All I wanted to do was to publish a short story in a magazine. Sounds easy enough, right? Wrong. For several years I’d tried to create a mystery that would grab an editor, but, after each submission, the same basic form letter came back. “Thank you very much for the opportunity to read your manuscript. Unfortunately,….”
A normal person might have given up a long time ago, but I had to produce a story worth printing. Not because it was my chosen vocation. It’s just my passion. I enjoy mystery books, magazines, and movies. And I love to write. Not that I’m necessarily any good at it, but it served as an escape from my actual life as a government attorney working in contract law. BORING! So, I kept trying, although the editors were wearing me down. Many people in this world suffer pangs of hopelessness, but with one’s genuine passions, ambition can become a desperate motivator. That’s how it began.
* * *
On a particular night, a thing called writer’s block hit me while I was working on my latest “masterpiece.” That it was shortly after 2:00 a.m. and I couldn’t sleep may have had something to do with my lapse. But every time I tried to doze off, story ideas ricocheted through my brain, making slumber impossible. So, I stood up, stretched, and walked out onto the small balcony of the second-floor apartment where I’d lived for several years. Leaning against the rail and trying to glean inspiration from the dimly lighted neighborhood, I saw a dark-blue or black compact creeping toward a parking space near the building across the road from mine.
For lack of anything better to do, I continued to watch. At first, there was no movement from inside the parked automobile. Then the driver’s door opened slowly and the lone occupant emerged, scanning his surroundings as he did. I was familiar with most people living around the complex, even if only by sight, but I didn’t recognize the driver because of the low lighting. He appeared relatively young, tall, and slender.
Quietly closing the door, he crossed the lawn to a building, constantly casting furtive glances as he walked. He disappeared inside. I was ready to go back to bed and give sleep another chance when a balcony light came on and the same guy stepped outside. He moved to the storage locker that each apartment had on their balconies. The young man unlocked the closet and quickly, but silently, returned to his car. After opening the passenger side door, he leaned in. His dark clothing made it impossible for me to see exactly what he was doing, but he immediately reappeared, holding what looked to be a box containing a rather large television.
After depositing the container in the closet, the man returned to his compact and hauled out a second sizeable container. This appeared to be a stereo unit or some other electronic device. Likewise, he placed this package in the same closet. In rapt silence, I followed his movements as he went back yet a third time, entered the vehicle, and retrieved a large carton of undeterminable contents. That the smallish car could hold this number and size of boxes was astonishing.
Because of the nearby twenty-four-hour discount department stores and the odd times people must work and shop, I gave the episode no more consideration. Not, that is, until, during similar bouts of insomnia, I witnessed the identical event with the same individual two other times in the predawn hours within the next month. Each time, the contents of his automobile turned out to be new, still-in-the-original-box electronic equipment. Since I love a decent riddle, his activity naturally aroused my curiosity. However, my efforts to find and observe this mysterious stranger during normal waking hours proved futile.
Several days after the last episode, I was at a loss for story inspiration and decided a change of scenery might help overcome my stagnation. So I meandered to our community swimming pool, which was across the parking lot from my apartment building. As I lay beside it or drifted in the water, my mind wandered to my failure to craft a good mystery. Maybe my eleventh-grade English teacher had been right. Mrs. Todd had often admonished us to write on subjects with which we were familiar. Admittedly, I knew nothing of crime or of the criminal himself except through Hollywood or the news. My reflections also kept returning to those pre-dawn events with the puzzling man I’d seen.
The sudden shout of my name interrupted my reverie as a few guys from the complex called to me to play a game of pool volleyball. Without something better with which to pass time, I joined them. As I moved to their location, I saw a fellow I believed to be the one I’d observed during those late-night episodes. He emerged from the dark-blue compact. I studied him to make as certain as possible it was the same person. As he shuffled toward and entered the same building as before, there was no doubt. His swagger left no uncertainty.
