by H S Peer
Bill Jenkins appeared at the Liar’s Breath the next Tuesday. I knew he would come to see me and was ready for him. It was just after lunch, and I was drinking a pint and trying to solve the New York Times crossword. He sat at the stool next to me. He looked like a train wreck. Both his eyes were black, and he was missing a front tooth. His left arm was in a sling, and he was too pale. He didn’t say a word or meet my eyes.
I reached into the pocket of my suit and pushed an envelope across the bar at him. He picked it up with his good hand and opened it. Inside was a $1,000 in hundred dollar bills.
“What’s this?’ he asked.
“Traveling money,” I told him.
“Where am I going?”
I waved a hand in the air. “I don’t care. Anywhere but here. You have lost your NYC privileges. No one tries to blackmail me. You’re lucky I’m in a good mood, or you would already be dead.”
“Thank you, Poet,” he said, “For everything you did. I mean if Cindy were here she’d thank you too. It’s good her real killer is in the joint.”
I nodded. It was easy for him to say. His ribs didn’t hurt every time he drew a breath. His left arm didn’t have multiple holes in it from a shotgun blast. “I never want to see you again,” I said, “If I do I will not be in a good mood.”
“I understand, Poet.”
“Get lost,” I told him, turning back to the crossword.
Without a word he stood up and left. Whether he actually left New York, I’ll never know. I never saw or heard from him again.
I packed some belongings in a leather shoulder bag. I had a passport in the name of William Blake and ID to match. When I went to the airport, I wore a tropical weight tan suit. Whatever I needed, I figured, I would buy once I was settled. As I figured, my left arm did in fact set off the metal detectors. I had to wait while the attendant ran the hand wand over my body and I explained what had happened. After that, I sat in the first class lounge and waited for my flight to be called. I changed planes in Atlanta and after three hours was in a tropical paradise.
I started to sweat the moment I left the plane. The captain had said it was 80 degrees outside. I took off my jacket and rolled up my sleeves. I cleared customs and found a cab outside the main doors. It was a hot pink Ford Fairlane, it matched my optimistic mood. The driver took us on a tour that lasted 40 minutes. In the end, I tipped him a Finn and walked into the dim air conditioning of the hotel.
My suite was decorated in pastel tones. I quickly changed into swim trunks and went to lie by the pool before the sun disappeared for the day. A waitress brought me a rum punch, and I drank it slowly through a straw. I must have been a sight. There was an ugly bruise on my chest, all the colors of the rainbow, where Lenny’s bullet had slammed into me. My left arm was still red and looked like it belonged to Frankenstein’s monster. There was an angry welt on my neck where Farrell’s bullet had kissed my flesh. I didn’t care, for the moment I was happy. There was only one thing I needed to do.
Without a pistol, I felt defenseless. It didn’t matter I was a 1,000 miles away from my troubles; it was a habit, like smoking or picking your nose. I asked around to the staff, quietly. After a couple of days came my answer. I climbed into a cab and went to a part of Nassau few tourists ever see. In the backroom of a low-rent canteen, I met a man with guns to sell. All of them had seen much better days. I selected a Sig-Sauer with a spare magazine. That and the bullets only cost me $1,000. No one ever asked why I carried a rolled up towel with me everywhere I went.
The resort was the playground of the idle rich. There was money to be made here, but I didn’t overthink it. I wasn’t there to steal jewelry; I was there to heal. Days on the beach, splashing in the clear blue water, nights at the bar consuming sweet rum punches, it was idyllic. I didn’t grow tired of it like I thought I might.
I had been there nearly a month when I met her and saw the necklace. My search for a condo was leading nowhere. I was thinking of packing up and heading to a different island. It was at the Manager’s cocktail party that I saw her and it. Her name was Miranda, and she wore the necklace like a queen. On the end of a thick gold rope sat a five-carat emerald surrounded by one-carat diamonds. I was instantly taken with it. With my phone, I took a couple of discreet photos. I emailed Marty and asked what he thought he could get for it. A lot, was his reply. I set my mind to stealing it.
As I was casing out the hotel safe where the necklace was stored, there came a message from Gael in New York. I returned her call and found her at her precinct.
“Gael, darling,” I said.
“Poet,” she replied.
“To what do I owe this honor?’
“I have some bad news.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t leave me hanging, Gael.”
“Simon has escaped.”
I took a minute to digest this and then said, “You can’t be serious.”
“I am,” she said, ”He was in court for a hearing, and four men burst in to rescue him. Four court officers are dead and two cops.”
“And,” I said.
“And,” she said, “I thought you might like to know. He’ll be busy for the next little while, but sooner or later he’ll start thinking about you.”
I was already looking over my shoulder, waiting for Devon Moto to make a move on me. Now I had something else to consider.
“Thanks for the heads up,” I told her.
“I thought you would like to know."
“Yes,” I said.
“Watch your back, Poet,” said Gael.
“Thanks, I will.” We both hung up. I was safe enough at the resort. Anyone that came or went had to have resort ID hung around their neck. If Simon did find me, he wouldn’t hit me there. The best place would be on the beach. He could pretend to be one of the many vendors selling knick-knacks and walk right up to me as I sunned myself. I couple of shots to the face and it would be over. I didn’t know why but I thought Simon wouldn’t touch me here. He’d wait until I was back in New York. The fight would be even then. Tracing me here would be a feat in itself. I was here under an assumed name with fake papers. Unless he knew that or talked to the staff, I was safe, for the time being anyway.
As Gael had said, he would be busy. He was probably out of the country by now, getting plastic surgery in Brazil before his return to the US. When we met again, I might not recognize him. Except for his eyes. There was no hiding those hunter’s eyes. For the time being, I slept with the Sig under my pillow. It was always close at hand no matter how safe I thought I was.
With little else to do, I turned my attention back to Miranda and her necklace. She was traveling alone. Her husband, a Wall Street type, was back in the city. After I took the necklace, I wasn’t sure how I’d get it back into the country. I’d probably have to pay duty on it, and that almost made me laugh.
Emerald and diamonds, little pieces of shiny stones, that’s what it came down to. I stole stones for greenbacks. I traded in dreams and tokens of love for cold, hard cash. That was what I was, a thief. And a damn good one at that. I got closer to Miranda but never forgot about the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. I’d found a condo in Freeport that suited my purposes. When I was done with Miranda and Paradise Island, I would disappear and surface with a different name. I had dozens. One meant as much as another.
I still dreamt of Farrell and at low moments regretted what I had done. But it never pays to go back in word or deed. I turned all my attention to that necklace and how to liberate it from the hotel safe. It would be easy, the front desk man always kept the combination to the safe dialed in. All you need to do was turn the dial to the last number, and it opened. I needed a diversion, and in a country where American greenback can buy damn near anything, I didn’t have any worries. It would be mine, and I’d disappear into the world of Freeport. Marty would be happy and so would I.
Theft isn’t something we mean to do; it’s what we are. I’d learned a long time ago no
t to fight what I am.
I steal.
I’m a thief.
That’s what I do.
Easy money.
