you call it, ‘the head.’”

  “You drive a very nice car, Charlie Floyd,” I said, as we buckled up and pulled out of the parking area.

  “I like to make a good impression, Manny. No point driving around in a piece of shit when you
can afford a nice ride. You been up here before?”

  “Once. I came with my wife, Esther. We stayed for a long weekend. We went to the top of the Empire State Building, to the Statue of Liberty, down to Ground Zero, to Radio City Music Hall, into Central Park. We even saw a Broadway show. Cabaret. It was very entertaining.”

  “Sounds like you just about covered everything.”

  “It is a wonderful city though a little too noisy and messy for my taste. But my wife, who comes from a big city herself, Chicago—” he winked, “—that toddling town, found it quite enjoyable. I promised her I would bring her back some day. But today is not that day. Today I come alone to see you.”

  As we pulled onto the highway Charlie Floyd turned to me and said, “Okay, Manny, now’s as good a time as any to tell me exactly why you’re here. Tell me more about this Francis Hoyt guy, why you’re looking for him and where I fit in?”

  “Francis Hoyt is nothing less than a master thief, Charlie Floyd. He has been taking things that don’t belong to him since he was a child. Candy from candy stores, bicycles from neighborhood children, wallets from pocketbooks of unsuspecting ladies. If there was something of value, something he wanted, he did not purchase it like the rest of us, he stole it. Over the years, he worked his way up from candy and bicycles to jewelry and now to antique silver. After years of practicing his trade he became so proficient that he was stealing hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of jewelry a night. His modus operandi was one of genius. He would break into the homes of the wealthy at the perfect time. Dinnertime. When the wealthy homeowners were home, downstairs, enjoying their meal.”

  “Sounds a little crazy to me. Why the hell didn’t he wait till after they went to sleep or better yet, when the house was empty? Less chance of being caught in the act, no?”

  “When it comes to stealing, he is smarter than we are, Charlie Floyd. If the house was empty then perhaps all the jewelry would not be there, especially the most desired pieces. Instead, they would most likely be worn by the owners on their night out, or packed away in suitcases with them if they were on vacation. But if they were home, ah, then he knew exactly where the jewelry would be. Upstairs, in the bedroom, of course. In the early evening the family would be downstairs having dinner, watching television, playing board games, whatever families do at that time of night. The upstairs would be empty. And at dinnertime, it was far less likely that the alarm system would be activated.”

  “I see what you mean, Manny. This guy is obviously a thinking man’s thief.”

  “Precisely, Charlie Floyd. And that is what makes him so successful, so dangerous, and so difficult to apprehend.”

  “How does he gain entry?”

  “In addition to being brilliant in the art of crime, Francis Hoyt is an extremely athletic man. He climbs like a monkey, runs like a jaguar, and he is strong like a lion. To get into the houses he would climb a drainpipe, a column or a trellis. And if there were no drainpipe or trellis he would use his skills as a free climber, using mountain climbing apparatus. He is not a big man. He is only five feet four inches tall, and he weighs no more than one hundred and thirty pounds and most of that weight is comprised of muscle.

  “Once inside the house, on the second floor, he knows exactly where to go and exactly what to take. He does not bother with jewelry that is fake or of dubious value. He only takes what he knows he can sell. And since most thieves are fortunate if they get ten or twenty cents on the dollar, he is very discerning as to the quality of the jewelry he steals.”

  “I’m impressed,” said Charlie Floyd, and I could tell that he was. But there was so much more to tell him.

  “He leaves absolutely no forensic evidence, Charlie Floyd. Not a fingerprint, not a hair, not a thread. He appears dressed like a ninja, all in black, with a black mask covering his entire face, except for slits for his eyes and holes just largest enough for him to breathe where his nose and mouth would be. He never comes armed. All he carries is a diamond tester to check the jewels, a long screwdriver to pop out windowpanes, and a small pen-size flashlight. He slips through second-story windows, almost always in the master bedroom and after he is done, he sometimes run for miles to get to where he parked his getaway car. Sometimes, he has been known to even take public transportation.”

  “If he’s never been caught in the act, how do you know how he dresses, what he brings with him, how he gets away?”

  “No plan is perfect, Charlie Floyd. On occasion, he has encountered his victims and they have given what description they could. And when he has encountered his victims he has always been the gentleman. When a woman once complained that he had tied her hands too tight with her husband’s neckties, he loosened them. When another woman began to suffer an asthma attack, he gallantly handed over her inhalator.”

  “A gentleman bandit, huh?”