A short time later, he arrived at the pool. I casually asked my companions about him, on the pretext of thinking he worked on an adjoining floor in my office building. The others laughed when I mention him and work in the same sentence. They told me his name was Jimmy Hoffman, and he was a high school dropout who lived with and sponged off his older sister, who resided there in the apartment complex. The consensus was that he was one of those types who maintained no apparent ambition and was in no hurry to change his prospects. “Lowlife,” “punk,” and “petty criminal” were the terms mentioned most often regarding him. From his appearance and the descriptors used, he was a guy you wouldn’t notice on the street, but if he showed up uninvited at a party you were throwing, you’d call the cops.
* * *
Although I went back to my routine, dull-as-ditchwater world after that Sunday, my failure as a writer occupied me constantly. My inability to put words on paper continued. At the same time, my thoughts were intertwined with my buddies labeling Jimmy a petty miscreant and the admonition to write about things with which I was acquainted. It struck me, if the guy were mixed up in illegal activity, and what I’d seen appeared to bear that out, perhaps he might let me “interview” him. That could give me an insight into the criminal mind and his way of life. And so it continued until a couple of weeks later.
During a subsequent nightlong bout of sleeplessness, I heard someone parking nearby. I eased out onto my balcony. Sure enough, there was the ne’er-do-well unloading a box from the car. I decided to act. After he disappeared into his building, I slipped out of my apartment and hurriedly covered the distance to the driver’s side. I crouched and waited for his return. Soon, Hoffman was again at the passenger’s door, softly grunting and groaning as he removed another box from the car’s back seat. I slowly rose as he emerged with his plunder in his hands.
“Good morning,” I mumbled.
Even in the dim lighting of the parking lot, I saw the startled look on his face. He froze. “Morning,” he replied hesitantly.
I simply stood there, smiling at him and saying nothing. Then his expression turned to one of suppressed anger. “Whaddya want?” he demanded.
“Only stopped to say ‘Hello’ and see if I could help you move your boxes inside.”
He sat the box he’d just recovered on the front passenger seat and looked around. “No, thanks. I’m good to go. Only a little late-night shopping.”
I tried for a knowing, yet friendly smile. “It seems you do a lot of late-night shopping.”
He retrieved the carton. “I dunno what you mean.”
“Nothing really, it’s simply that this is the fourth time I’ve seen you come home in the middle of the night with your car packed with boxes of electronic equipment.”
Gradually, he seemed to sense I wasn’t going to walk away, and I had too much information regarding his movements for his comfort level. With that, his demeanor changed to a more menacing presence. He walked around toward me. Now, he was no ominous hulk, more inclined to sinew than muscle. But, at this distance, I realized he was what some might call “wiry,” capable of meting out injuries if cornered. He clinched his fists. However, I was aware if I wanted to accomplish my goal, I’d have to take a chance and stand my ground, though street fighting had never been my forte.
To reduce the tension of the moment and to stop his movement, I put up a hand. “Hold it right there. I’m not here for trouble. I only have a favor to ask. Besides, if something happens to me, my girlfriend will have it recorded on my camcorder. That’s the same device, by the way, on which I’ve been recording you every time I’ve watched you,” I lied. “She’ll take the film to the police, complete with dates and times of your activities right there on them. How hard will it be for the cops to match that information with the what, the burglaries or thefts of these items?” I hoped my words sounded bolder than I felt.
Jimmy stopped dead in his tracks and glared at me. He glanced around, obviously trying to catch sight of someone recording us. During this glimpse at our surroundings, he momentarily looked at a nearby streetlight. He came to a sudden enlightenment of his own. “Your girlfriend is recording this at night? Bullshit! I don’t believe you!” he whispered harshly.
“Really, Hoffman? I thought you might’ve learned something about the things you’ve been stealing. Or don’t you have a market for camcorders? They’re pretty remarkable pieces of equipment nowadays and capable of recording at any level of lighting. Haven’t you ever seen videos on television of undercover cop operations or military missions? Fairly low light and yet excellent images. All the recordings of you I’ve made so far have turned out fine.”
