CON TEST: Double Life

by Rahiem Brooks

  Without a story map, William began to type:

  Justice rode in silence as he sat in the back of his Escalade. Amir rode shot gun and a mutual friend, Nick drove. The troika drove over the Ben Franklin Bridge into New Jersey. Justice needed to work his craft to get a lot of quick cash. He was staying at Amir’s afraid to go home, fearing the feds would be waiting in the shadows.

  Amir had a mocha hue with complimentary coffee tinted eyes. He was in the short category with cropped short hair, which was pre-maturely gray. He had a chiseled body that yelled ex-con. That played a pivotal role with him getting the ladies.

  Over the past two days, Justice had replayed his moves in his head so that he could stay many moves ahead of the Government. M&M had left multiple messages at his aunt’s home for him to report to her office immediately. All of them were ignored. So were calls from the public pretender. Secret Service Agent Delia Williams also called for him to pick up his cash. Justice was not going back to prison. Especially not after they had released him so easily. He planned to move very low-key until he could chant an incantation to get his criminal drama to do a disappearing act.

  One hour passed and they finally pulled into a Walmart parking lot. They were in a rural area of New Jersey. Surely that area was not heavily exposed to his con. Justice used Walmart’s web site and located four stores within close proximity to the one in Woodbridge. His plan was to hit all four of them with checks worth not less than $500. He planned to return the merchandise for cash refunds.

  Nick and Amir exited the truck and walked into Walmart. Justice waited five minutes before he also entered the store. Amir went directly to the electronics department, while Justice rummaged in the super goods store.

  Justice quickly snatched up two Oral-B electric tooth brushes valued at $140 each. He then went to the telephone department and threw two cordless telephones into his handheld basket. They were $120. Good, he thought. He would do better than his $500 target price.

  Eager shoppers ebbed in and out of Walmart’s strategic aisles designed to trick the consumer into buying merchandise everyone wanted, but could do without. Justice described the Walton Family as ingenious.

  Approaching the front of the store, Justice looked over all of the clerks. He searched for the perfect victim. He spotted his cashier mark and walked over to her line. She was young, black, nice tits. Not that any of that mattered. Her mannerisms showcased a dislike for her job. Anyone that observed how she carelessly tossed customers items into the shopping bags knew that she did not like her job. He waited in her line and watched Nick casually leave out of Walmart without Amir. Justice knew they had to be finished with their business.

  Justice pulled his items from the basket and watched them inch their way down the belt to the clerk. The clerk acknowledged his nod with a smile. He could see in her eyes that she had an attraction to his complexion and sexy eyes. Too bad he never mixed business with pleasure. Alimu-Shine, Justice’s friend and co-defendant on the original federal beef had mixed the two. When the investigation commenced, the woman remembered “the jerk” that never returned her calls, and handed his number over to investigators. Shame on him.

  The clerk scanned toothbrush number one and her eyes widened at the price. She held the box in the air. Scrutinizing it, she asked, “Does it greet your morning breath in the bed?” She giggled a little. Small boobs bounced vivaciously.

  Justice flashed his pearly whites with a coy smile. He could go two ways with his response. He could claim that one was for a girlfriend, but then he could no longer attempt to flatter her enough to distract her from his misdeed. “It just might,” he said grinning boyishly. “They’re for my parent’s anniversary. They’re getting up there in age, and they made sure,”—he flashed his teeth—“that I had a sexy smile.”

  “How thoughtful.” She cooed. She ran the telephones over the scanner and could not believe the total. She said, “Five-hundred…”

  Justice whipped his checkbook out and proceeded to fill out a fraudulent check. He planned to add an additional $20 to the total to get the cash back. Every cent counted. He lost that train of thought by the sight of a linebacker running through the store and out the front entrance of the store. Two burly white men were in hot pursuit of Amir, and forced Justice to rethink his action.

  “I had no idea that the phones were that expensive. I thought that they were on sale,” Justice told the clerk and swiped his checkbook off the counter. “I better get some cash out my car.”

