The buzzer sounded
and she breezed into the jewelry shop. “Hello,” she said, smiling broadly, the
sole customer. She browsed a while. Finally she summoned one of the two men at
the counter and pointed out three expensive bracelets she wanted to examine
closely.
"Take your
time," said the young man. "We don't get movie stars in here too
often."
"That's so
sweet. Thank you." She wasn't about to say he was mistaken, especially
since he may only have been flirting, softening a potential cash cow.
She chose the most
expensive, $25,000, and gave the guy a hang dog look. "Can you give me a
break on it? How 'bout twenty?"
"Twenty-two."
"Twenty-one-five."
He nodded.
"Deal. Credit?"
She dug her wallet
out of her bag and handed him a card. Minutes later he returned, beaming, and
set the paperwork before her.
"Okay, Miss
Smith. Would you like it gift-wrapped?"
She shook her head
and held the little box to her chest. "No. It's for me -- a gift to
myself."
"Excellent."
She put the item
in her bag, looked the man in the eye, and said: "Thank you. Bye."
She paused at the
door, as there was a dapper young man beyond it, waiting to be admitted. She
stood aside for him, gazing up into his brown eyes.
Wow, she thought
-- hot, hot, hot.
It was a beautiful
Spring day. She crossed the street and focused on the entrance. There had been
something about Mr. Handsome that raised her antenna. Suddenly two gunshots
rang out. “Uh-oh.” She crouched behind an SUV. Moments later Mr. Handsome
exited calmly, satchel in hand, and turned right.
“Not cool.” She
had committed many crimes but never killed anyone. She doubted she could.
She hurried to a
nearby subway station and went almost all the way to the front of the platform.
She boarded the second car. Midday, it was empty when it crossed into Brooklyn.
She removed the blonde wig and stuffed it into a black plastic bag. She put the
blue contacts lenses into a little container. Her head was shaved to a dark
nub. She cut the credit card in two and, once back on the street, deposited
each half into a separate trash can.
Soon she was in
her rent-controlled apartment in Williamsburg. The window offered a
breathtaking view of the Manhattan skyline. She put the wig on a white cast of
a head, in line with four others, each a different color. She closed the blinds
and flopped onto the bed, chuckling at having been taken for a movie star. She
shuddered as she recalled the gunshots. Cold, she thought.
After dinner she
went online, searching for news of the robbery. The men at the counter, a
father and son, were alive, having been shot in the leg, the dad‘s femur
shattered.
“Hmmm. Maybe he is
cool.” Then again, why hadn’t he simply tied them up or locked them in a
closet? He hadn’t even bothered to
disguise himself. If he was so willing to shoot, why had he left witnesses,
given the security cameras? Strange, she thought.
Late the next
morning she went into a crowded fast food restaurant downtown, bought a cup of
coffee, and asked for the key to the rest room. She poured the coffee into the
bowl and flushed. She emerged in a red wig and green lenses.
She entered a pawn
shop, where a man smiled and pressed a button that released a lock on a
security door nearby. The room beyond was dark and creepy.
“Hey, Charlie,”
she said to a white-haired man inside a steel cage.
He shook his head.
“Again? You’re beggin to get busted at this pace, doll.”
“Let me worry
about that.” She handed him the bracelet.
He whistled in
admiration. “Nice score. Five?”
She made a face.
“No way. Eight or I go someplace else, and you lose a good customer.”
“Okay, doll. Can’t
blame a guy for tryin’.”
The buzzer
sounded. She looked over her shoulder, and her breath caught. Even if she
hadn’t recognized the satchel, and despite the sunglasses, there was that same
recognizable something about Mr.-Tall-Dark-and-Handsome, who was now sans
mustache.
“Do I know you?”
he said, looking into her eyes.
She was surprised
the red wig made such a difference. “No, but that can be arranged. I’ll be
waiting outside.” Provided there are no gun shots, she said to herself.
Minutes later he
exited grinning.
“Nice payday?” she
said.
“Lunch is on me. I
have to make a stop first. Got time?”
“Sure. I’m
self-employed. Didn’t Charlie tell you? I’m Cindy, by the way.”
“Joe.”
His sports car was
at the curb. It was what she’d expected. She experienced a thrill as he held
the passenger door open and she seated herself. Very cool, she thought.
Suddenly his mood
changed, becoming serious, his replies short. He pulled into an underground
parking lot and found a spot in a far corner. She wondered what he would be
buying or selling here.
“It was you at the
jewelry shop yesterday, wasn’t it?”
She chuckled. “I
knew you were too sharp not to figure it out. Two bump-intos in less than
twenty-four hours -- can’t be a coincidence. We should think about a
partnership.”
“You move fast.”
“I’ve always been
decisive. It’s one of my strengths.”
“Me too.”
He leaned toward
her. She welcomed the kiss. Soon his hands were around her throat, thumbs
pressed to her windpipe. His grip was powerful.
“Sorry, kid -- no
witnesses.”
The quarters were
so cramped and he was so close that she had little room to fight. She had one
chance, a long shot. She reached behind him and found it tucked into his pants
at the small of his back. She pressed the gun against his abdomen and fired. The
force catapulted him backward, his head striking the side window.
She lay back,
panting, gathering her senses, ears ringing. When she recovered she was
startled by the hole the round had blown into him. Blood was pouring from it.
She did not understand how she could have been so mistaken. What had happened
to her radar? He’d remorselessly shot two people. What had she expected?
She looked around
before opening the door. No one was in sight. Cool, cool, cool, she repeated to
herself, taking deep breaths. She realized the lenses, which had her
fingerprints on them, had popped out of her eyes. She squatted at the foot of
the seat and scanned the interior, finding one lens, then the other, breathing
a sigh of relief. She pondered what to do with the gun. She considered a
suicide set up, but was sure detectives would spot it. She wiped her prints
away and left the .45 in the car. She was about to leave when she recalled the
wig. She looked into the side view mirror and straightened it, then put the lenses
over her eyes, with difficulty, her hands shaking. She took a step, stopped and
looked down. She removed her blood-stained jacket, turned it inside out, and
held it low enough so that it covered the blotches on her jeans. She found her
way out of the lot, repeating her mantra: cool, cool, cool… Once she hit the
street she remembered the satchel, which had to be filled with cash. She wasn’t
about to go back for it. She’d killed him. She couldn’t believe it, although
she’d had no choice. It had all happened so fast. It felt surreal.
Within two hours
she was at the Port Authority Terminal, boarding a bus, no wig or contacts,
kerchief covering her neck. It was time to visit mom. She pondered how she
would explain the bruises.
The floating book shop was rained out today, and the forecast is not too promising for the next two days.
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