  “Make no mistake, Francis Hoyt is no gentleman. Under the right circumstances, he is capable of violence. He has been brought in for questioning on suspicion several times. He has even spent a night or two in jail. But there has never been enough evidence to hold him for long. It is possible he never would have spent time in prison at all if he had not made one crucial mistake.”

  “Which was?”

  “He stopped working alone.”

  Francis Hoyt

  How many times have I said to myself, Francis, this is the last job you’re going to pull. You got enough money to last you the rest of your life. You don’t have to do this anymore.

  Too many times to count. But the answer is always the same.

  This is what you do, man. This is who you are. This is what you’re good at. This is the one thing that distinguishes you from all the other assholes out there. This is what makes it worthwhile getting up in the morning. If not this, what?

  It’s not only the job itself. Oh, no, it’s much more than that. It’s the planning and preparation that goes into it. And of course, most of all, there’s the thrill of the actual heist. The incredible adrenaline rush I get as I enter someone else’s house, uninvited. I am a shadow moving silently from one room to another, through hallways, lit and unlit. Not always knowing who or what I’m going to find. Then there is the even greater rush I get when I exit the house, a small fortune in my pocket, knowing that once again I’ve proven I’m smarter than the people who live in that house. Smarter than the cops who are trying to stop me. Fucking smarter than just about everybody. No matter how much money they have, I’m better than they are because I will end up with what’s supposed to be theirs. And I’ve done it the old-fashioned way. By stealing it.

  Let’s be honest. That’s what keeps me coming back.

  It wasn’t rocket science to figure out that dinnertime, when everyone was home, was the best time to strike. Counter-intuitive, sure, but it made perfect sense to me. I could climb up to the second floor with no fear of alarms going off, and little fear of anyone being anywhere but downstairs at the dinner table, enjoying their meal, conversing with family and friends. I could only imagine that because it’s not like that kind of scene ever happened in my house growing up. No way. The old man grunted his way through meals. The only time he spoke was to complain about something. “Not enough salt,” he’d growl. “Too much salt,” he’d hiss. “The meat’s tough as the sole of my shoe,” he’d say as he flung it against the wall.

  That kind of shit.

  And my mother? Well, she kept her mouth shut and I can’t say as I blamed her. She didn’t want to risk saying the wrong thing, setting off the old man who more likely than not would launch into one of his tirades, bitching about us, his boss down at the construction site, local politicians, or just the whole damn world. And maybe later, after a few more drinks, if you got on his bad side—and that was just about every side he had—he might even take a swing at you. Maybe that’s where I learned to be quick. My sister and me learned how to eat fast and keep our mouths shut except when asked a direct question. But that didn’t happen much. Nothing normal like “what did you do i
n school today?” My father, he didn’t give a shit. My mother, well, the dinner table, with my old man sitting across from her and with us sitting within striking distance of the back of his hand, sure wasn’t the place she was going to ask questions like that which would just get a grunt or maybe a “who gives a fuck?” from him.

  In the homes I “visited” as an uninvited guest, that wasn’t the case. People talked to each other. They listened to each other. They valued what was being said. At least that’s the way I imagined it. In the beginning, I’d sometimes crouch at the top of the stairs and try to hear what was being said. I don’t know why I did. I knew every minute longer I stayed in the house upped the chances I’d be seen. I guess I just wanted to hear what normal dinner conversation sounded like. People connecting with each other in normal ways. No shouting. No sullen silences. The only connection that happened in my house was when my old man landed a smack.

  I got a kick out of imagining what it would be like the next night, after they realized their home had been invaded and their valuables taken. Then they’d really have something to talk about. I had violated them. I had upset their perfect lives. What I’d done to them would reverberate in so many ways. Things would never be the same. They would never come into that house again without wondering if they were alone. What I had done would leave a lasting impression. That’s the part I especially liked. The part where I’d become an integral part of their lives. Someone they would remember forever. I would be a story they would tell their friends and family. In a way, that would make me immortal.

  The goal, of course, was to avoid people, avoid confrontation, avoid the risk someone would get a look at me and could pick me out of a lineup. I wasn’t there to hurt anyone. They never did anything to me. They just had what I wanted.

  Not that I couldn’t handle myself if trouble came my way. Sure, I’m on the small side, but you mess with me you’re gonna be sorry you did. I did a little wrestling in high school. I was too small to do anything else, like baseball or basketball, even though I could have. But in wrestling they had weight categories and even at a measly hundred and twenty pounds, I fit right in.