Phillip – Part Four
Phillip – Part Four
I suppose I owe you an apology. I haven’t been entirely honest with you. I didn’t lie to you earlier when I told you about how I wanted to leave a life of crime behind. I really do, but I needed to set the record straight first. I needed to do this one last job.
Here’s how everything really happened.
You remember when I told you that I was set-up? That was true. I was on a job with a team from the syndicate. They told me it was a safe cracking job, which is why they brought me along.
It wasn’t a safe cracking.
It was about seizing a high value target and holding him for ransom. I didn’t like doing ransom jobs because they usually got bloody, so the syndicate lied and brought me along. They just pointed me toward a safe near the entryway while they “covered me,” which meant they went and seized the target. The police showed up before I had the safe cracked, and took me in. There was no one covering me and no one spotting for them on my behalf. I didn’t even know they were here until they stormed the room and told me to freeze. On the way out, my hands tied behind my back, I saw my team leaving out the back of the building with a man who was blindfolded and tied; the target.
That’s when I knew it was a set up and I was the fall guy.
I tried to explain what happened at the station, but I said too much. They brought me in on charges of breaking and entering, but quickly added abduction. When I tried to point the police in the right direction to help myself or shorten my sentence, they didn’t turn anything up. I told you those men were more like ghosts. The police assumed I was feeding them false information to lead them on a goose chase, so they stopped giving me opportunities to help.
So that was it. I was stuck for the next 10 years. At least, it looked that way.
One night, I’m trying to fall asleep on my bed when I hear someone whispering my name from just outside my cell window. It was someone from the syndicate. He was there with a team. They were on the roof and he had rappelled down to my window. He was there the night I was caught. He said that the syndicate had a new job for me. In exchange for pulling this job and a few others, they would work to bust me out of prison early.
I said I wasn’t interested.
The man replied that if I didn’t accept, they would ensure my sentence would be lengthened to life. I reluctantly accepted their offer, but under the condition that instead of busting me out, they would let me stay, finish my sentence, and then leave me alone forever. I asked them to erase me from their records.
They agreed.
A strange request for a recently incarcerated thief, I know, but I had a plan. Like I said, 10 years is a lot of time to think, a lot of time to forget, but most importantly, a lot of time to plan your revenge. I worked with the syndicate on their special jobs for the next 10 years, but they didn’t come to me often. I would only pull jobs with them about once every year or so. That gave me a lot of free time to plan.
One night they tell me about a new job: they want to pull a heist at the San Marco casino and they want me to lend them my safe cracking advice and run point on the heist. I had only about a year left in prison before my sentence was complete. That last year in prison was the most dangerous for me. I had spent nine years planning my revenge and this heist, this one last job, would be my ticket out, but not simply out of prison. It would be my ticket out of a life a crime forever.
I spent a year working closely with the syndicate to plan the heist. We got an inside man hired at the casino early in the planning stages on their security detail. Initially our plan was for him to let us in late one night and then have me crack the safe while they covered me from the security response. I decided that was a little dangerous and a little dumb. Aside from having to hold off a private army, It didn’t leave me much room to make my move.
I decided to change the plan in the interest of everyone’s safety and not getting caught. I proposed that rather than crack the safe at the San Marco, we just steal the whole thing and crack it later when we have more time and less pressure. I didn’t have a clue of how to do this though. Lucky for me, our inside man felt confident that enough black powder, focused backwards into the wall surrounding the safe, might just pry it loose and he knew just the man for the job. Enter our demo man. I also proposed that we replace the stolen safe with a copy to throw the police off our trail. There was my opportunity.
The syndicate began sneaking me out of the prison one or two nights a week. The guards were in our pockets and kept my coming and going off record. The syndicate set me up with a nice workshop to work on building them an exact duplicate of the San Marco safe. I asked to be left alone while I worked. They compromised and left me under watch of one of their muscle guys. He didn’t know anything. Our inside man would send me precise details of the safe as he got them and I would go to work. Only, I didn’t build a copy of the safe. I built two.
I got out of prison on a Saturday. I pulled the heist at the San Marco on a Friday, the day before. Everything went according to plan at the start. We used a small team of four. We had our inside man, our demo man, me, and one piece of muscle. Our inside man snuck us in through a side door and down to the basement. Security was light at the basement level, so our muscle handled it quickly and quietly. We reached the safe room and our inside man opened the combination lock and released the lever that opened the wall concealing the safe.