His surprise that I knew his name was clear. After contemplating the circumstances for a minute, he scrunched up his rodent-like face and asked through clenched teeth, “So, whaddya want, jerk? A new TV, a sound system? What?”
“No, nothing such as that. I want you to teach me how to commit crimes. How you do what you do.”
“What? Get the hell away from me, you freak!” His tone remained quiet, yet threatening. After a second or so of considering his next move, he recovered the box and turned to leave.
“No, I’m serious.” As he glanced back at me, I added, “I’m a writer, and I want to publish a crime story. But I know nothing about committing one. What planning is necessary? How does it feel when you’re doing it? What goes through your mind? How do you feel afterward? You can teach me.”
He mulled over my suggestion. “So what’re you gonna do? Videotape it so you can hold it over my head? No way!”
“No, no video. Just you teaching and me learning.”
“What about the ones of me you already have?”
“When we’re done, they’re yours. Period,” I said, continuing the lie. “Seriously, I’m not out to hurt you. I only want background material for my story. Anonymously, of course.”
Again, he weighed my proposal and shook his head vigorously. “Nah! I’ve got a pretty good thing going. If I take you along, I’ll get busted for sure. Nope!”
The notion of going along with him had never occurred to me, but the idea held great potential. Alternative possibilities opened before me in that instant. I realized, if we got caught, my life, my career were over. That was a heavy consequence to consider, but I was hooked on using this cretin now more than ever. The prospect of writing a story, possibly a book that could sell, monopolized my waking hours. In addition, the crumb had a clue concerning criminal activity. He’d done it a number of times, apparently, without getting apprehended.
I figured this guy must have within him material for thousands of manuscript words. I persisted, “Look, you’ll be the boss. Whatever you say goes. You set things up, you tell me when we go, and you can have whatever we steal. I’ll take the blame if we get grabbed. Hey, I’m not stupid, and I’m fairly athletic. So doing anything you tell me to do won’t be a problem. I’ll… I’ll even pay you to let me go with you.” After he took a few seconds to ponder the idea, I continued, “Besides, you can’t afford to say no with the video of you I have.”
He wasn’t happy with the prospect. “I’ll think it over.”
“Fair enough.”
With that understanding, we parted ways for the night. We didn’t cross paths again for the next several days. When I didn’t see his car either, I wondered whether he’d just taken off rather than deal with me and the consequences of my “videos.”
* * *
“I gotta talk to you,” a soft voice came to me as I lay half asleep by the pool the following Sunday. My supposition concerning his departure proved wrong. I opened my eyes and squinted up at the guy’s lean, hard face.
“Sure,” I responded as I sat up and tried to hide my surprise.
“Over by your mailbox,” he mumbled in his best cloak-and-dagger manner, motioning in that direction with a nod.
He strolled away. I put on my flip-flops, picked up my towel and followed him at a distance. Once at the small mailbox pavilion servicing my apartment building, he quickly turned to face me.
“You’re a lawyer. A government lawyer,” he sneered, glancing around to be sure he wasn’t overheard. Then his angry, dark eyes studied me suspiciously. “Why didn’t you tell me? Are you some sort of cop or what? Or are you just trying to earn a promotion?”
I smiled at the fact he’d checked on me. “Yeah, I’m an attorney. But, to begin with, I work in government contract law. You know, contracts dealing with how much the taxpayers will spend on copying paper or toilet seats, for example. It has nothing, absolutely nothing, to do with any type of law enforcement. And it’s boring as hell. Second, my being a lawyer is totally removed from my offer to you. My proposition only has to do with my writing fiction. That’s why I write: to escape my bore-ass life.”
A young couple, approaching to check their mailbox, caused us to pause in our conversation. My companion took the interlude to read my face as if to gain insight into my thoughts. As he did, he wiped his hands on the paint-streaked sweatshirt he was wearing. He’d severed its sleeves at the shoulders. I marveled at how anyone with this idler’s apparent abhorrence of legitimate work could get that much paint on anything.
