December 29, 1989 - Rahway, New Jersey --
"Thirty-one ain't so old y'know, y'got a lotta years ahead of ya."
Marty Piatkowski didn't bother answering. He was trying to determine how best to pack. Everything he owned was spread out on the bed, all neatly folded; four white T-shirts, four pair of briefs, four pairs of white socks, three short-sleeved shirts (one dark blue, one red and one light green), one pair of khaki pants, plus the clothes he had been wearing when he was arrested for armed robbery eight years, two months and seventeen days ago.
"Marty, you listening?"
"Horace, I gotta get this stuff packed. Lemme ask you something. Do you think I should keep my old stuff, from before? I don't know as I'll ever get back into those pants."
Horace Walpole, the prison guard who had looked after Marty after Marty had stepped in and held another prisoner in check after he had stabbed Walpole in the throat during a riot, sighed. He picked up the pants and held them up against Piatkowski. The cream-colored slacks still bore some of the bloodstains from the beating the police had given Marty in subduing him that day over eight years before.
Horace admired the material.
"Nice slack's, Marty. What is it, Italian?"
"Armani."
Horace nodded, impressed.
"I'd keep 'em, I was you."
"Naw, I got three inches more in the waist now then back then."
Back in the day, Marty had lived large. He stole cars, hijacked trucks, and robbed high stake poker games, and payrolls. Flush with cash, he hovered up cocaine for breakfast and Maker's Mark for lunch, so jittery from dope and hung over from booze he seldom bothered to eat. He had gained thirty pounds in prison.
Horace refolded the slacks.
"Was me, I'd keep 'em. You'll lose some weight once you're out. Give yourself something to shoot for . . . getting back into those pants."
"I'm leavin' the past behind. Keep 'em for yourself."
Horace admired the slacks then looked sadly at Marty.
"Aw, you know I can't. I'll pass'm along to one of the guys, you want. Or give'm to Goodwill."
"Whatever."
Marty went back to staring at his clothes. His suitcase was a rumpled grocery bag. In another hour, Marty would be a free man. He had served his full sentence. There was no parole board to contend with. No reporting to anyone. He was free, completely free, no strings attached.
Horace nodded to himself, as if saying he had done everything possible to get him to keep the damn Italian slacks, and then said aloud, "I'm gonna go get the papers together. I'm gonna miss you, Marty. Thanks again for what you did back then."
"Forget it, will'ya," Marty muttered, not looking up, but concentrating on layering his clothing into the bag. He had a job that he had no intention of reporting to waiting.
Unconsciously, he glanced at his left wrist, but the eighteen thousand dollar Patek Philippe he had stolen years ago, had been unceremoniously ripped away by one of the arresting officers, and of course, never returned. For eight years he had promised himself another one just like it when he got out.
He smiled to himself. Gentner would give him half of their loot, maybe $350,000 or so, and the watch would be his first purchase after he got himself a car.
****
An hour and a half later, Marty Piatkowski sauntered through the thick door, and stepped outside for the first time in seven years into a raw, blustery day. The population of Rahway State Prison in Woodbridge Township, New Jersey, was now lessened by one.
Marty pulled his parka tightly around him, trudged slowly to the corner and waited patiently for the bus to pull up alongside him. Patience was something he had learned to master during his incarceration.
He rode the bus down Rahway Avenue, made a right onto Randolph, which, as they passed under the New Jersey Turnpike, became Roosevelt Avenue, and took it into Carteret. He hopped off at the intersection of the Peter J. Sica Industrial Highway, several blocks from the waterfront, and entered a seedy bar.
Taking one of three vacant stools, Marty ordered his first beer since being arrested for the armed robbery. After a second beer quenched his thirst, he went to the phone hanging on the wall, and called a local number. A raspy voice answered at the other end.
"Yeah?"
"Is Toughey, there?"
"Who wants to know?"
"Tell him Marty "P" wants to talk to him."
"And, who the fuck is Marty Pee?"
"If he's there, put him on. Don't make me come looking for you, Deep Throat."
"You a tough guy or sumptin?" the raspy voice asked, half snarling, half laughing."
"Tell ya what, Raspy," Marty said, his patience surprising him, "if he's there; ask him, he wants to talk to me."
Marty's mouth curled into what might grudgingly be called a grin, as he heard the phone leave Raspy's hand and bang against the wall. He heard, but couldn't understand the voices in the background; then faintly, Raspy's voice snarling, "Why the fuck din' you say so?"
A more friendly voice spoke into the receiver. "Hello, Marty?"
"Toughey?"
"Yeah, when'd you get out?"
"About an hour ago."
"Christ, you din waste any time. Where are ya? Need a ride?"
"I'm a block from the Newark Bus Terminal. Place called . . ." he had to read the neon sign backward . . . "Dewey's B&G."
"I know the place," Toughey said, "be there in twenty minutes. It's good to hear your voice again, Marty."
Thirty minutes later, a tall, lean man in a fleece lined, denim jacket, entered the bar and headed directly over to Marty.
"How'ya doing, you mutt, ya?" the tall man said, faking a punch at Marty's arm.
"Hey, Pal, how you doing?" Marty said, more than pleased to see his old buddy. He smiled, lit another cigarette and blew the smoke toward the ceiling.
"I'm fine, and you?"
"Jesus . . . only an hour ago," Toughey said, and paused, as he scrambled to put the right words on his tongue.
