The Dimple Strikes Back

by Lucy Woodhull

  She laid her best ‘you’re full of shit’ look on him. “Hedging at its best. Care to elaborate?”

  Blond guy let Sam go, and he nearly fell into a dirty upholstered chair beside the couch. Sam glanced at me, and his dark, dark eyes held such sorrow that my terror redoubled itself. His gaze was the sort you give to your beloved when they tie you to a post about to be set aflame. In this metaphor, I was pretty sure I was the kindling at his feet.

  Sam closed his eyes, one of them only partway because it was already pummelled half-shut, and said, “What are you going to do with us?”

  “I’m going to kill you all unless your story is very, very good.”

  I gasped. Jane wasn’t the murder-y sort! What the fuck had Sam done? I grabbed Ellen’s hand, to my left. I saw her grab Nicolette’s hand on the far end. I squeezed Ellen twice, the signal.

  We were not going down without a fight.

  I bolted off the couch and launched myself at blond guy. Ellen slammed into Jane, and Nicolette had the joy of going after Dina, closest to her.

  Blondie was a lot bigger than I was, but I had surprise on my side, and my head butted him smack in the solar plexus. He went down like the Titanic, except cussing in a language I didn’t understand. The hiss of the curse word is universal, however. It stopped when Sam kicked the guy in the head.

  Ellen had belly flopped on Jane and stayed there, and the older woman twisted on her back like a turtle. I grabbed the gun from Blondie’s pants and pointed towards everyone still fighting. “Stop, or I’ll shoot!” I yelled in an original fashion. Jane sighed, elaborately, but stilled herself. Nicolette didn’t need any help. She’d forced Dina into some sort of awesome wrestler chokehold from behind and appeared delighted to not let go. I’m pretty sure I heard, “How you like my ass now?” muttered.

  “Ellen,” I said, “grab this and shoot anyone not on our side if they so much as frown at you. Where you shoot is up to you. Feel free to be creative. I’m going to untie Sam, and we’ll search the rest of the place for more bad guys. Good?” Everyone nodded, and I handed Ellen the gun.

  Sam started to talk to me and I said, “Not here,” and pivoted him around to see a zip tie binding his hands. “Damn, I’ll need scissors or a knife. Nicolette, kick Dina’s gun over this way.” She did, and I caught it mid-slide on the wooden floor. “Okay, we’re going to search now. Sam, have you seen more of them?”

  He shook his head. We set off in the direction from which he’d been dragged. Just a kitchen with a table, chairs and a lot of empty cupboards which yielded nothing to help cut Sam free. We crossed through the living room, where my ladies had everything under control, and into the single bedroom and bath. There we found Jane’s handbag with a Tiffany Swiss army knife inside. If you’re going to stab, do it in style.

  I sliced through the plastic and he rubbed his wrists. The tie left an ugly red welt in its wake. Pity overcame me—then I remembered why we were here.

  I avoided his gaze and examined the room. “Ah-ha!” Vertical blinds. I cut the long cords used to lift the blinds and used them to tie up Jane, Dina and He Who Curses in Dutch Maybe. My stomach finally dropped from its temporary home in my lungs once everyone was bound and sitting on the couch where we’d been.

  “It worked!” Ellen whispered to me.

  “I love you both. Nicolette, I know I’m not in your top ten people, but you are a righteous friend.”

  She shrugged, but spared me a small smile. “If you would just date an accountant or something…”

  Laughing, I said, “I tried. Holler if you need help.” I went back to have a chat with Sam. I pulled his arm so that we stood in the corner farthest away from the rest of the group. “Talk. Everything. Now. And I swear, if you lie to me in this moment, it’s over. Forever.”

  His lip curled, and he stared at his feet. Hard breaths thundered through him, making him shudder. “I’m sorry,” he began.

  “Later. Get to it.” I needed to bark orders like a drill sergeant—he was a heartbeat from losing his shit completely. “Do you need a doctor?”

  He shook his head. “I have not gone to the police giving up Jane.”

  “Okay.”