As the couple moved away, I continued, “I’ll be glad to answer any questions.”
He shook his head. “I don’t go for the idea of dragging a nerdy clown around on my jobs. You’ll just be excess baggage. I can’t afford the risk.”
“Think for a second,” I urged. “The fact I am a lawyer means I have a hell of a lot more to lose than you do if anything goes wrong. I’m not asking to you take me with you on a major bank robbery. We can do whatever petty crime you decide on, as long as I can get the sense of what it’s like.”
Again, he studied my face, frowning thoughtfully. This time his stare was longer, deeper than before. Then he glanced around. “Okay, but what I say goes. You do what I tell you, when and how I say it, understand? And if you screw up, I’ll kill you right there on the spot. No joke, I will. I swear it.”
I was nodding as he delivered his conditions and the threat. When I extended my hand to seal the agreement, he slapped it away, deriding me. “You’re such a geek. I’ll let you know when.” The low regard in which he held me was obvious as he pivoted and strode off, laughing as he strolled.
Waiting to hear from the man, I recalled the conversation by the mailboxes. Somehow, I felt stupid for being in a position of needing and wanting the help of such a lowlife individual. I despised him, and I wasn’t that crazy about me at that point. Was what I was embarking on worth it? Writing was important to me, sure, but at what price?
* * *
A couple of days later, Hoffman approached me as I collected my mail. “I have something lined up. What are you doing Friday night?”
“Nothing. What’s up?” I hoped my words did not betray my racing heart.
“I figured we’d do a little shopping together. At Belvedere Mall.”
“A burglary?”
“No, we’re gonna do a sorta minor thing. A shoplifting, in legal terms, Mister Lawyer. Can you handle it?”
“Yeah, sure. When and where?”
“Meet me at your car at seven-thirty p.m. Friday. We’ll take it. I’ll tell you the rest then. And if I find out you’ve said a word to anyone, including that girlfriend of yours–”
“I swear I won’t say anything,” I interrupted before he could throw another threat my way.
As he left me standing there, my heart pounded suddenly at the thought of actually committing even a relatively insignificant crime. The workweek dragged by. Friday finally arrived. Any attempt I made at steeling my nerves was futile. At my office, everything I did went awry. I couldn’t think, talk, or act straight while work kept piling up on my desk. Calling in sick had occurred to me, but that would have created a more tortuous day, with nothing to occupy my time. Although I’d never considered myself “nerd” or a “geek,” as the punk had said, maybe he was closer to the truth than I preferred to admit. On the way home, I thought of meeting Hoffman and calling the thing off. But his likely response to that decision was a concern to me. Besides, I wanted to write from experience.
At the appointed time, I was standing by my car, dressed in black jeans, a black long-sleeve shirt and black running shoes. As Jimmy approached, he guffawed. “What the hell are you made up for, ninja boy?” He lowered his voice and leaned toward me, scoffing, “I said we were going to do a shoplifting at the mall. We’re not breaking into CIA headquarters, you geek! Now go to your apartment like a good little fella and put on something you’d wear shopping. ‘Inconspicuous’ is the key, jerkwad.” In the timbre of his words, I heard the haranguing tone he had probably once used to bully other kids on the playground, prodding them into attempting some risky venture. And then he’d conveniently disappeared when the episode broke wrong. As I walked away, he called after me, “And bring a ball cap and a windbreaker!”
My antagonist was still laughing as I entered my building. While changing clothes, I wondered how he might ever understand the meaning of, much less be able to use, the word “inconspicuous” in a sentence. He was the type who was more comfortable lazing on the sofa in a wife-beater undershirt, drinking beer, watching television, and occasionally slapping the “old lady” around. The word “geek” kept echoing in my brain. My intense dislike of him was growing in proportion to my embarrassment at being so naїve. After I’d changed into something more suitable, I returned to my car. Hoffman grinned in amused contempt at my foolishness. I tried not to show either my anger at his ridicule or my nervousness. Even so, I accidentally squealed my car’s tires as we pulled away from the parking space.
