Assuming Names: a con artist's masquerade (Criminal Mischief Book 1)

by Tanya Thompson

  And I smiled, “Yes.” I could have told them I was married, but I’d found marriage did little to dissuade men’s interest. Nothing quite shifted the dynamics like saying women were preferable. I always ceased to be a potential conquest and became instead a strange member of the team. We’re all after pussy here.

  While they spoke amongst themselves in Spanish, I stared at the traffic passing on Boulevard Kukulcan. There was a steady stream of taxis, buses, and rentals on the road, and the sidewalks were busy with young American tourists.

  I had no idea what the three men were saying, except they were rearranging their plans with regard to me. After much amusement, Ramiro left the table smiling, and then his friends and I continued to converse over drinks.

  We were talking about the Mayan ruins that were a couple of hours outside Cancun when Ramiro returned. On each arm he had nearly identical blonds that stood a foot taller than him. I’d never seen anything like them. Not in the flesh. Everything about them was exaggerated. Each strand of hair was the same unnatural color, teased to a height that made them four inches taller, and their lips were abnormally large, freakishly plump and painted in high gloss pink to match their miniskirts and six-inch heels. As they moved closer, I felt the need to push back to give their breasts room at the table. I studied their faces and thought they had to be Americans, but I couldn’t tell if they were pretty because they seemed like another species.

  And they had a shared expression that was as practiced vacant as mine was innocent.

  “Bunny and Candy,” Ramiro gave them names.

  He pulled up chairs and settled them on either side of himself, which put the rabbit next me. He leaned around the great swell bursting from the stressed buttons of Bunny’s chest, motioning me forward to whisper, “I brought this one for you.”

  “Did you say bought or brought?”

  “¿Cómo?”

  “Never mind.” I pulled back to look at her and she laid her vacuous eyes on me to smile.

  “Thank you, Ramiro, how very thoughtful.”

  Then two quick hops and she had scooted her chair closer to mine, dragging Ramiro and the clone with her.

  And I swallowed a disconcerted laugh.

  The restaurant was filling as the sun began to set and I was searching its perimeter for a gracious excuse to leave. I’d played the homosexual card countless times before, but no one had ever thrown down two plastic chips to see my hand.

  Sitting at the same table with them, watching their lips wrap around fat straws to suck at something pink, I no longer felt decidedly feminine. We were now a gathering of three men, two female caricatures, and an aberration.

  I was a freakish anomaly until Katia arrived to balance it out. I was looking at the exit with longing as she entered, and she was taking in the whole scene at our table with disapproval. Her black hair was pulled into a ponytail which left her clean face exposed so that her expression was clear. Condemnation had narrowed her eyes, but there was no sign of surprise. She’d seen it before.

  Miguel had ordered six shots and Katia stopped the waiter to add one more. She pulled a chair from an adjoining table and then kicked at Hector’s feet until he made room for her to sit on my right.

  She asked, “Ramiro, are you scaring the turista?”

  “No, she likes. ¿Sí? You like?”

  Smiling at no one in particular, I raised my rum and coke to murmur through the ice, “Mmm hmm mmm.”

  “Turista, look at me.”

  “Hmm?”

  “You like Bunny?”

  “Mmm hmm mmm.” Then dropping the glass from my lips, “I don’t think this is Bacardi.”

  I didn’t mean for her to explode, but she sent Spanish like shrapnel across the restaurant to the bar, screaming something-something-something that sounded like she was going to eviscerate the bartender, and then something-something-Bacardi. The men at the table were sinking into their seats, covering their laughing embarrassment with gold-covered fingers, and the bartender was smiling guiltily while making two more rum and cokes from a newly opened bottle of Bacardi.

  She was a mad general in the green zone, casually strolling in to call down artillery. The whole place was shell-shocked. Taking my half-finished drink, she downed it, exchanged it with the new drinks brought by the waiter, and while helping to disperse the tequila shots, she said to Bunny, “This is all you get.”

  And Bunny giggled, then whispered in Ramiro’s ear.