  Justice strode into the parking lot, and his heart skipped three beats. He was dead. The truck was gone. He hopelessly walked around the parking lot, as he frantically called Nick’s phone.

  “Where are you?” Justice growled into the phone. He prayed to keep his composure.

  “In the Friday’s parking lot, across from Walmart.”

  Justice looked and saw that Friday’s was across a highway with a concrete barrier topped with a fence that was spiked at the top.

  “What the fuck are you doing over there?”

  “I got scared when two white guys walked up on Amir, so I left. Is he cool?”

  “He’s running somewhere you fucking pussy! Did it dawn on you to call me and tell me the situation? You know, put me up on game.”

  “I thought he was okay.”

  “Then why the fuck did you leave him, and leave with my fucking truck? Bring my shit back, now!” Justice slammed his phone shut and called Amir.

  Amir answered on the first ring. He breathed wildly. “J, they on me. I’m in a swamp somewhere.”

  “Where? What happened?” Justice asked. He was irritated and scared at the same time. He could not fathom how this happened. “The Walmart Johnnie’s are following me. Put your phone on vibrates,” he said and hung up. Justice knew that he had to think for all parties involved.

  Justice tried to get out the parking lot, but he was accosted by two white men. Here we go, he thought. Do not panic. Relax. The men followed him as he continued to walk. He was like a five-alarm inferno with evidence of attempting to pass a bad check and altering a state issued identification. He cut between cars and smoothly dropped his checkbook wallet on the ground and scooted it under a car. He made the move and never missed a step. He got distance on the wallet and then stopped in front of the Marshall’s entrance.

  “Why the fuck is you freaks following me?” He said, screaming so other patrons could hear him.

  “Where’s your friend? We know that you’re with Harry,” one of them said. He had red, spiky hair.

  “Don’t have any friends out here…” Justice’s phone rang interrupting him. It was Nick. He answered. “Go home!” Justice ordered and hung up.

  Justice’s mind raced back to a time when Nick had ratted on him and Justice was arrested. Nick worked at a Bertucci’s restaurant while Justice worked at Strawbridge’s department store in the Plymouth Meeting Mall. They had ridden the bus with the same mall crew every day and shot the breeze with them during the ride. They befriended Debron who worked at Zales—a jewelry boutique. The three of them conspired to give each other free goods from their respective jobs.

  Nick had to let them eat at Bertucci’s practically free. That was easy. Justice let them use their real debit cards to buy menswear from the department store, just so that they could get past loss prevention. When they left the store, Justice would post-void the transaction, and, he sometimes allowed them to return the merchandise and they split the money once in their accounts. Debron let the other two fill out credit applications from Zales using stolen identities from Strawbridge’s customers to buy jewelry.

  The plan was foiled when Nick bought a ring that was too small. He was told to take the ring to another store to have some gold removed so that it fit. Dumbo took the ring to the same store that it was bought from and the store manager called the police to have the thief arrested. It took the police no time to find Justice who was serving time in Bucks County by that time. The Montgomery County court sentenced him to 3-23 month
s to run concurrent with his Bucks County sentence, which he went up state for. Nothing good came from the situation, but him meeting Amir.

  “Who was that?” The bulky man asked, as a Woodbridge PD cruiser pulled up onto the scene.

  Justice felt inclined to stop. His freedom once again flashed before his eyes. His mind ran queries that he had no answers for. Why did I come here? Why didn’t I come alone? Hell, why do I even exist on Earth anymore? I could go for the policeman’s gun, he thought. I should end it right here in Woodbridge, New Jersey. I go for the officer’s gun, get wrestled down by the Walmart loss prevention, freeing up the policeman to give me a warning shot to the brain. Justice thought that was a grand plan to execute.