  “However”—he swallowed—“I have been talking to the Feds.” I gasped. Holy crap! A thrill of hope spluttered to life in my heart. “It’s obviously got out, which, thanks a fucking lot, Uncle Sam.” I started to ask a question, and he took my hand. “Here’s the deal. The only way I can really be with you is if we’re not afraid I’m going to be arrested at any moment. But neither did I want, well, this to happen—every damn person I’ve ever broken a law with coming after me. And you.” He squeezed his eyes shut and ran a hand over them. “Can I sit, please? I hurt…everywhere. I haven’t slept in I don’t know how long.”

  I nodded, love glomming my throat. I helped him to the sun-bleached carpet and sat opposite, waiting for more, my breath coming quick. I took his hand—it was filthy, a little bloody. Hopefully he’d got at least one punch on whoever’d beaten him up, probably the blond guy.

  He said, “You don’t think about leaving the criminal business when you enter it. I guess that’s what makes most of us so dumb.” His laugh was dry and brittle. “I knew I couldn’t implicate any of my accomplices. It’s simultaneously dirty and suicidal. So I tried something different, something I hoped was smart. See, there are quite a few fakes in the museums of the world. Say for example a painting goes out to be cleaned, the art restorer could use some cash, and then someone like me helps to supply a stellar copy, while the real one is sold underground.”

  “That sounds like the movies!”

  “You would know.” He flashed his first real smile, and the dimple infused me with an odd sort of comfort. “I decided to go to the museums, anonymously, and tell them I knew which of their pieces were fake.”

  “Why not the cops?”

  “I’ll get to that. Some of the museums, big ones, didn’t contact me. They thought I was a hoax, I guess, or maybe they’d rather stay ignorant. If the copy fooled them, and they’re never going to sell it, why bother? But quite a few did respond. I told them which pieces were fake, and that I knew the locations of the genuine ones.”

  “You do?”

  He shrugged. “Some, yes. The buyer is the last criminal in the string, you know? I told the museums that if they wanted their real art returned, to put pressure on the authorities and demand they make an immunity deal with me. That way, my function wasn’t to put my accomplices away, but to have millions and millions of dollars of art restored to its rightful place, and the buyers would be the ones on the hook.”

  I sat up straighter. “You didn’t care about giving up the buyers?”

  “If there weren’t buyers, there’d be no theft. I don’t steal shit for my health. Besides, the buyers don’t know me from Adam. They can’t take it out on me, and the Feds will safeguard my anonymity.”

  “And the government went for this?”

  “In the case of several taxpayer-funded museums, yes.” He chuckled smugly. “Especially after I said I’d tell the press about the fake stuff sitting in the world’s most prestigious museums if they didn’t.”

  I shook my head, flabbergasted. “So…you have an immunity deal?”

  He nodded, the ghost of a smile highlighting the tiredness of his face. “Yes, for the United States, the UK, a few other countries. Nobody was happy about it, but the arrests have already started. The thing is”—he leant forward—“the hardest part was getting everyone to agree that I wouldn’t give up any other of the thieves. But the museums were critical to that part, because they wanted their stuff returned. That’s why I approached it the way I did. Money is what matters.”

  I searched his smashed-up face. “And you did all this for me?”

  He scratched his head, then sucked in a breath as he found an injured spot. “Yes. And for me. But now…” His eyelids closed. They were dark, and his whole face sagged so much I wanted to weep. “Now I guess word is out that I’m g
iving up accomplices. Which is bad. Very bad.”

  “Very bad, like even generally nonviolent Jane wants to get rid of you?”

  “Yes.”

  We sat holding hands for a minute or two. “What do we do about our prisoners out there?”

  “Fuck if I know. You—you guys came in here with a plan?”

  I grinned, and laughed, my mirth tip-toeing the edge of hysteria. “Yes. At the signal, we decided we’d each attack the thug closest to us, hoping, of course, that there wouldn’t be ten of them.”

  “I can’t believe it worked.”

  I laughed and threw up my hands.

  “We’ve also been audio recording everything since we got on the train in London. Voice-activated, battery-powered flash drives.”

  “What?”

  I pointed to the sloppy, teased-out bun on my head. “My hair is big because it’s full of secrets.”

  “Nice reference.”

  “Thanks.” Even at a time of terror, I can call forth the spirit of Mean Girls.