“Easy there, Clyde Barrow. Are you sure you’re up for this ‘grand adventure’?” He asked, the derision in his voice clear.
I smiled at him, embarrassed by my clumsy driving and somewhat shocked this dimwit even knew who or what Clyde Barrow was. Apparently, the time he’d spent flaked out in front of his sister’s television instead of working had not been a total waste. When we reached the mall, my “partner” directed me to park near, but not too close to the entrance of a particular department store.
“Okay, here’s what’s gonna happen.” He had turned in his seat to face me after I’d parked, his attitude all business. “We’ll go into the store and–do you know what you’re gonna take? Shirts, socks, underwear?” I stared at him, my mind racing. I had never considered what things I might want to steal. Without waiting for an answer, he continued, oozing sarcasm, “Forget it. Let’s just say dress shirts. A sharp lawyer such as you can always use more of those.”
“It’s the salespeople’s dinner hour, so there’ll be fewer of ‘em on the floor. First, I’ll size ‘em up, then get their attention away from you. When I think the time is right, I’ll take my hat off. When I do that, you cram whatever you want into this thing.” He handed me a folded shopping bag with handles and with the store’s name emblazoned across both sides. He’d been holding it earlier when we met at his compact. “After you shove the merchandise in it, casually walk to that outside door and leave. When you get out, come back to the car as fast as possible, but do not run. That way, if mall security is nearby in the parking lot, you won’t arouse their curiosity. Then get in. I’ll be right behind you. Got it?”
“Yeah, I understand. But this store has those antitheft tabs on their clothes items and the sensors at the doors. The alarms will sound, and I’ll get caught,” I pleaded.
Jimmy reached for the bag and opened it. “Look, stupid. I lined the thing with aluminum foil. It blocks the sensors from picking up the security tabs. Okay? Now slide it inside your jacket in back, out of sight. And don’t pull it out until you’re ready to use it!” He picked up the ball cap sitting in my lap and shoved it hard into my chest, adding, “And here. Wear this pulled low over your eyes to keep your full face out of the security cameras.”
I had completely forgotten about the store’s closed-circuit cameras! Suddenly, this didn’t seem like the great idea I’d envisioned. But the thug gave me no time to think. In short order, he climbed out of the car, walked around to my side, and tapped on my window, chiding me, “You coming, geek?”
Once more, I had to suppress my anger. Not that any schooling guaranteed a comparable level of common sense or intelligence, but I had twenty years of formal education. And here was this high school dropout calling me stupid and deriding me because I was ignorant of the ways of society’s underbelly. Seething had to come later. Now I had to focus on the matters at hand.
My knees nearly gave out as we walked inside. Fortunately, customers were rather sparse at the moment we entered. Only two sales associates were working in the men’s clothing area where dress shirts were located. We loitered briefly while Jimmy cased the situation. After a minute, one employee called out to the other that he was going to the stockroom. The second salesperson acknowledged him as she approached. When she asked if she could help us, my mentor gently guided her toward another section of the department. I looked for any signal from him or for any trouble as I pretended to scan the shirts. The saleswoman glanced in my direction, but Hoffman kept her attention pretty well occupied the whole time. He was smooth. You’d have to give him that much.
Nonchalantly, he directed her to a particular clothing item and, as she turned her back to me, he removed his hat with a certain flair and apparently said something funny. She laughed sweetly as I retrieved the shopping bag from my jacket and starting filling it with shirts. When, in my extremely nervous state, I dropped two of the items, I ignored them and kept packing the sack. After what seemed an eternity, I finished and made my way toward the door we’d come in. Moving across the floor, out of the corner of my eye, I could see the sales associate look at me.
