The plan was simple. Hop the fence in the southwest corner of the property, move through the trees to the tall bushes along the side of the house, pick the lock on the side door just off the laundry room, and disable the alarm. Advance to the second door passed the kitchen, the safe is located in the wall behind a framed, signed, personal letter from John F. Kennedy, out the same way you came in less than ten minutes. Like taking candy...
It had been a year since I got the job in the law offices of Thomas Webb, a high profile attorney and political hopeful in the Arlington, Virginia/D.C. area. According to him, his great grandfather was one of the first English settlers at Jamestown.
A smirk would smear his face and you could almost smell his smug satisfaction as he would say to anyone who would listen, "Back then it was Webbe with an e! Granddad was one of the first to call Virginia home!"
He was married to a former Miss Georgia, who I must admit, seemed very nice, but who I was never sure about based solely on her taste in men. Tom Webb was the type of man who had never taken one sip of cheap liquor and never taken a bite without a silver aftertaste from his spoon. He was a man who wouldn't understand, a man who couldn't understand, what it meant to do what you've got to do. Unfortunately, I did.
"$9.84." The gas station attendant held out his hand.
I gave the attendant a ten dollar bill and he dropped the pack of cigarettes, the Gatorade, and the Snickers bar into a cheap plastic bag. I dropped the change in the penny cup and walked out. A pack of Wrigley's spearmint hidden in my pocket. I sometimes steal things like that, you know, for fun.
I turned the ignition and James Brown screamed into the night air...It's a man's world...
In a flash, I'm 12 years old again and my older brother, Lenny, and I are out on the front porch of our house on the South Side of Chicago, timing each other to see who's faster at picking the lock on our front door. James Brown screams from the old stereo, drifts out through the front windows and into the street.
"You're never gonna beat me! I've gotta be the fastest lock pick this side of the Mississippi!" Lenny teases and falls over himself laughing.
I snatch the pick and tension wrench out of his hands and yell, "Go!"
The lock is set in place in seconds and I tumble through the front door. I push myself up off the floor and dust myself off. I can see down the front hall into the kitchen. A late afternoon sun shines bright through the dirty windows, bathing the kitchen in an ethereal glow. My mother is in her cooking apron and laughing as my father spins her, dips her, and dances her off her feet to the sound of music. In my memory, the scene resembles a moving Norman Rockwell, a remnant from some perfect time and perfect place that may or may not have existed. It's a sight I'll never forget.
Dad died not long after that, killed by a drunk, off duty cop who was stumbling home from a bar. The cop spotted him coming out the back window of the local jewelry store. He claimed that my father pulled a gun, raised the weapon to fire, and only then reacted and pulled the trigger, putting two shots in Dad's chest. The evidence was all there, a .45 caliber pistol in dad's right hand, the diamonds in his left. Case closed.
I rolled down the window and the cool air hit my face as I exhaled a long trail of smoke.
Mom recovered as well as could be expected. She knew her husband's trade and the risks involved. She didn't have a break down or anything like that, she's always been a strong woman, but to say she was the same would be a lie. She simply turned into another cynical, middle aged woman, with a mild drinking problem. Something she never would have become.
From the beginning, the investigation was a steaming pile. Everyone who ever knew Dad knew the cop's story was a lie. Dad never carried a gun. Never. The jeweler was an old Jew who lived down the street from us and, at first, reported to the police that some of the diamonds were still missing. Then one day he showed up at the house with a broken arm.
"Fuck you, Jerry! Fuck you!" I peeked out from behind a corner as my mother screamed at him in the kitchen. The glow, gone.
Mr. Berkowitz spoke closer to a whisper, his voice full of regret, "I'm sorry, Ann. My family..."
"What about mine, Jerry?! What about Michael's?!" Mr. Berkowitz had to avert his eyes as she stopped and glared, acerbic and malicious. A glare that could cut down the strongest of men and the weak jeweler was no match.
But she knew it was useless. "Just get out."
"Ann, I'm..."
"Just get the fuck out of my house."
As it turned out, Mr. Berkowitz had asked my father to steal the diamonds. The insurance company wouldn't pay out unless it looked like a genuine burglary. So, Dad planned everything, the idea being they would split the insurance money and resale of the stolen goods down the middle. But you can't plan bad luck.
We didn't have the money to fight the City and, at that time in Chicago, the corruption went right up the chain of command. No career aspiring detective in his right mind would take on an officer of his department, and my father, being a career thief, wouldn't get any sympathies from a jury. Besides, after all was said and all was done, nothing would bring Dad back.
When I was young and had a bad day, I remember my mother used to come into my bedroom at night and whisper a fragment of Longfellow.
~Be still, sad heart, and cease repining; ~Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; ~Thy fate is the common fate of all, ~Into each life some rain must fall, ~Some days must be dark and dreary.
That was the last night she ever did.
I turned into a dark neighborhood and parked. I lit another cigarette as I took a quick inventory of my tools and stepped out into the night. It was a little over a mile through a field and forest to the back of the Webb estate, and I needed to get moving.
Dad's death hit Lenny hard but opposite of what you'd expect. Lenny went straight. Never drank and never did any drugs. Finished high school and immediately enrolled in the Police Academy. He became a cop to fix the system. As he says, "Fight the man from the inside. Like a fucking virus!" His favorite song is that one by The Kinks and Ray Davies, I Am Your Man, and he still blasts it in his car on his way to the precinct every single day.
~Money and corruption are ruining the land ~crooked politicians betray the working man ~pocketing the profits and treating us like sheep ~and we're tired of hearing promises that we know they'll never keep.
He's like a mod/punk Dirty Harry. Lenny's a good cop and a good man, but no one is perfect. Everyone has a vice and his is gambling. He gambles on everything and not just a final. On a football game he'll bet the coin flip, first downs, passing yards, quarter scores, and the amount of penalties. Anything you can think of, he'll gamble the outcome. Once he tried to bet me twenty dollars on whether the car in front of us would turn right or left. To say he has a problem is an understatement.
A couple of days ago, my mother called.
"Robbie?" she said loudly into the phone as if I was standing yards from the receiver. "Robbie? You there?"
"Yeah, Ma, yeah," I answered, pulling the earpiece back, "I'm here, but I'm at work and can't talk long."
"Robbie you gotta speak up. You know my hearing is going." She said.
"Sorry, Ma," I said, a little louder. "How are you?"
"Well, you know I'd be much better if you called once in a while." I rolled my eyes. "Your brother showed me how to get the e-mail so you could send one of those. And you know, I can read and I can write and the Postal Service has been running as long as I can remember and despite all this technology, they say it's still running, so you..."
I interrupted her, "Ma...really, I'm at work..."
"I'm just saying, Robbie. Anyway, have you talked to your brother?" she asked.
"No, it's been a while."
"Well, Captain Murphy called and said this is the second day he hasn't shown up and no one can get a hold of him."