  “If you use the recording you will, of course, edit out anything where I definitely didn’t admit to any sort of knowledge about…”

  “I’ll do it if the dimple tells me to.”

  He smiled and swept me into his arms. It was a beautiful, touching moment, except for his smell, which touched me in a bad way. I pulled away as soon as I could without wounding his pride. “We still haven’t solved our Jane problem.”

  “Uuuggghhhh.” He slid down the wall and splayed onto the floor.

  “I’ll just go check on them.”

  I went into the other room, where our prisoners were behaving, and Ellen and Nicolette were whispering amongst themselves. And then it hit me, like a flying house in a tornado. “That’s it!” I said triumphantly. No one else seemed impressed.

  I zipped back into the other room and told Sam my idea. He nodded, obviously so sick and tired that he thought me handling the denouement was a clever idea. I told Ellen and Nicolette, who gave me a proper enthusiastic response.

  First thing we did was grab everyone’s personal belongings. We got our own phones back, and promptly took pictures of our bad guys huddled together, which made Jane frown like I’d accused her of wearing jewellery from Wal-Mart. She’d been the only one smart enough to not carry any sort of ID on her person. Dina’s real name was on her passport, tucked in a backpack, and the blond guy was named Jan de Boer. We took pictures of their identifying information—all three of us, in case one phone got busted or whatnot. Then, we took selfies with everyone in the background. Finally, we announced that the three of us were emailing these pics to different people.

  Deliberately, and in front of Jane, I handed Ellen my phone and said, “Jane, please come and speak with us.”

  She rose from the couch elegantly and followed me into the bedroom, where Sam had propped himself against the wall again. His skin had taken on a horrifying grey cast, and I blazed hot all over. I squeezed my hands into fists, but didn’t punch anyone. I was the good guy, dammit.

  Sam smiled at Jane and said, “Ain’t she something?” while pointing at me. His hand fell limp to the floor. “Please sit. I can’t look up at you. Your dude out there is gonna make my chiropractor rich.”

  “Your dude Jan de Boer,” I supplied.

  “What do you want to talk about?” Jane got to the point in Jane fashion. She swept to the floor and sat cross-legged, as nimble as I was.

  I began. “Jane, Sam has told exactly no authorities about you. So your actions here of planning to murder all of us are premature at best, and super mean at worst. Really!”

  Jane sighed.

  “Janie, we had a deal, and I’ve stuck with it.” Sam shot her a look so sincere, puppies should take notes.

  “That’s not what’s being said.”

  “So you just decide to go on a murder spree?” He winced and pushed up straighter. “Shooting an internationally-known movie star is a fabulous idea? How many video recordings exist of Samantha on the train, in the station, all with your stupid Dina out there? You think no one will put that together?”

  Jane ground her jaw and snapped, “Movie star?”

  “I know, right?” I grinned. “Who’da thunk it? By the way, my agent now has a picture of you with me.”

  The elegant goddess of a woman uttered a word I never thought would pass her lips. She recovered nimbly into a blank, professional face. “Perhaps I overreacted. But there was an arrest recently—”

  “Yes, the arrest of a customer,” Sam finished. “He probably won’t spend a day in prison. The rich rarely do.”

  “Hm.”

  “Call your dogs off, Jane, please. I really don’t want to see you in jail. And it’s not because you’d rat on me, it’s because I have genuine respect for you.” He leant forward. “There are plenty of millionaire buyers in the sea. This has to stop, though. Next time you pull shit, we’ll sing songs about your misdeeds at trial. I don’t suppose you could reassure the rumour mill that I am not a snitch? I’d greatly enjoy not being slaughtered.”

  She cracked a small smile and nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

  She rose to leave, and I said, “By the way, this entire adventure has been audio recorded for posterity. Have a nice evening.”

  We let them all go, with protestations from Nicolette duly noted. She and Ellen, armed, promised to follow the baddies back to the train station and watch them get on trains headed out of the country. This left me and Sam alone in the romantic, medieval city of Bruges. “I want to fall over and die,” groaned my dreamy lover.

  “No dying, but our hotel is somewhere in the old part of the city. I’ll let you collapse once we get there.”