Every bit of my willpower came into play to keep me from running. I approached the sensors at the exit, swallowing hard. Would this gizmo Hoffman had given me really work, or was he setting my geeky butt up for a fall and a good laugh? Oh, well, nothing ventured! I passed the sensors without a peep from the alarm and left the store. Once outside, I decided mall security be damned. I was terrified! At a near run, I reached my car. After dropping my keys once, I finally unlocked the door and climbed in. My chum was right behind me.
When I fumbled to start the engine, he looked around the area as he said, “Easy, dude! We’re good! That babe didn’t suspect a thing! Just leave slowly! No burning rubber this time, okay?”
As my Honda cranked, a short-bed pickup truck, marked as mall security, pulled up behind us. The small, flashing amber light atop the truck’s cab seemed to be a giant spotlight aimed directly at me, showing the world a desperate criminal snared in the act of his heinous transgression. Absolute terror froze me in place. We looked at each other. He appeared much calmer than I. My expression must have revealed my panic to him, because he broke into a wide grin. The lowlife savored my horror with every fiber of his being. As the uniformed man emerged from his vehicle, his badge stood out in my rear-view mirror. A civilian joined him. Was this an undercover, theft-prevention person from the store? My companion eased out of the car and strolled to the officer.
After a brief conversation, during which my “associate” pointed toward me, the security patrolman looked at me, and then my car. His back to the light placed his features in shadow, so I had no sense of his demeanor, nor could I hear what he was saying. But that bastard Hoffman had given me up! Of that, I was certain! What should I do? What might I do? They had me blocked in! I tried to swallow, but realized my mouth was absolutely dry.
Before I did anything, the officer walked to my side and tapped on the window. As I lowered it and looked up into his stern, jowled face, he told me I had dirt on my rear license plate, obscuring it. That, he muttered, violated the law and might get me stopped by the police if they couldn’t read the tag. With that, he returned to his truck and moved the vehicle to several parking places along the row. As relief swept over me, my accomplice opened the door and returned to the passenger seat.
“Take it easy, sport. A good citizen had their car broken into. The mall ‘rent-a-cop’ had been going to make a report on it and noticed your plate. That’s it. We’re ready to go unless you do something stupid. By the way, what’d he say to you?”
“Something concerning mud on my license tag. I don’t understand how–”
“Oh, yeah,” he smiled. “I dirtied up your license in case some nosy citizen or security clown followed us outside and tried to read it as we hauled ass. Just a precaution,” he beamed. He enjoyed my anxiety.
Still shaking, I eased out of the parking space. Never had my heart beat so fast! The drive to the apartment complex became a total blank, but for my passenger babbling the entire way about various things. I heard little of what he said except when he welcomed me to the ranks of felonious offenders as he tallied the prices on the shirts I’d taken. Apparently, their dollar value totaled above the difference between a misdemeanor and a felony charge for theft.
Back at the apartments, we separated after I “thanked” him for his help and promised to return the “special” shopping bag to him when the shirts had been deposited at my place. In my apartment, I made a drink to relax, but paced the floor as if a man waiting for the warden to escort him to the death chamber. I couldn’t sit still. My heart pounded as I pondered what had happened, what I’d done. And this had only been a shoplifting. Writing about a crime, a perpetrator, and his emotions had to be so much easier now. But not tonight. I remained too restless in my excitement to write or to succumb to sleep’s undertow that night!
* * *
Although I saw Jimmy in passing, we didn’t talk for a week. His concern regarding my “video” apparently had waned once I entered his criminal world. The playing field had leveled somewhat. Meanwhile, I sat at my computer and tried to pound out a tale. But something was wrong. The words weren’t flowing the way I’d thought they should. The high I had experienced after our Friday night escapade had faded. And a shoplifting provided little basis for a story plot.
The emotions and exhilaration I had gone through were lacking now, and frustration at my writing attempts resurfaced. Boredom and lethargy had overtaken me more than before. Eventually, the realization I had to go to the next level of illegal endeavor struck me. While the ordeal had been primarily for my writing’s sake, I faced a different truth now. I wanted more of that rush I’d experienced! I made my mind up. When I returned the shopping bag, I decided to pressure the ne’er-do-well for another “job,” as he had put it.