Our demo man sized up the wall and the placement of the safe and went to work. He pulled some small, metal beams from his bag and began putting them together into a large, square bracket. He then began to pack the bracket with black powder all the way around. Next, he wrapped it and tried to pull all as much air out as possible. He then picked the bracket up and bolted it on the wall surrounding the safe. He ran a copper fuse wired to a detonator some distance from the safe and behind the table and chairs that we had flipped over for cover. Once he was done, I called everyone together.
“Listen,” I said, “the moment we blow that powder, everyone in the whole casino will know something is going wrong. It won’t be long until the rest of security arrives to check everything out. The first thing they’re going to do is call the cops. Once we blow the powder, we are on a time crunch.” I look at our muscle, “Keys to the getaway cars?”
“Yeah,” he replied and handed me one, “They’re just outside that fire escape door. Two of us can fit in each car.”
I look at the demo man, “Once you blow it, you and I pull safe out of the wall, put the copy in place, and put the real safe in our car. Then we’ll head back to our safehouse.” I look back at the other two. “You guys cover us until we’re gone and then get out yourselves. We’ll lay on the horn just before we’re away. Nobody try any hero stuff. This take isn’t worth your lives.”
Everyone nods.
“Let’s go to work,” I say.
We all run behind the flipped furniture. The demo man counts down and sets off his device. The powder explodes and I’m sure it rattles the entire casino. A could of dirt and dust erupts from the wall and fills the whole room. The demo man and I move in, dragging the copy of the safe as close as possible. We reach the wall. It looks like a clean cut. He and I put our gloves on and reach in to the crack around the safe. It’s tight, but we can each get our entire hands in on the sides and the top. We pull and begin to work the safe out from the wall. It’s much heavier than my empty copy, which will be good for our take, but I’m not a amused at the moment.
We can hear the casino security on their way down to our level. Our muscle and our inside man take up positions on either side of the hallway leading to the door. One guard makes it through the door. The muscle gives him a bullet in the leg. He falls and begins to crawl back through the door. With this being the only entryway into the safe room, we can hold for a short while.
The security smashes the door open and places an overturned table in the entryway, affording them some make shift cover. They have three or four guys behind the table firing at our two. They had opened fire and between the concrete walls, the sound was almost as deafening as the blast earlier. Bullets shredded the air and ricochets bounced and buried themselves all over the room. We were outmanned and outgunned even worse than I predicted. I didn’t love the math, but it would have to do.
The demo man and I are just about done getting the safe out of the wall. I look at him and shout over the gunfire. “One! Two! Three! Lift!” He and I both wrap our hands under the safe. It’s heavy, but we can hold it. We make it over to the fire escape door and push it open. There are two cars parked. Carefully, the demo man and I load the safe into the back of one of the cars. We crank it up and I lay on the horn or a few moments. We see the muscle and the inside man making their retreat.
I wait and watch in my rearview mirror. It’s critical to my plan that they survive.
“What are you doing?” the demo man says, “Let’s go!”
“I want to make sure they get out!” I respond.
They do and the muscle makes it to the car and starts it. The inside man is about to get in when he’s tackled by one of the security guards. The muscle sees it and is about to abandon him. He cranks up his car and makes to leave, but I’m blocking his way.
“Dammit!” I say and get out of the car. The demo man says something to me, but I don’t listen. The muscle is laying on his horn, but I ignore him too. I pull the revolver from my vest and look down the barrel.
Let me be clear: I don’t like shooting people, but when it came to my nine year plan for vengeance, there was no line. I would take this man’s life if he meant to take this last job and the rest of my life from me.
The bullet explodes from my revolver with a bone jarring crack. The security officer’s body goes limp. The inside man stands up, gives me a nod, and jumps in his getaway car. I quickly run over to the security officer’s body, rip his badge from his shirt, jump in my getaway car, and we leave.
Phillip – Part Three
Phillip – Part Three
I pretend as though I’m alarmed, but I keep my cool. I yank at my wrists as if to break the cuffs. Then I look at the slender man and cry, “You can’t do this! I know my rights!” He lunges forward and punches me in the mouth. He hits like a girl, but I decide to pretend it hurts. I grunt as my head swings about. I pretend to be momentarily stunned by the force of his punch.
He shouts at me, “Shut up, Phillip!”