  He agreed with a grunt. I mapped the address on my phone, and we happened to be only a few blocks away. I wondered what the ancient denizens of this city would think about my magic pocket-sized device that called forth any piece of information. They’d burn me as a witch. And all my roles in plays would have been portrayed by dudes. Nope, modern-day miracles were a blessing. Birth control separates us from the primates.

  I half-carried him out, but after a few minutes of my groaning and sweating, he limped on his own while complaining about dating such a shorty. The quaint hotel Ellen had booked soon appeared.

  The manager was not pleased to behold Sam in his bloody glory. We were shooed out of the lobby and into the tiny, two-person elevator to our floor. Rustic charm and a big, soft bed greeted us, and Sam fell into it immediately. Well, onto it. I had to move him onto one half with a series of butt pinches, and finally just plain ass slaps until he shifted sufficiently to give me room. So tired was I that I didn’t even mind his stench. Adventure movies never mention the body odour, but Indiana Jones’ manly pit stains come with a terrible price, and I don’t mean Nazis.

  * * * *

  I awoke the next morning to find Sam sitting on the small balcony adjoining our room. He’d showered and looked adorable, except for the rainbow of bruising on his face, some of which had begun to turn green, and his clothes, all of which were unfit even for rags. I offered to go out for coffee, which he accepted with more joy than he’d displayed when seeing me. But who could blame him? There were some days I’d probably kick my mother for coffee, but then I’d have to hear about how my kicking was weak, and if I just went to the gym once in a while, I’d be married.

  Coffee and some truly amazing chocolate pastry in hand, I joined him on the deck. His aura had such a tint of doom to it, I just sat there inhaling chocolate and awaiting the downpour.

  “Is someone watching Captain Taco?”

  “No, I left him to starve because that’s the kind of person I am.”

  “Funny. They pay you to do comedy, right?”

  His sourness rubbed off on me like cheap shoe dye. “I made quick friends with my neighbour and asked her to look in. Hopefully she’s not a thief. Har de har.”

  He took a too-fast drink of coffee and hissed when he burned himself. After a moment, he said, quiet
ly, “You should keep him.”

  “I am keeping him. I have been…” My heart doubled its speed as it began to take in the meaning of what he said before my brain did.

  “I’m breaking up with you.” He refused to look at me, but focused on the orange tiled roofs shining in the sunlight of Bruges. What a perfect day to be let go.

  He actually managed to ruin chocolate, damn him. I set my breakfast aside and said, “I thought I dumped you in London.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Dammit!” He turned fully towards me. “This isn’t a joke. Jane was the nicest person I ever worked for. If she’s gunning for me, then…” He let it dangle, the horrible end to that sentence. I pictured him running through the streets, a mob of lowlifes chasing behind with torches and pitchforks.

  I stood, the better to yell at him. “A couple of days ago, you said you loved me too much to be noble. Or was that a lie? Or, are you too noble to lie, and that’s why you’re dumping me, because you used to be a liar? Ugh!” I kicked the metal railing, but I didn’t have any shoes on, and my toe screamed in pain. I fell back onto my chair and held my foot. At least I could be dignified when my world was crumbling. “Fuck everything! I just want to be a normal couple who watches TV in Snuggies and has weekday sex and argues about who has to clean the litter box! Which should be you, because you’re obviously related to poop.”

  He laughed. I said a bad word and stomped inside the room to repack my overnight bag. Dump me? Doesn’t he know who I am? I’m a middling actress who’s dieting all the time! And why the fuck can’t I get Pizza Rolls in Belgium? Stupid jackass!

  Sam tiptoed in from the balcony. I threw a pillow at him. He ducked, but not fast enough, and it bounced off his ugly, fart face head. “I’m doing this for you,” he explained feebly. “I’m trying to do the right damn thing for once. We’ve got so lucky, ducking my enemies. But this has to be the last time. I can’t put you in danger anymore. Besides—why are you even mad if you thought you’d dumped me?”

  “Because I love you! I was content with lorvst and casual sex, but then you crept in my brain and made me want things I can’t have!” My face overheated, like a car sitting in the Florida sun. “You gave me a cat, you bastard.”