  I couldn’t shoot tequila, or any other straight spirit. If I even dared to try, I would gag, vomit, and die of mortification. But I’d been handling this social quandary for some time, so when everyone else threw back, I tossed mine straight over my shoulder to splash on the sidewalk.

  I’d been caught before. I’d endured outrage for slinging Jack Daniels into a crowd, shock for flinging Absolut across the carpet, and there’d been chaos with the flaming 151, but nothing quite compared to Katia. She had led this shot, so she was putting her empty glass down before the rest of us were finished. She caught my hand while it was still at my shoulder and held it there as evidence of wrongdoing, complete confusion scowling across her face. Then contrary to her expression, she grabbed the back of my head to force the absolute strangest kiss on me. Full, open mouth, passionate, I-want-to-fuck-you kiss.

  We’d only just met. She hadn’t even heard my name. I wanted to treat her like a man and be outraged, but the act was exquisite. Shocking, presumptive, and quite possibly wrong without consent, but it was definitely unique, and I can’t help but respond to something pleasantly different.

  I moaned an amazed, “Oh God,” in her mouth, and then felt her lips smile. Without releasing the hold she had on my hair, she slid to my ear to whisper, “These guys are very rich,” and Bunny started yanking at the arm of my chair, but Katia was still sharing, breathing into my neck, “We could have a great time at their villa.” Now Bunny was pulling at my arm, trying to bring my attention around, and the men were laughing, speaking in Spanish while Katia looked around to shout, “Bunny, no,” and then her breath was back against my neck, making me shiver, promising, “You will see things you have never seen.”

  I most desperately wanted to see things I had never seen, but I thought she should know, so I whispered back, “I’m not actually a lesbian.”

  “No importa, turista. If you like, I will make you one.”

  ~~~~~~

  So far it was nothing I hadn’t seen before or couldn’t have imagined. We were at a stucco house wedged crooked and tight between more stucco houses off Boulevard Kukulcan. Across the street, the ocean filled a vast lagoon with still water, and boats were tied to a dock. The party had grown to include three giggling senior graduates from someplace wholesome like Nebraska. They were swimming drunk in their underwear, periodically looking around the backyard pool to ask, “Where are Bobby and Jake?”

  Miguel repeatedly assured them, “They will be here soon,” but after an hour, he no longer bothered to look at Hector with mischievous shame, and both had stopped silently shrugging, “Bobby and Jake?”

  They didn’t look particularly interested in the girls. It seemed more a matter of habit, like a night-cap, except the necessary conclusion to each evening was a few American teenagers.

  Their attention was on the glass top table and the tray of cocaine. And my focus was with them. I had wanted to try it ever since reading Diary of a Drug Fiend, but the psychonauts Ed and I mixed with were users of marijuana and psychedelics. I’d done a fair amount of both, eating through several sheets of acid, choking down pounds of mushrooms, and swallowing more ecstasy than was decent, but no one we knew had a connection to cocaine.

  I understood what it should do—Aleister Crowley’s descriptions sounded quite merry—but I’d lift my head from Miguel’s powder and feel nothing. I snorted line after line and only managed to numb my throat. My head remained utterly straight.

  It was a problem I had with most new drugs. My brain had to learn how to get high. It had taken two
years and several pounds of pot before I finally got stoned. In the meantime, I’d bong hit everyone to the floor and then drive them all home. And I could still tip a bottle of codeine with no effect. Hydrocodone was an aspirin and Xanax was a Tic-Tac.

  But telling people this always seemed to cause offense, as though I were insulting the quality of their drugs. Not wanting to appear rude or ungrateful to my hosts, I didn’t mention it. I just did every line Miguel put before me. And then everyone else would do a line. If I had recognized it was a contest to see who would quit first, I might have warned them, but it wasn’t obvious until it was down to just two of us.

  And we’d left the others in a terrible state. Hector was on the edge of his chair, rocking off the tips of his toes. He was making a high keening noise and I worried he was about to start screaming. I thought he might be freaking out over Katia. She’d been non-stop jabbering at him in manic Spanish, talking too fast to do any of the last four lines. And Candy was a panting wreck I couldn’t look at. She’d had a quick burst of frantic self-destruction, ripping apart her hair and smearing lipstick across her face, and now her eyes were streaming mascara down her cheeks, but she wasn’t crying. Bunny had dashed to the bathroom half an hour earlier, and I had no idea what condition she was in, but I was watching Ramiro run fully clothed into the pool while Miguel cut out more lines.

  Miguel had no chance in this competition either. He was breathing heavy with the jitters and I was still hoping to feel something.

  I drew up the offered line and Miguel finally gave up.

  He said through clinched teeth, “You are fucking steady.”

  Hector’s screech had settled into a quivering moan. He was still rocking but he paused to look at me and cross himself, incanting, “Ave María Purísima.”

  Ramiro was shivering in the pool, chattering out, “You win, guapa.”

  I asked, “Do I get to pick the prize?”

  Hector dropped his head between his knees and turned hysterical, but I couldn’t tell if it was laughter or a return high-pitched madness.

  Miguel stopped rolling his jaw to ask, “What is the prize you want?”

  “Show me something I’ve never seen before. Shock me. Surprise me. Blow my wee little mind. I don’t care what you do, but let’s not be boring.”