Damn.
My face must have shown my disappointment at his astute identification. He stands upright and looks cocky. A smirk creeps onto his face. He turns around and walks the room as he talks.
“Didn’t think we’d identify you, huh? How could we forget?” He turns back and leans across the table at me. “Don’t you think it strange that just when the trail on the San Marco case goes cold, you, of all people walk right in and declare you have some ‘new’ knowledge about the case we need to hear?”
I eye him coldly in reply.
“All quiet now, eh? Listen Phillip, I know you just got out of prison this morning, but I’ll be all too happy to throw you back in as an accomplice if you don’t start talking!”
I cock my head to one side and look at him with curiosity. “Well that’s interesting,” I say.
“What’s that, Phillip?”
I just stare at him for a moment. “Are you an idiot?”
He shouts and punches me again. I grunt and reel from the blow. I bring my head back to face him. I take a breath and recompose myself.
“I was just asking because you’re holding me here on suspicion of being an accomplice to a crime with which you know it’s entirely impossible for me to have been involved.”
He gives me a curious stare.
“What, do I have to spell it out for you?” I ask, exasperated. I continue, “I was in jail the whole time! I’ve been there the last ten years! Ask the warden! Ask any of the guards! I was there every day! I couldn’t have done it!”
The slender man drops his cocky attitude. Defeated, the slender man takes a breath.
“You’re right, but I still need what you know for my investigation.” He sits down at the table across from me, “Maybe it’s strange that you’re here, but it’s fortuitous for me. It could be for you too. Let’s talk.” He smiles.
I smile back. “Yeah, I’m really not sure you understand how this works. Like I said before, I’m not in the habit of telling sensitive information to people I don’t know and unfortunately, I don’t know you. Why don’t you bring the chief in here. I know him.”
My smile stays consistent. The slender man drops his.
“Fine,” he acquiesces, “but I’ll be in the room with him!”
I can feel blood from my lips and the inside of my mouth on my teeth, but I give him my best grin anyway. “I’ll be waiting right here.” He closes the door and I hear him walk away.
It only takes a few minutes before the door swings open again. The chief stands in the doorway with the slender man close behind. He’s removed his decorated jacket and is wearing only a button up shirt. He looks tired, but his mustache remains alert as ever. The chief says nothing, but calmly sits down across the table from me. The slender man closes the door behind him and leans up agains the wall, arms folded. No one says anything for a moment. We just look at each other.
“It’s been a while, Phillip,” the chief begins. I smile at him. “My associate here tells me you’ve got some information on the San Marco heist. Well? What have you got for me?”
I lean forward, “Well chief, I know how they did it and I think I may know who.”
The chief raises an eyebrow, but keeps his eyes fixed on mine. “Is that so? Well, I can’t suppose there would be any harm in hearing you out.”
I look at the slender man. “Would you be so kind as to unlock these?”
Hesitantly, the slender man walks over, unlocks my cuffs, and leans up against the wall again.
I look back at the chief. “Let me show you something chief,” I reach in my pocket. As I do, the slender man leaps from the wall as if intercepting an assassination attempt and grabs my arm with one hand, winding up to strike me again with the other.
“Relax!” The chief shouts. The slender man freezes and slowly loosens his grip and lets his arms fall. Still standing beside me, “Pull it out of your pocket. Slowly.”
Very slowly, I remove the newspaper clipping I cut in the old woman’s tearoom and slide it across the table to the chief. The slender man relaxes and goes back to leaning against the wall.
“This paper ran this morning,” the chief says, “Everyone saw it, much to my chagrin. Why are you showing me this, Phillip?”
“Because this picture tells us exactly how they did it! It might also tell us who!”
The chief tries not to smile. “I’ll be honest, Phillip, I never thought you and I would have a conversation like this. How am I supposed to believe anything you tell me?”
“You don’t really have a lot of options, chief. Between you and me, I could tell from the press conference that the trail on the case has gone cold.
Silence hits the room. After a moment, the chief gestures for me to continue. I begin explaining the picture to him.
“First of all, lets see where the San Marco Casino actually placed the safe. Where is it, chief?”
“Set in the wall behind a false panel, locked by a hidden combination lock and release lever.”
“Interesting. How many people do you think knew the safe was behind that wall?”
“Oh, I don’t Phillip. Maybe a handful?”
“And how many of those people do you think knew the combination to the lock or knew how to crack it?”