  William stopped typing and spun 360-degrees affording a panoramic view of the red and black office décor, themed after the cover of his fourth novel, Get Down or Lay Down. Across from his mirror-topped desk, a red camel-haired sofa filled the corner, below framed posters for his first three novels to the left of the door.

  When he was retarded, or not so imaginative to produce a sickening plot twist, he tossed the red and black decorative pillows into a basket and stretched out on the sofa. Often he reclined in the recliner to remain upright. He would inhale and count to ten slowly and then exhale. Breathe and relax, he told himself behind closed eye lids. He fell into a day-dreaming cat nap. A formula that had the occasion for refreshing his mind considerably enough to cure the dreaded, but necessary writer’s block.

  His eyes searched the credenza on the right side of the door, where he stocked office supplies. The double doors were open and he scanned reams of different color paper used to easily track the calendar days in his manuscript to assure chronological order. Boxes of red pencils were there to revise his current work on paper.

  Floor to ceiling windows stood on two sides of the office affording him a most sought after view of both Wilshire and Lacienega up from the fifth floor. William had the drapes customized. They were extra-long, sweeping the black vinyl floor. They hung from fancy black rods with red devils on the ends. He had the drapes drawn so that he let in the fresh California sunlight. Other times, he had the drapes closed with only the small stained-glass desk lamp as a light source. The yellowish, dim glow cast shadows as if creatures lurked in his office. That worked well when he desired to gauge his devilish side and write something dark and gloomy.

  It had been five months since he pitched his latest fiction idea to his agent, Jewel Blacksmith. He had three weeks to meet a deadline with Blacksmith Literary Agency. Being proficient stood at the apex of his list of qualities. He was usually ahead of schedule. With a master’s degree in Creative Writing from UCLA, he knew how to put together twisted plots that commanded admiration. Critics proclaimed that he did everything right. His stories had paid the fare to slip into national conversation. He didn’t allow pictures to be taken of him. His novel jackets were faceless. William Fortune’s race was a hot topic. It was often stated that his novels were so close to the story within the urban ghettos that he had to be Black. His writing evidenced that he may have been White.

  Out of a trance, William’s eyes drifted right to his computer monitor. He commanded the computer to print the most recently completed chapter. Later, at home, he planned to litter the pages with enough red marks to mirror a murder scene. Before he stuffed the papers into his briefcase, he looked at the tin UCLA wastebasket. It brimmed with crumpled sheets of paper. He often wrote first drafts in long hand before entering them into his computer as a second draft. He had learned the art to a fine manuscript was in the re-writing process. He emptied the basket and smoothed the papers out and put them in a folder, so that after he published the novel, he could re-read the first drafts like spoofs at the end of a movie DVD. A few seconds passed and he decided to give the pages a chance. He saved his work on his travel drive, and then turned off his computer.

  He wanted to belt out a paean, and he hoped that God cured his writer’s block. His novel was three-quarters completed. He was forced to change the ending because the thug’s life who he based the story on hated it. When asked what he hated, the thug simply stated that he would never have made the foolish decisions that William had him make fictionally. Justice had bravely given William the green light to write that account of his great escape from the East Coast exactly the way it happened. He told William not to alter the facts to protect the innocent. Use all names was Justice’s order. William had many avenues to write the perfect salable script, but whichever one he took had to satisfy him.

  SIX

  God had handed William looks that garnered top billing. He had a human-like Frankenstein jawline and neat bushy eyebrows. Most days he down-played his perfection. He had a tidy goatee and green marbles for eyes. He was coated with chocolate imported from the Swiss; an invitation that got him through the doors of A-list parties. Too bad he would never go to one.

  Lundin admired him and thought that he was perfect. To him a child’s painting was perfect. Children painted from the heart, not for the next art gallery auction.

  William did not grow up able to rant, “Give me this. Give me that.” Both of his parents were in heaven, both succumbed to cancers. He feared that he was next. He had no siblings. No real childhood friends. So, the 3,000-mile trek to Los Angeles was an easy decision. Good thing that he had Lundin, or he would die lonely.