  ~~~~~~

  It probably would have been wiser to insult the cocaine. I’d thrown down the don’t-bore-me gauntlet in a dangerous crowd. But after the cocaine episode, they were also a little afraid of me. It had taken them the rest of the night to get themselves straight, and while they did, the little Nebraskans were put into a cab.

  I’d gone with Katia in Miguel’s Mercedes to retrieve my suitcase and a shoulder bag of books from one of the big hotels on the beach. I didn’t checkout, but I didn’t think I was coming back either.

  For a year, I had been asking myself, “What am I doing?” Questioning with each new identification made, “Do I want to do this?” But I’d rent a house and apply for credit regardless, wondering, “Does this make me happy?” Then for months, I’d collect cards, only stopping when the banks began to decline. In a day, I’d blow their limits, blasting through tens of thousands, doubting, “Is this even fun?”

  I didn’t know. I was pretty certain it used to be, back when I was sixteen and seventeen, in the time before Ed, before I had been exposed to the principles of psychology and mental awareness. Ed didn’t believe the excuse that I was bored was the legitimate reason for my actions, but then he didn’t believe the goal of life was to be entertained, and I did.

  The objective was to be happy and amused, and whether that was achieved by self-awareness or breaking the law made no difference to me. Having done a bit of both, I was conscious that neither was thrilling me at the moment. And I was avoiding the one because I didn’t want to observe my thoughts, or think about what I was doing in the rental houses, or to Ed, our marriage, or my mind.

  I didn’t want to dwell on what I was doing in Mexico either, but I knew I would see it through. Once I tipped over the edge of any action, the instant I gave a little and said, “Yes, sure, why not, let’s do this,” momentum carried it along.

  Waking to a house full of strangers, I was already avoiding the question, “What am I doing with these people?” Trying not to look at Hector on the couch cleaning a gun. Ignoring the sounds of Bunny and Candy upstairs with Ramiro. None too crazy about Katia or screwdrivers for breakfast. And then there was Miguel, sitting next to Hector, facing Katia and I on the opposite couch, wanting to know, “What you said last night, is this something you still desire?”

  It was all momentum, “Of course.”

  “¿Sí?”

  “Sí.”

  He spoke to Katia and she silently left, going outside to sit beside the pool. Hector could not have gotten another speck off that gun but he continued brushing out the barrel, oiling the hammer and trigger, rubbing the muzzle with no intent of looking up. Miguel spoke to him and Hector nodded yes, then Miguel said to me, “I have a friend in Atlanta. I have for him something. You want to take this to him?”

  They were asking me to smuggle drugs. How very unimaginative and yet classic. I said, “Of course,” but knew I wouldn’t.

  “It is nothing bad.”

  “What a pity.”

  “¿Cómo?

  “It would have been more fun if it were bad.”