The chief looked at me. “Phillip, we already pursued that trail and it was a dead end. Are you saying it was, in fact, an inside job?”
“I’m not sure yet, but let’s come back to that. Now, what else do you notice?”
“Other than the fact that it’s empty?”
“Look at the wall around the edges of the safe.”
The chief leans in and squints at the photograph.
“They’re blackened. Is that . . . charring?”
“Good, chief! That’s exactly what it is!”
The chief gives me a blank look. “I don’t understand. Why is the wall charred only around the edges of the safe?”
“Whoever our thief is used small, concentrated explosives focused backward into the wall to blast the safe out of the wall. That charring you see around the edges is what’s left.”
“So they blast around the edges of safe and then . . . what?”
“Well, they stole it, chief.”
“The – the safe? The entire safe?!” the chief looks surprised.
“Of course! Steal the entire safe and then you have all the time you need to crack it open safely. The safe in the picture is a fake.”
The chief leans back in disbelief. “No, Phillip, that can’t be right. Our investigators at the scene said they drilled through the front of the safe. You should know the technique: drill a hole in the right spot and the safe acts like an amplifier for the sound of the tumblers. Add a doctor’s stethoscope or something and you’re in business. Makes it easy to hear them fall into place as they release the lock. Look, you can see the hole they drilled in the picture.”
“That’s not what the thief did, chief. That’s what they did to this fake safe to make you think that’s what they did. It’s a red herring. With how tight the security at this place is, this had to be a quick heist. That type of reinforced plate would take almost an hour to drill through. I’m also familiar with this style of safe and the tumblers are silent. They have extra housing around the tumblers to dampen their sound, but that sound-absorbing housing produces slight vibrations in the combination dial which can be felt with a careful hand. We used to call this kind of safe a ‘feeler.’ Anyway, drilling a hole, no matter how strategic, wouldn’t help you crack this safe.”
The chief stared at the picture for a moment. “So, you’re saying that they didn’t crack the safe, they just stole it completely and replaced it with a fake?”
“Yes, but not just a fake, chief! A perfect copy! Imagine how many times someone must have seen and studied this safe to fabricate a perfect copy like that! Good enough to fool even the casino’s owner! It’s a perfect duplicate with a perfect red herring to throw you guys off and it’s left in plain sight.” I pick up the newspaper clipping and look at romantically for a moment. “I don’t know who this thief is, but I almost admire his work. He’s certainly a master of his craft.”
“Let’s talk about that, Phillip. Now who stole the safe?”
“Right!” I smack the table with enthusiasm. “Let’s talk about who stole the safe! Now, at first, I thought it had to be an inside job. Given the overall secrecy surrounding the location of the safe and its security measures, I figured that the only person who could’ve done something like this had to be someone who worked at the casino.”
The chief responded, “You said, ‘at first.’ You don’t think that’s the case anymore?”
“No. I think this was done by a highly organized professional. Like me.” I give the chief a winning smile. He isn’t amused so I move on. “Initially, it was the explosives that got me. I couldn’t figure it out. They used some pretty powerful hardware, the sort of hardware that you can’t get just anywhere and that doesn’t come cheap. Their resources were too vast, their pockets, too deep for this to be some schmuck trying to rip off his boss.”
“So who do you think it is?”
“I’m not done yet, chief.” We lock eyes for a moment. “There’s also the expertise with which the explosives were applied and the blast was focused. Whoever they were, in addition to their vast resources, they also had to be a master demolitions man.”
“Okay, so who was it?” The chief is getting a bit annoyed.
“Still not done, chief.” I continue, “Finally, there’s the perfectly fabricated copy of the safe that was left behind. He had to know how this safe looked, how it worked, inside and out to make a copy this good. So, in addition to his deep pockets, mastery of explosives, he also had to be a master safecracker.”
“Phillip! Just tell me who did it!”
I hold up a finger, “Whoever he is, he’s a talented person . . . or talented group of people . . . .”
The chief gives me a puzzled look. I lean forward.
“Here’s what I think chief. At first, I thought it was a single guy who had worked at the San Marco for years on casino security who got fed up with taking orders from his boss and decided to rip off the whole casino. However, when I started looking at the crime scene, just from this photograph, mind you, I started to realize how improbable it actually is to that a single person pulled off this whole thing, and so well, I might add! And, perhaps most importantly, that they got away with it. Far more likely that a team, each with their own specialties, pulled the heist. That’s the only way something like this works, chief.”
