There are rules. Always rules.
Even when a man tries to initiate chaos he’s still bound by fixed laws
of pattern and repetition and ritual. If
he aims to do it right, that is. See,
organization is half the battle. It’s
the key to everything there is. Whether
you’re lusting for prom queen or CEO of a Fortune 500 company, you’ve got to be
organized. Have a plan. Me, I’m making a living just fine. I’m a thief, more specifically, a
pickpocket. Well, I guess it’s more of
an extracurricular activity. And in my
profession you’ve got to make your own rules and stick to them. Or you’re finished. Over before it started.
Rule Number One: Work Crowds
From the bar in the back the pool hall
seems endless. But really it’s just a
long room, maybe a quarter the length of a football field, with two rows of five
tables stretching off into the distance.
Each table spaced mathematically proportionate to the next creates a
concatenate of green rectangles that dissolve into the darkness. Each is lit by a lone amber light hung square
over the center of the table advertising the names of various alcoholic
beverages. A deafening cacophony of
wooden cues striking numbered balls of phenolic resin serves as an arrhythmic
undercurrent for the AC/DC blasting from a fraying speaker system bought second
hand at a pawn shop downtown that picked up the gear when Amberline’s folded back
in 1996.
From my vantage point I scanned the room
and nursed cheap beer from a brown bottle.
The slick tincture of bitterness on my tongue made me self-conscious to
look anyone in the face during conversation.
It was better not to talk anyway, not to make an impression. I sipped slowly, occasionally, trying to make
the bottle last and trying to keep my overhead costs down. It was simple economics: the less I spent on
the job meant the more I profited in the end.
But I’d been sitting here so long my ass had gone numb and the brown bottle
of cheap beer had warmed to room temperature from the heat in my hands and the
stagnant air.
Rule Number Two: Form No Attachments
The bartender must’ve been new. I hadn’t seen her here before. She was slow to serve and she’d pour her
draughts with far too much foam but her tits were perky so the tips rolled in. She had a dark mane of deep brown hair that
shimmered with depth and body.
“How about a cold one?”
I could tell by the weight in my bottle
that roughly half remained. “No, thanks.”
“Just let me know when you’re ready.” I got the feeling that she maybe kind of
liked me. Sure, I was alluring. “You waiting for someone?” she asked.
“No.”
I didn’t meet her gaze.
“Do you often frequent billiards just
to watch others play?”
“Sometimes.”
She checked her watch. “I’m off in ten minutes. Maybe we can play a game?”
“Nevermind. I am waiting for someone.”
She skulked off to the other end of the
bar to wait on more customers. I got the
feeling she was rarely rejected.
Rule Number Three: Preparation
In my coat pocket was a small plastic
device used to strengthen the fingers of guitarists. I lifted it from a display case on the
checkout counter of a mom-and-pop music store some months back and with every
idle moment my fingers worked the machine.
It was simple enough, just squeezing little levers down with your
fingers. It was about keeping the
muscles lean, tone, resilient. Most
nights I’d fall asleep working a stress ball which was better for the palm and
forearms but far too bulky to conceal in a pocket. This is how we train. This is my workout montage.
Every table was in use and a make-shift
line had formed by the bar where those waiting to hop on hoped for new tables
to open up. The men all stood around and
preselected their cues from a rack on the wall holding them out before them to
gauge their straight and trueness. As if
they were readying for battle.
To travel across the room was like
visiting Epcot and seeing caricatured cultures in miniature. One table was overrun with Asians whose
tricked-out Hondas would signal their arrival from the roar of their Flowmaster
exhaust systems. The table across from them was occupied by two bumbling
forty-somethings on what appeared to be a first date. Both were wasted on the same cheap beer I was
slogging through and he kept staring at her ass when she bent over the
table. That’s how you know it’s a new
relationship: when the flat ass of a forty-something appeals to you. Beyond them still, a few young businessmen. You could tell by their apparel that they
were probably carrying and that’s who my sights were set on. But you had to be careful, in this day and
age fewer and fewer people carry cash at all.
Not much you can do with a stolen piece of plastic. Even if you have their codes that shit’s all
traceable. No thanks; don’t need the
hassle.
The mirth from the coterie of
businessmen escalated and I watched as three of them pushed the forth, along
with his wallet, my way. Game time. I noticed the Bruno Magli dress shoes and custom
tailored Joseph Abboud suit and I could smell the cloud of Aqua di Gio that
faintly speckled the air as he passed. They
were no joke and I wondered what they were doing in a dive like this. He approached the bar, flipped open his calfskin
leather billfold, and asked for four imported beers. He flashed the bartender his license but she
waved it away without so much as a glance.