  William found parking on Robertson Boulevard and stepped onto the pavement. He merged with all of the big spenders out to charge their credit cards to buy whatever their hands could carry. He and Lundin lived in a loft above a high-end men’s boutique on the extravagant street in West Hollywood. He lived in the green section on the Monopoly game board. A half-mile away was the blue section, and hiring a realtor was the only thing that prevented his move.

  Robertson Boulevard was one of many celebrity shopping tracts in Los Angeles, and a haven for celebrities and paparazzi. William had to move to Los Angeles to learn that Bel Air (made famous by The Fresh Prince), West Hollywood (made famous by film industry), Brentwood (made famous by O.J. Simpson), Compton (made famous by Ice Cube), Beverly Hills (made famous by Rodeo Drive), and Inglewood (made famous by the Crips and Bloods) were all cities in Los Angeles County and not neighborhoods in Los Angeles City. However, the hoods sensationalized in black movies and West Coast rapper’s lyrics like Watts and South Central were in the City of Angels.

  Within feet of his domicile were specialty shops, art galleries, furniture emporiums, and the renowned Ivey restaurant, all for the rich and famous. On any given day he and his wife sat on their bed in the loft and peered through the window. They ate popcorn as the paparazzi fought for the best spot in the house to catch a perfect—and salable—photo frame of a celebrity who exited the Ivey.

  Thank God no one knew that he rented space across the street. A photo of the mastermind that gave the world House Mouse, Theft by Deception and Get Down or Lay Down would be worth six figures. Easy. William knew. He had called several copy editors and offered a photo of William Fortune. The lowest offer was $250,000. He knew that a bid could get up to a million. He was amazed that he managed to keep his identity hidden. The catalyst to his success.

  William slipped into his sanctuary and kicked his Ferragamo’s into a corner by the door. He shimmied into moccasins, tossed his blazer on a coat hook, and greeted Lundin with a salacious kiss in the kitchen.

  He saw that she made calamari. He looked on the granite counter and saw the flour batter she had dipped the calamari in before frying it. She had plenty spices on the counter from the exquisite spice rack. The kitchen warehoused digital stainless-steel appliances, high tech romantic lighting, and a handsome vision of marble counters. William had acquired taste for dishes from Armenia to Zimbabwe. The refrigerator was stocked with fancy imported meats.

  William hugged Lundin so that her chest pressed closely to his and he smelled all of her. Her bold chestnut eyes locked onto his and they read each other’s minds. William ran his arm up her back, under long
jet black hair, and snaked his arm along her shoulder. He stared at her soft features and then closed his eyes.

  “What?” She asked, pulling away from him.

  “Just thinking about,” he pulled her closer to him, and continued in her ear, “how you’d look cooking without…” He blindly unbuttoned her blouse until it fell to the floor. “This!”

  Her breast jumped out enveloped in a black La Perla bra. William imagined her soft, velvety, caramel backside in identical panties. Lundin was a former Victoria Secret model, which inspired her to be an agent. Lundin was bodacious in a compact fashion. Stand her in front of a 5’10” hour glass, and the clock would vanish.

  “At least one of us had a good day,” she said. She sounded stressed.

  This is why I don’t work in an office. Well, I do. Just not with people. “I’ll be having a better day if you were standing there naked in front of me cooking. We can play R. Kelly’s In the Kitchen, and you know…,” he said and kissed her.

  “So, I guess you are happy to see me?” She asked, and groped his crotch.

  “Oh, he is. Missed you, too,” William confessed, and kissed her neck three times softly.

  “Well, Blackey, we will see about that later. Won’t we?” she asked, and looked around the kitchen. She saw steam coming off the whole-grain noodles and then pulled away from him.

  William walked into the living room and cued Jaime Fox’s Unpredictable album to fill the air. He then took a seat on a bar stool that was in front of the kitchen. “How was work?” He asked his wife. He hated that question, but it was required in a marriage.