The chief looks at me. “So who do you think did it?”
“There’s only one group I know of with that kind of power operating in the city.”
The chief leans back in his chair. “You’re talking about your old syndicate, aren’t you? You think this is a job they pulled?”
“Just trust me, chief. From the inside out, this looks just like something they would’ve pulled off! Like something I would’ve pulled off. Each step is exactly their style. There’s no one else with the resources, the manpower, or the expertise to pull off something like this.”
“Phillip, I don’t have enough evidence to go after someone like that! I don’t know a thing about them! Do you expect me to just walk up and tell them I know they did it and ask for a confession?”
“No, but I do know where they’re keeping the safe.”
“How could you possibly know that, Phillip? You’ve been locked away for 10 years.”
“I’m confident they haven’t changed it. It would be in one of three places, neither of them heavily defended or guarded so as not to draw attention to them. What I’ve just told you should give you plenty of reason to be able to go in and snoop around.”
“How do I know they haven’t already cracked it and destoryed all the evidence?”
“Because they don’t have anyone good enough to crack that safe.”
“You mean they don’t have anyone as good as you.”
I look down at my dirty shoes for a moment, then back at the chief. “Yeah. 10 years and they still haven’t been able to replace me.”
“This is crazy, Phillip.”
“Well, it’s a lot better than what you have on the case now.”
“That’s true,” the chief grumbled. “Okay, Phillip. I’ll play. Where can I find the safe?”
I describe the three possible locations to the chief, who writes them down and hands them off to the slender man. He dashes out, presumably to begin putting teams together to search each location. The chief and I each stand up and he leads me out of the station.
Outside on the stoop, the chief turns to me, “Thanks for your help, Phillip. I don’t think I could’ve wrapped this up without you.”
Just like the warden at the prison this morning, he smiles at me. I feign a smile back. He extends his hand, still smiling. I reach out shake his hand. I walk out from the stoop and hear the door to the station whine to a thud as it closed.
And that was it.
. . . except for one thing. There was just one small detail I left out of my story.
I pulled the heist at the San Marco.
Phillip – Part Two
Phillip – Part One
I’m almost done writing this story line. I’ve decided to begin releasing it in longer segments. I haven’t titled it yet, so I’m open to suggestions. I’ve always been awful at titling my work. For now, I’ll simply call it “Phillip” because he’s the only character to whom I’ve assigned a name.
Part One
I get out of prison this Saturday. 10 years sure seemed like a long time to me when I was 21. Someone told me that my twenties would fly by. They told me I’d be married with a family before I knew it. Someone lied. Of course, my twenties were a bit different than that of most young gentleman. Most gentlemen my age were learning a trade or trying to court a woman. I was surviving. Come to think of it, I’ve always been surviving.
Oh, how rude of me, I haven’t even introduced myself. Phillip, professional thief – er – sorry. I was a professional thief before I got caught. It was a set-up. There was this job. It seemed like a pretty simple heist, but it turned out to be more complicated than that. They hired me to crack the safe, but that wasn’t actually what they wanted. They needed a fall guy to cover their escape and, being as young and naive as I was, the choice was obvious.
I don’t talk about it much. I used to bitter about it. It was hard for me to sleep at night, partly because of how horrible these beds were, if you could call them beds. I got used to them. No, it had a lot more to do with what I would think about after the guards turned out the lights. I used to fantasize about catching up to the guys who set me up and what I’d do to them if I ever caught them. That’s a pretty big “if” though. They were more like ghosts than people. I don’t even know their names. I hardly remember what they look like. And besides, that was years ago. 10 years is good time to think, but more importantly, it’s good time to forget. That’s what I wanted to do, at least.
Sunlight broke through the window above my “bed,” casting long, thin shadows from the window’s bars along the wall. I roll over and look at the calendar I carved into the same wall.
It was Saturday.
Getting out of prison is about as glamorous as getting in; lots of waiting, paper pushing, standing, and hand cuffs. They have me change into some uncomfortable civilian clothes. They give me an itchy shirt, patched trousers, suspenders with rusty clips, a jacket about as thick as newspaper, some old shoes that didn’t fit, and a dirty hat.
I hadn’t looked better in 10 years.
