A Cinch
“What do you mean, exactly, when you say ‘There’s little to no risk involved’?” Shauna squinted at me with those golden brown eyes. Tiger eyes, like the semi precious stones. Like the cracked stone in my pinky ring.
“Just that,” I shrug. “Either you’re in, or your out. What’ll it be?”
Shauna nattered on her fingernail. No wonder her burgundy polish was chipped. “I, ah,” she mumbled turning her head aside, to avoid looking me in the eye. “I gotta think about it.”
“Whatever,” I said with a nonchalance I definitely did not feel. What’s the problem? I wondered. She’s never hesitated before. On my way out the door of this ratty-but-hip dive bar, I turned to see — Shauna leaning across the bar, whispering in the bartender’s ear. The hunky, surfer-boy blonde bartender. They both giggled.
The mystery of her reluctance was solved, as far as I knew.
***
I wondered if Shauna’s live-in boyfriend, Boyd, was aware of her flirtation with this boyish bartender. Probably not. I mulled over whether or not to threaten Shauna with telling Boyd. All I’d have to do is drop a few salacious asides, an ugly hint or two, and let Boyd’s temper take its cruel course.
Nah, not even Shauna deserved what he’d probably do.
But without Shauna as a distraction, with her too short skirts and her too tight tops, this job was going to be much harder. I didn’t have the luxury of time to scout out another shiny distraction; maybe there was some other way to convince her to cooperate.
I checked my watch. I’m old fashioned that way; I don’t like using my phone for a timepiece. I don’t like using my cell phone at all. Too easy to be tracked, after the fact. I’ve seen it before: a seemingly perfect job pulled off, only to have the crew busted because some bozo had his phone on him. So mine sleeps in my dresser drawer.
I walked down the boulevard, stopping before the window of La Maison d’Or Jewelers. The thick glass was so clean, so spotless, that you’d think you could reach right in the display and grab a handful of whatever you wanted. Emeralds, diamonds, sapphires — all manner of precious gems — set in platinum and 24 karat gold. Rings, bracelets, necklaces, all original designs. One pair of pink diamond drop earrings likely cost more than two year’s rent. Who buys this stuff? I wondered.
Not people like me, that’s for sure.
I shifted my attention to my reflection in the glass. I wasn’t conventionally handsome, not by a long shot, but today I looked like a grubby hobo. I definitely needed a shave; the Miami Vice stubble hadn’t been fashionable in decades. I brushed my hair back with my fingers. Maybe a haircut, too, something a bit more —
Movement behind me. A uniformed somebody, standing several feet behind me. Arms crossed, watching. Not a cop, but probably a security guard for the store. I glanced up at the camera in the corner of the window, and waved. I moved on.
***
I had the jewelry store layout memorized, knew the shift changes for the rent-a-cops. The safe inside wasn’t even hidden, from what I’d heard on the street. It was just sitting there, in plain sight, in the corner behind Mister Big’s desk. An ancient, ugly thing, with a scarred steel casing, weighing a ton. Sounds just like Mr. Big, I laughed to myself.
The talk on the street was the combination of that hefty antique safe was Mr. Big’s birthday. Of course it was; Mr. Big may be mean and business savvy, but he ain’t clever or creative. And what day is his birthday? This was why I need Shauna: to wiggle her girly wares for Mr. Big, get him dumb and drooling, then somehow get him to tell her the date.
She’s successfully worked her magic on jobs for me before. This one ought to be a cinch.
***
Shauna finally agreed to join me, but only after I promised to double her fee. I suspected she’s planning to run off with pretty-boy bartender, and needed some cash to do so. Fine, I couldn’t say I blame her; Boyd was a real bastard. I’m sure she’s tired of getting slapped around when he can’t find the TV remote.
So one afternoon, fresh from a shave and a haircut, and right before the guards change shift, I strolled into the jewelry store with Shauna draped on my arm like the spiciest eye-candy you’ve ever seen. I’m talking Red Hots, hot.
“My girl here,” I said, straightening the cuff of my navy sharkskin suit, “has some, ah, ‘family heirlooms,’ she’d like to have assessed. I understand that’s one of the services your fine establishment provides.”
Shauna bit her lower lip and leaned over to adjust the strap of her designer high-heeled sandal. Her perfect breasts nearly tumbled out of her thin silk peasant blouse.
Watching her display, Mr. Big grunted. “Let’s go to my office, to discuss.”
I glanced at my watch. “Damn, I have to step out for a minute. Gotta make a call.” I nodded to Shauna. “How about you discuss the particulars while I’m gone.” I gave her a peck on her blushing cheek. “Back soon.”
I didn’t bother to look behind me as I walked out the door. I could only imagine what she’d be up to, and believe me, brother, I have a very good imagination.