On the hand that held his wallet he wore a silver wedding band. I wasn’t much for jewelry on men but the ring
was tasteful, thick, and polished so that it shone even in the dim lighting of
the bar. I registered the flecks of
green paper from the corner of my eye as he culled the total and tip from his
wallet and laid it smack on the bar for the lady with the lovely tits. He replaced it in his rear pocket and picked
up the tray with four brown bottles she put out for him.
Rule Number Four: It’s All About
Distraction
In seconds I was off my stool. I made like I was stumbling for the jukebox and
had had too many. When done right it
takes less than three seconds. I fell
into the man, not hard enough to knock him down, but hard enough for his
attention to focus on not spilling the tray of beer.
“Sorry mate.”
“Watch where you’re going you drunk
asshole.”
“Will do.”
He never felt the pull. I veered off from the jukebox and turned for
the men’s room instead with a brand new calfskin wallet tucked up my
shirtsleeve.
Rule Number Five: Never Linger
It was a gorgeous slate gray Tumi
Monaco and I buried it under the heap of soiled paper towels at the bottom of
the wastebasket. Rules are rules and you
can only keep the cash. It was a decent
score, best in awhile, and now I was up nearly four hundred dollars in crisp
fifties and twenties stashed in a wad in my own front pocket where I always
kept my money. The wallet held a few
photographs and company cards and even a spare car key, which I thought was a
great idea in case one locks their keys in the car by accident, but it was best
not to dwell on personal effects because these would only lead to involvement
and involvement would only lead to trouble.
It was time to screw.
On my way out I caught myself in the
mirror over the sink and agonized over my reflection. Maybe I wasn’t as alluring as I’d assumed
myself to be? It was funny, you’d think
after a successful lift you’d be on top of the world but for me that was rarely
ever the case. I always felt like
shit. And I looked it, too. With an ethnic, bulbous nose, a rapidly
receding hairline, and thick Coke-bottle glasses I wondered how I’d ever muster
the luck to touch a woman again. It’s
not like I could impress them with my day job as an usher in a movie theater. Even if the free screenings allowed for cheap
dates, it wasn’t a trick you could use more than once with women. Sexy, soft-skinned women with their hand
lotions and moisturizers required variety.
Try taking them to the same crummy megaplex two nights in a row and see
if you score at all. Hopefully that
wouldn’t be an issue too much longer.
The money I made from these lifts was going into a fund for college
applications.
The door to the men’s room blew open
with a squeal and in an instant I figured it’d be the businessman and his three
businessman cronies and surely they’d beat me to a bloody mess right there on
the floor of the men’s room. Truth be
told, I never learned how to fight. I
always assumed I could hold my own if it ever came to blows but the vision of
being cornered by four men in a fetid bathroom knocked the optimistic wind from
my sails. But as the door parted I could
see it wasn’t any of the businessmen after all.
It was the cute female bartender and she was standing in the middle of
the men’s room and she stared at me with those sharp green eyes looking like a
wolf or some greater creature of prey who was going to have her way with me
right then and there. A coy smile
punched its way up from her terribly serious face.
“I
saw you, you know.”
“Saw me?” I asked, playing dumb.
“That was pretty cool. The way you snagged his wallet like that.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking
about.”
“Oh no?”
She stepped forward until we were
standing nose to nose. Her skin smelled
flowery, like lavender or chamomile or jade (I couldn’t tell the fucking
difference) and the aroma was dotted with wisps of cheap beer and whiskey and
maraschino cherries. With her open hands
she began to feel my pockets, first the front, then the rear like we were
playing Cops and Robbers and she was searching me for drugs or sharp things
that could prick her. I’d rather have
played Doctor with her. Then she felt my
coat pockets and stopped on the odd plastic finger exerciser.
“I don’t carry a wallet” I admitted.
“I’m sure that you don’t.”
Her left hand returned to my front
pocket and rested on the bulging wad of cash.
Using her index and middle finger like pincers, she reached in and
delicately pulled out the crumpled bills.
Frankly, I was a little bit surprised that she’d dive right in there
like that. Laying them flat in her palm,
she counted out the amount.
“Lot of money for a guy like you.”
“How can you even pretend to know what
kind of guy I am?”