Once I change and they finish stamping all my papers, they walk me outside to the gate. There, they hand me a burlap sack and tell me this was to help me start a new life. The warden walks over to me. He takes off my cuffs.
“Congratulations, Phillip,” he said, gesturing toward the road beyond the gate. “You’re free to go.”
He smiles at me. I feign a smile back. He extends his hand, still smiling. I reach out and shake his hand. I walk out the gate and hear it to whine to a thud as it closed.
And that was it.
The prison was located on a hill not far out from the city. I stand on the street for a few minutes taking in the city before me. Sunlight hits my face. It was warmer, somehow fresher than in the prison yard. I take a deep breath. The air tasted better. It was less stale. A breeze catches my jacket, pulls my hat off, and tosses my dark hair. I crack a smile for real this time. Then I pick up my hat from where it landed a few feet away. I turn and look down at the city and wonder how much it’s changed in 10 years. I untie the drawstring on the sack and look inside. There was another pair of trousers, another shirt, two pairs of underwear, $100, and a sandwich. I don’t know if this was supposed to be a joke, but I chuckle like it was. I’m not sure how they expected those things to help me start a new life, but nevertheless, I tied the sack up again and sling it over my shoulder. It wasn’t really important. I had other plans. I turn, take one last look at my home of the last 10 years, and start walking down the road toward the city.
I walk down the rural road from the prison that leads into the city. There’s tall grass and open, downhill fields which afforded me a great view. Every mile or so I’d pass the odd mailbox, only a small hint that anyone actually lived on this much land. Their long driveways disappeared seemingly miles away into small specks that vaguely resembled enormous country manors. I remembered those from my ride in to prison 10 years ago. And just like 10 years ago, the thought crossed my mind of how many valuable things they might have, how easy they might be to take, if they would even miss those things once I had . . . .
I snap to. I shake my head and try to place the thought behind me. That was a thought I hoped to leave behind me along with . . . well, everything else. I had other things to focus on now. Only a handful of automobiles actually drove by me on the road. A few them, appropriately, drove down the long driveways toward the country estates. The type to own estates in the country are some of the few wealthy enough to own one of those automobiles.
By the time I had made it to the edge of the city, the sun was high in the sky and I’m feeling ready for my sandwich. I sit down on a bench on a street corner and take my sandwich out of the sack. It’s warm. In a bad way. I peel the bread apart and look at what’s on it. Some ham, a slice of cheese, and some mustard. This is significantly better than prison food. I take an excited bite and lean back on the bench. I spread my arm along the back of the bench, cross my legs, and look around.
This side of town is quiet. I’m still far from downtown. There is a small convenience store, a bank, and couple other buildings I can’t identify. I guess they’re offices. There’s only a handful of people out walking around. They look like they’re far too busy going somewhere else to possibly want to hang around here. I could relate. A kid selling newspapers catches my eye. This didn’t look like a busy part of town to be trying to sell papers. I take the final bites of my sandwich and brush the crumbs off my lap. I walk over to him.
“Hey, kid,” I say.
“I’m not a kid, I’m fifteen!” he retorted, indignant.
I just stare at him for a moment. “Yeah . . . anyway, can I buy a paper?”
The kids eyes brighten up. He apparently forgot that I had insulted him. “Yeah! Of course! Just a nickle.”
I reach in my pocket and feel the lint. I wince. The only money I had was the $100 bill in the sack. “Listen ah, you don’t have change for a hundred bucks, do ya?” I say.
The kid laughs out loud and looks at me. I just keep looking right back at him. “Oh, you’re serious,” he says. “What are you, some kind of high roller?”
I feel a puzzled look cross my face as I consider what I’m wearing and how long it’s been since I had a good shave, but nevertheless, I decide I’ll play.
“Yeah, of course I’m a high roller,” I assert, “Do you have any idea who I am?”
The kid opens his mouth and begins to form an answer. I interrupt him, “Doesn’t matter. Now you got change for me or am I buying my paper somewhere else?”
The kid is frazzled and tries to pull himself together. “Uh, yeah, yeah, sure. Of course I got the change.”
“Let me see it first”
He pulls a pouch out of his pocket and opens it up. I quickly tally it. He’s got more than enough. That strikes me as odd that a kid selling newspapers has change for $100, but I bite.
