I’m an early riser. I don’t need much sleep. Four, five hours, tops. On the day of a score, even less.

It’s tough to sleep when you’re going over the plan ten, twenty, thirty times in your head, until you don’t even have to think about it anymore. Kinda like that muscle memory thing ballplayers have. It’s all about repetition. You do it enough times until it’s natural, until you don’t even have to think about what you’re doing.

There’s a good reason for all this prep. The slightest deviation from a plan can result in a screw-up, and I don’t screw-up. Ever. I wouldn’t be as good as I am, if I did.

I don’t get down to it until it gets dark, most times after midnight, when I’m sure everyone’s upstairs, asleep, out of my way. So, during the day, I gotta keep occupied. I can’t let boredom creep in. A dull mind makes for an ever duller body.

I don’t have what you’d call a regular routine, but there are things I make sure get done. Like time in the gym. I don’t like it, but it’s important to keep fit. All that climbing and running takes its toll. So, maybe an hour or so working the machines, pumping iron, using the treadmill. If the weather don’t suck, I like to get in a run. Five miles, usually. Not only keeps my stamina up, but it’s good for my head. I plug in those earphones, crank up the hard rock, and the only thing I think about is putting one fucking foot in front of the other.

You can’t trust nobody. Everyone’s out to get what they can, so sometimes I’ll drop in on one of my fences, especially if they owe me dough. You gotta keep on these assholes ’cause if you don’t, they’ll fucking rob you blind. Kind of ironic, right? A crook being jobbed by another crook.

About five o’clock, I have a light meal. I stopped eating meat a while ago, so maybe I have a salad, or a veggie burger. You’d think, being up as early as I’ve been, and what with all I’ve done during the day, I’d need a short nap, but no. That would dull the mind. Besides, I probably couldn’t get to sleep anyway. Too wired.

After dinner, I check into the motel I’ve found in the town next to the one where my score is. I’ve paid in advance. Two nights, even though I’ll only be there one.

A couple hours before show time, I go over my notes a couple more times. I’ve already spent hours studying the home and the people in it. I know their habits—everyone has habits. I know who’s in the house and when they turn in. I know the routine of the local cops, whether they patrol the ‘hood and if so, how often. I know the layout of the house—either I’ve been there before, or I’ve got my hands on the blueprints, or I’ve read about it in one of those fancy magazines. I can’t believe how dumb rich assholes are. They actually invite strangers into their houses and let them take photos. I know exactly what’s in that house, what I’m going after, and where it is.

Vanity, man. That’s my best friend.

And then, when all this is done, I head out to the place. I’ll stake it out for a while, until all the lights are off and everything’s quiet.

I then I strike.

You can read more about Francis in Second Story Man, published by Down & Out Books, coming March 26, 2018.

Francis Hoyt, arrogant, athletic, brilliant, manipulative and ruthless, is a master burglar. He specializes in stealing high-end silver, breaking into homes that seem impenetrable. He’s never been caught in the act, although he has spent some time in prison on a related charge, time he used to hone his craft and make valuable connections. (Hoyt is based on two real-life master burglars: the so-called Dinnertime Bandit, who only stole when his victims were home, and The Silver Thief, who was only interested in high-end silver). Hoyt follows the money. In the winter, he works down south, primarily in southern Florida and Georgia, around the Atlanta area. Summers, he moves back up north, where he plies his trade in New York, New Jersey, Connecticut and Massachusetts.

One day, Charlie Floyd, brilliant, stubborn, an experienced investigator, who has recently retired from his job with the attorney general’s department for the state of Connecticut, receives a phone call from Manny Perez, a Cuban-American Miami police detective. Perez, who’s worked with Floyd previously, wants to enlist the former investigator in his efforts to put an end to Francis Hoyt’s criminal career. Floyd accepts the offer and they team up to bring Hoyt to justice.

Told in alternating chapters representing Hoyt’s, Floyd’s and Perez’s points-of-view, the story develops into a contest between the two lawmen and this master burglar. As Floyd and Perez get closer to their prey, Hoyt finds out they’re after him and rather than backing down, he taunts them, daring them to bring him in. The stakes get higher and higher, and Hoyt, who is always concerned about proving he’s the best at what he does, even resorts to murder. Eventually, the story climaxes in a confrontation between the three men.

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About the author
Charles Salzberg is a former magazine journalist who has now turned to a life of crime. His first novel, Swann’s Last Song, was nominated for a Shamus Award, and there are three others in the series: Swann Dives In, Swann’s Lake of Despair, which was nominated for two Silver Falchions, and was a Finalist for the Beverly Hills Book Award and the Indie Excellence Award, and Swann’s Way Out. His novel, Devil in the Hole, was named one of the best crime novels of 2013 by Suspense Magazine, and his novella, “Twist of Fate,” was included in Triple Shot, a collection of three noir crime novellas. He is the author of more than twenty non-fiction books, including From Set Shot to Slam Dunk, an oral history of the NBA, and Soupy Sez: My Zany Life and Times, with Soupy Sales. He has taught magazine journalist at the S.I. Newhouse School of Public Communications at Syracuse University, and he teaches writing at the New York Writers Workshop, where he is a Founding Member.

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