“Trust me. A guy comes in, sits for hours, has one beer
– a shit one at that – dressed the way you are? He doesn’t have this kind of dough in his
pockets.”
“Well you’d be wrong.”
“Would I now?” Her eyes glinted as if the lights were just
turned on behind the irises. With a
clamor she upended the wastebasket sending a confetti rain of wet paper towel
spilling across the floor. Plop. The calfskin wallet fell out last and landed
with a soppy wet thud on the tile floor.
“I guess it’s wise to ditch them.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. That’s not mine.”
“Obviously.” She bent down to pick up the wallet. The cash I’d lifted was still in her other
hand. As she reached down I could peer
into the top of her tight black Ziggy Stardust t-shirt. The slightest hint of her pink nipples crept
over the cup of her bra. But she moved
so quickly that I may have imagined that.
She opened the man’s wallet and studied
the license that I had gone through great pains to ignore and compared the
little square portrait to my own face.
“Gee, doesn’t look like you” she quipped and placed the cash neatly back
into the billfold. Then she slipped the
wallet into the back pocket of her low-rise jeans.
“You gonna tell on me?” I asked. “Or you just gonna keep the money for
yourself?”
“What’s your name?”
“Why would I tell you that?”
“Because you want to. And I’m not gonna turn you in.”
“Then what do you want?”
She lifted her arms up, straight out, as
if she was being measured for a dress fitting.
“Show me” she said.
“What?”
“Show me how you did it.”
“I don’t know…” I trailed off,
stammering. This was not quite what I
was expecting.
“If you don’t show me I’ll walk right
up to that man and give him back his wallet and tell him exactly what I saw.”
“I’ll run.”
“I know you would, you pussy. But you’ll be out the money. Or, instead, you could show me how you did it
and I’ll let you walk out of here and we’ll split the money half and half.”
“That’s not a fair deal.”
“Fine, I’ll let you feel me up too.”
I laughed. So did she.
It was all we could do to break the tension.
“But hurry up” she stammered. “I don’t know how long you expect the men’s
room in a bar to stay uninhabited.”
I put my hand on her left wrist and stepped
around behind her. She craned her neck
and tried to learn by sight.
“See, the trick is all about
distraction. People can really only
focus on one thing at a time. So you
need strong fingers and a good sell.”
For the longest moment I just held her
there in my arms, standing behind her. I
sucked in the heady scent of her hair.
Felt the warmth of her skin. I
pressed my body up against her backside.
It had been a long time since I’d been that close to anyone. I closed my eyes and thought back to the last
woman I’d held this way. That was long
before I’d ever started stealing from people.
Long before such a thought had even entered my mind.
“Let’s go, pervert” she shouted.
I quickly reached into her backpocket
with two supple fingers and pulled out the businessman’s wallet. She turned around to face me and I placed it
in her hands.
“But I totally felt that. That wouldn’t work. Show me the real way!”
With my other hand I held up the Tag
Heuer watch I’d lifted from her wrist. It
had to be worth at least two grand and had a small diamond in its face. Surely it must have been a graduation
gift. She couldn’t get a watch like this,
even with her tips. Maybe it was
something some guy gave her after feeling her up. Her jaw dropped gob-smacked. She hadn’t noticed.
“See?” I said. “It’s all about distraction.”
I handed her the watch, grabbed the
wallet back, and pulled out the cash. I
counted out half of it: a hundred and eighty dollars, and handed the rest back
to her. Then I tossed the wallet back in
the garbage.
“Half for me. Half for you.
And always toss anything that can be linked back to the mark. That’s really all there is.”
She stood there, beaming. “You know what? I’m genuinely impressed.” Her smile was warm and it made me feel good
about myself, shaking off the dour depression that tags along post-theft. I wanted very badly to not have this be the
last time I see her.
“Glad I could be of service.” I
said. I said “I must be going” and grabbed
for the door handle.
“Wait” she called after me.
I spun around. There she stood, between two urinals, and she
was so very sexy. “What’s your name?”
“Brandt” I replied. “What’s yours?”
But before she could answer the men’s
room door was blown open again clipping me on the back of the head and knocking
me into the wall. I heard the scuffling of
very expensive shoes as more than one man shoved in with brutal force. And before I could spin around a rigid silver
wedding band spearheading a mean left hook sent me reeling to the floor.
In a flash of white it was lights out.
Rule Number Six: Never Break Your Own Rules