I hand him my bill. He hands me a paper, and some crumpled bills. He starts counting coins out of his purse, but I see him do a sleight of hand and count the same nickel three times. He’s trying to short change me figuring I won’t notice 15 cents in 99 dollars. Smart kid, I think to myself. He’s probably been doing this all morning. No wonder he’s got change for $100. He holds his hand out to drop the change in mine. I open my palm and let it fall.
“Thanks kid,” I say.
“You’re welcome, mister!”
“But can I have the rest of my change?”
He stares at me, confused and afraid that I’ve caught him, “Wha . . . um . . . what do you mean?”
“Your sleight of hand was slow. Also, you counted each coin individually and drew my attention to it. You were too thorough.”
I reach my hand in his purse and grab 15 cents. I lean in really close to him and quietly say, “Next time, kid, distract me from what you’re doing. Get me to talk about the weather or my family. Anything to take my eye and my focus away from your play.”
I lean back and smile really big. Loudly, I say, “Yeah, I hope this weather holds too! I’ve got a fun trip planned for the family this weekend! Thanks again!”
I walk away. After a bit I turn around, smile, and wave at him. I shoot him a wink and he smiles back. Kid’s good. I was around his age when I started.
I keep walking through the streets toward downtown. It’s early afternoon now, so I figure I’d like to have a cup of tea and read my fresh paper. After a few minutes, I find a little tearoom and walk inside. It’s quaint. And quiet. There’s only a couple people inside including the elderly lady keeping the place. The chairs and tables look old, but well worn. A lot of interesting people have sat in this tearoom over the years. I suppose they’ll add my name to that list. I approach the counter and wait for the woman to acknowledge me.
She turns and sees me, “Oh! Hello dearie! I apologize, I didn’t see you there!”
“No problem,” I assure her. I lean in and ask, “Do you have any Earl Grey?”
She chuckles a little. “Well, it wouldn’t be a right tearoom if I didn’t! Go ahead an grab a seat dearie, I’ll start making it for you.” I start to reach for my pocket to pay when she inquires, “Is this your first time here?”
I nod.
A broad smile spreads across her face. “Then your tea is on me today. Go grab a seat.” She waved me away the way a mother waves her children away from cookies fresh out of the oven; with only the most pleasant of smiles.
I grab a seat at a table a few steps away. I take off my hat and place it in front of me on the table. I pull my paper out from under my arm and give it a whip to open it. The headline glares at me in dark, bold print:
SAN MARCO CASINO SAFE CRACKED! POLICE DUMBFOUNDED!
The cover photo had a big picture of an open, empty safe and a few police standing around it. I smirk and start reading. Casino jobs were always my favorite. The elderly woman comes by and drops my tea off.
“Your tea, dearie.”
“Thank you,” I reply, not looking up from my paper. The woman lingers a moment, then glances at my paper.
“Oh you’re reading about that safe cracking!”
I turn and look at her. “You know something about it?” I inquire.
“Oh, it’s the strangest thing. Plenty of people have tried to rob that casino but this one was different. The safe was locked up in a room with guards on watch all night, but when they opened it in the morning, it was empty! The police haven’t been able to figure it out.”
“Sounds like an inside job,” I mutter, “Classic.”
“Sorry, I’m a little hard of hearing,” she leaned in, “What was that, dearie?”
I raise my voice a little and over-enunciate, “I said, ‘sounds like a tough job. Classic.'” I drop the enunciation and continue, “You know, a tough job for the police.”
“Oh right! Well, I agree! That does sound difficult. Hard to catch someone when there’s no evidence.”
“Say, you wouldn’t happen to have a pair of scissors or something with which to cut out this article, would you?”
“Well, sure, dearie! Let me grab that for you!”
She bustles off and returns in a moment with a pair of scissors which she hands to me. I quickly cut out the photograph and the headline. I stuff the clipping in to my jacket pocket and leave the rest of the paper on the table. I stand up and put my hat on.
“Are you leaving, dearie?” she asks.
“Well, I just remembered a very important meeting I need to go to and . . . uh . . . well, I need to go to it. Thank you for the tea. It was lovely.”
“But you haven’t tried any!”
As I walk across the tearoom and toward the door I say, “Ah, but I needn’t taste it to know how delicious it is! Tea is all about the aroma,” I grab the doorknob, open the door, and turn back to face the woman, “is it not, misses . . . ?”
“Please, just call me Mary, dearie,” she said with a smile.