***
Fifteen minutes later, I walked back in. I saw Shauna standing just inside the doorway of the office. She had her arms folded protectively across her bosom, and wore an unflattering scowl on her otherwise very pretty face. I sighed inwardly. Guess this didn’t go as planned.
She nodded for me to come over, which I did. Mr. Big was siting with his feet up on his desk, cigar wedged in the corner of his mouth. He spoke without removing the cigar; it shed its silvery ash, barely missing his starched shirt front. The ash landed in a powdery lump on his suit coat, though. He didn’t seem to notice, or care. You’d think a guy who ran such a hoity-toity jewelry shop would be a bit more fastidious.
“Your hoochi-coochi girl is a looker, that’s for sure, but she’s not my type,” he grinned. He looked me up and down. “Now, you, on the other hand…”
It wouldn’t be the fist time, I reminded myself. If this is what it takes to get the job done… I made eye contact with Shauna, jerked my head toward the shop, signaling for her to scamper. She did without question. “Shut the door behind you,” Mr. Big ordered, ignoring her sexy, swishy walk.
I looked back at Mr. Big and smiled weakly. I’ll just close my eyes and think of… I took a deep breath to calm myself for what I suspected was coming, how I’ll spend all that money once I rob Mr. Big blind.
He gently set his smoldering cigar on the cut crystal ashtray on his desk, and patted his wide, cushioned lap, inviting me to sit. I did.
Mr. Big wrapped his arms around me in a tight bear hug. “You’re very shy.” Because I’m wracking my brain, trying to figure out how to get those numbers out of you, I wanted to answer. “I like the quiet ones.” He sniffed my hair, my neck — which was now covered in goose bumps, and not from a rising desire.
“I saw you on the CCTV footage from earlier,” he murmured against my neck. “You looked like a shabby homeless man.” He giggled. “You clean up real nice.”
“Thanks,” I replied hoarsely.
He shifted his weight and held me even tighter, if that was possible. I struggled, as it was getting hard to breathe. “All I want from you,” he said, and his breath smelled like honey and rotten meat, “Is a taste.” Before I could respond, schwing! —
His teeth were in my neck, and I was falling into darkness.
***
I reach for my cosmopolitan, admiring the clean sparkle in the large diamond set in my platinum pinky ring. I bring the glass to my lips, pretending to sip.
In the flattering, dim light of the bar of this five star restaurant, I know I look ruggedly handsome; weekly visits to the spa have definitely paid off. Wearing bespoke threads helps, too. Working for Mr. Big undoubtedly has its perks. I realize I love sporting lots of high-end material trappings; that, and never growing old.
Thanks to Mr. Big, I get to hang out in upscale joints all around the world — places that once would have thrown me out without a second thought, because I didn’t have the right look. Because for most of my time on this planet I looked like a broke scrounger. Not anymore!
Moreover, being in his gainful employ has been a real boost to my confidence; certainly it’s changed the way I view my fellow man. Once, I saw only the occasional sucker as prey; now I see them all that way.
Suckers, I snicker to myself, more like suckees. More like dinner. Afterward, when I’ve had my fill, I scavenge jewelry off their desiccated corpses — because, oops! I tend to drink them dry. All those dear, glittering trinkets are goodies to be sold in La Maison d’Or, to fund our lavish life-style. I don’t kid myself; know I’m one of many boys in Mr. Big’s stable, but I also know I’m his favorite — at least for now. So I’m working hard to become the best, working to get promoted to capo, establish my own stable. Eventually.
From a nearby table, a trust fund baby has been eyeing me for most of the evening. He’s had enough scotch that he finally has the courage to approach me. He climbs unsteadily onto the stool next to mine, smooths his blonde hi-lighted hair back nervously. I give him my crooked smile, the one that says, Let’s share a secret.
As he raises his glass, I note the limited edition Rolex watch sliding down his wrist. A watch with a circle of diamonds framing the face. I catch a glimpse of the vintage pearl necklace peeking out from under the open collar of his designer shirt. With trembling, well-manicured fingers, he combs his gleaming salon-tinted hair back from his hooded eyes.
He leans over to me, and slurs, “May I buy you a drink?”
I turn to him and wink. This is gonna be a cinch.
— — -
Bio: With a Masters in English Lit, Hillary Lyon founded and for 20 years acted as senior editor for the independent poetry publisher, Subsynchronous Press. Her crime stories have appeared in Guilty Crime Story Magazine, Mystery Tribune, Shotgun Honey, Yellow Mama, The Yard: Crime Blog, and the anthologies Gypsum Sound Trails 1& 2, and Whodunit?. She’s an SFPA Rhysling Award nominated poet. She is also the art director for Black Petals.
You can find her at her website. HERE.
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