  Miguel turned that around in his head for several seconds before offering, “Maybe you will return and I will have for you something bad.”

  “That would be lovely. Will you show me what it is that’s going to Atlanta?”

  Motioning to Hector, “We go. You stay. We will return with it.”

  There was no way they were not bringing back drugs. I was imagining a cliché Mary statue filled with cocaine and wondered what hilarious location would present itself for me to dump the thing before boarding the plane home. I was glad the agent had given me the return. I was only three days away and I wasn’t sure I wanted to be in Cancun any longer. I wasn’t sure where I wanted to be, but I’d take Mary as far as I dared.

  I thought leaving her at the airport lounge amongst the bottles of cordials might be funny, but I didn’t remember seeing a bar on my arrival. No worry though, I’d give her to the taxi driver, but then again, Miguel would probably want to drive me to the airport, maybe even see me off. I’d be forced to wipe her for fingerprints and leave her hidden in the plane before hitting US Customs. And I suppose hope his friend stayed in Atlanta and didn’t meet me at the Nashville airport. But now that would be exciting. That would definitely be fun. He’d chase and I’d run and it would be satisfying.

  Getting To Know You

  It would be dark before Hector and Miguel returned. While they were gone, Bunny and Candy were sunning in lounge chairs, and Katia had me against the pool wall, telling me of her prowess in bed. “I can make you forget your name.”

  I’d forgotten my name once in a con. It was the single most panic-inducing moment of my life and I didn’t want to experience it again. But Katia was reminding me, whispering, “Willow, you should trust me.”

  “I don’t know that trust has anything to do with it.” I knew Ed wouldn’t care if I slept with a woman; we’d both done it before, but, “I just didn’t get much out of it.”

  Katia lifted her mouth from my neck to ask, “Was she a lesbian or a girl playing?”

  I had to concede, “In all cases it was an experiment between heterosexuals.”

  “Not a lesbian?”

  “No.”

  “You understand the problem? Yes?”

  I was beginning to. Her hands were on me with strength and urgency, not skimming my body softly like I had known, or like I was returning. She passionately wanted something and was trying to pull it into herself. Kissing to consume, holding to possess. And I had been neglected for so long, I was on the cusp of returning it.

  I had said it so many times before, “If there were a pill that could make me a lesbian, I’d take
two to make sure it stuck.” I was sexually attracted to men, but sharing space with them was difficult. The desire to unite seemed like a sadistic joke on both sexes. A psychologist from the wilderness program summed it up as, “All men are pigs and all women think weird.” It was crude and not exact, but it was essentially the essence of the problem.

  I wondered if Katia was the pill. If I accepted her like a cure, even twice, would I be free of men? Or, at the very least, free of Ed?

  I warned Katia, “I’m just a tourist, you understand.”

  “Yes, turista.”

  “I’m just sightseeing.”

  She laughed, kissed me harder and said, “Sí, turista. I am the tour guide.”

  ~~~~~~

  It had just turned dark and there was noise in the house. I listened to it move up the stairs and become quiet again. Leaving the room Katia was sleeping in for mine, I was glad to have been taught the difference between two girls playing and a genuine I-want-a-woman lesbian, but it hadn’t cured me.

  Light from my room was illuminating the hall, but I thought little of it until I stood in the open door. My carry-on had been dumped in the center of the bed and Ramiro was at the mirror with my bag of cosmetics, a shade of red coloring his top lip and brown darkening the lower. He was still shamelessly comparing both my lipsticks when I entered.

  Hector was on the edge of the bed with my shoulder bag at his feet and a book on his thigh, writing down the details of the return plane ticket I had been using to mark the page.

  Miguel was studying Willow’s driver’s license.

  I asked Ramiro, “Would you like to try on a dress?”

  He turned from the mirror to peel back his lips for inspection, “Is it on my teeth?”

  “No, but I still wouldn’t go out looking like that.”

  Miguel picked Stephen Hawking’s Black Holes and Baby Universes out of my bag and asked, “May I read?”

  “Please, keep it.”