“Mary,” I smile at her, “can you tell me how to get to the police station from here?”
“Sure,” she says, “Just go down three blocks until you reach the square with the fountain. It’s on the square.”
“Thank you Mary.”
“Oh! I didn’t catch your name, sir!”
“No,” I smirk, “You didn’t.” I walk out and shut the door behind me.
Part Two to what I wrote yesterday
I walked down the rural road from the prison that lead into the city. There was tall grass and open, downhill fields which afforded me a great view. Every mile or so I’d pass the odd mailbox, only a small hint that anyone actually lived on this much land. Their long driveways disappeared seemingly miles away into small specks that vaguely resembled enormous country manors. I remembered those from my ride in to prison 10 years ago. And just like 10 years ago, the thought crossed my mind of how many valuable things they might have, how easy they might be to take, if they would even miss those things once I had . . . .
I snapped to. I shook my head and tried to place that thought behind me. That was a thought I hoped to leave behind me along with . . . well, everything else. Only a handful of automobiles actually drove by me on the road. A few them, appropriately, drove down the long driveways toward the country estates. The type to own estates in the country are some of the few wealthy enough to own one of those automobiles.
By the time I had made it to the edge of the city, the sun was high in the sky and I was feeling ready for a sandwich. I sat down on a bench on a street corner and took my sandwich out of the sack. It was warm. In a bad way. I peeled the bread apart and looked at what was on it. Some ham, a slice of cheese, and some mustard. This was significantly better than prison food. I took a bite and leaned back on the bench. I spread my arm along the back of the bench, crossed my legs, and looked around.
This side of town was quiet. I was still far from downtown. There was a small convenience store, a bank, and couple other buildings I couldn’t identify. I guessed they were offices. There were only a handful of people out walking around. They looked like they were far too busy going somewhere else to possibly want to hang around here. I could relate. A kid selling newspapers caught my eye. This didn’t look like a busy part of town to be trying to sell papers. I take the final bites of my sandwich and brush the crumbs off my lap. I walk over to him.
“Hey, kid,” I say.
“I’m not a kid, I’m fifteen!” he retorted, indignant.
I just stare at him for a moment. “Yeah . . . anyway, can I buy a paper?”
The kids eyes brighten up. He apparently forgot that I had insulted him. “Yeah! Of course! Just a nickle.”
I reach in my pocket and feel the lint. I wince. The only money I had was the $100 bill in the sack. “Listen ah, you don’t have change for a hundred bucks, do ya?” I say.
The kid laughs out loud and looks at me. I just keep looking right back at him. “Oh, you’re serious,” he says. “What are you, some kind of high roller?”
I feel puzzled look cross my face as I consider what I’m wearing and how long it’s been since I had a good shave, but nevertheless, I decide I’ll play.
“Yeah, of course I’m a high roller,” I assert confidently, “Do you have any idea who I am?”
The kid opens his mouth and begins to form an answer. I interrupt him, “Doesn’t matter. Now you got change for me or am I buying my paper somewhere else?”
The kid’s frazzled and tries to pull himself together. “Uh, yeah, yeah, sure. Of course I got the change.”
“Let me see it first”
He pulls a pouch out of his pocket and opens it up. I quickly tally it. He’s got more than enough. I hand him my bill. He hands me a paper, and some crumpled bills. He starts counting coins out of his purse, but I see him do a sleight of hand and count the same nickel three times. He’s trying to short change me figuring I won’t notice 15 cents in 99 dollars. Smart kid, I think to myself. He’s probably been doing this all morning. He holds his hand out to drop the change in mine. I open my palm and let it fall.
“Thanks kid,” I say.
“You’re welcome, mister!”
“But can I have the rest of my change?”
He stares at me, confused, “Wha . . . um . . . what do you mean?”
“Your sleight of hand was slow. Also, you counted each coin individually and drew my attention to it. You were too thorough.”
I reach my hand in his purse and grab 15 cents. I lean in really close to him and quietly say, “Next time, kid, distract me from what you’re doing. Get me to talk about the weather or my family. Anything to take my eye and my focus away from your play”
I lean back and smile really big. Loudly, I say, “Yeah, I hope this weather holds too! I’ve got a fun trip planned for the family this weekend! Thanks again!”
I walk away. After a bit a turn around and smile and wave at him. I shoot him a wink and smiles back. Kid’s good. I was around his age when I started.