* * *
I spent the following Saturday at the pool, watching for him. His “special” bag sat in a gym tote nearby. Late in the afternoon, my tormentor sauntered into the pool area with that arrogant, “I’ve got the world by the tail” bearing he always reflected. He meandered right past me, not speaking but giving me a knowing smile. He surely looked at me as something like a puppy eager for attention or recognition, neither of which came my way at that moment.
I had the same sickening apprehension prey in the wild must experience when they realized a predator had singled them out for destruction. But I knew I wanted to go on another job. And I grasped I had to be leery of Hoffman and the underlying threat he posed to me.
My mistrust of him rose in proportion to his increasing trust in me. Suddenly, I had an epiphany. There was the strong likelihood Jimmy’s actions in talking to the security guard and pointing at me had been calculated to bring on the very anxiety I’d felt. He was, in fact, playing with me. There’s probably a term for people who enjoy the fear they see in or impose on others. Besides “psychopath,” I mean. But the word, whatever might be, escaped me. I’d read of individuals who get their kicks creating uncomfortable or dangerous situations for their fellow man, then watching them wallow through them. Possibly this made up part of his psyche.
Lying there, I kept waiting for him to give me a signal so we might talk. Later, he again meandered past my chaise lounge. I pretended to be unaware of his presence. This time, however, he deliberately bumped my seat and moved on. I watched as he left the pool and walked toward the same mailbox pavilion. Like that small puppy I must have seemed, I dutifully got up and followed him. No one else was in the area when I arrived at the mailboxes where my “colleague” waited.
He greeted me with the same sarcasm and contempt. “Well, Mr. Badass, did you sleep much Friday night?”
“Like a rock, the whole night long.”
“Yeah, right. So you’re a wimp and a liar.” He watched my reaction. I let it slide. When I merely stared at him, he went on, “You got my bag,wad?”
“Yes, it’s in here,” I said, indicating my tote. “But before we get to that, there’s something I want to say. I–”
He bristled. “Look, if you’re unhappy with my attitude, go crying to your mamma. I hate a college boy doing this on a whim. I do this to eat. You’re in it for kicks. I don’t like you! And you ain’t my pal! So stop whining at me!”
Enough was enough. “I’m calling bullshit on your claim of doing it to eat! You’re perfectly capable of getting any number of jobs! So I’m not buying that crap of you needing to steal to survive.” I stopped short of telling him I believed he was simply too lazy and “no account,” as my grandma might say, to get productive work. My anger spent to an extent, I continued, “I won’t argue with you. What you do is your business if you’ll only help me.”
“What was that Friday night, idiot?”
“Yeah, but I want to do more.”
“Another shoplifting? Whaddya need pants or lawyer ties to go with your new shirts?”
“No, not a shoplifting. You obviously have that down to an art form. What else have you done? I mean, I need to raise it a notch. No offense, but stealing shirts won’t make for very exciting reading in my story.”
“You’re kidding, right? Step it up a notch, you say? You almost had a heart attack trying to pull off a crappy theft,” he declared dismissively. “You couldn’t handle anything tougher!”
“I know you dislike me, but don’t sell me short. If you can plan it, I can pull it off.”
“Yeah, right!”
“Try me, sport!” I threw his sarcasm back at him, determined to make this happen.
“Okay, sport, whaddya have in mind?”
“What’s next up the ladder on your resume?”
He studied me for a minute, then looked past me as if lost in thought. Of course, he was “lost,” I mused. It was unfamiliar territory for him. When he broke into one of his wide grins, I didn’t know whether to jump with excitement or tremble with fear. “What?” I asked.
“Are you game for something along the lines of a burglary, geek?”
A burglary? Summoning every bit of the bravado I in me, I leaned toward my “partner in crime” and asserted, “As I said, if you can devise it, I can do it.”
“I’ll look around. Hang loose,” he replied, as he grabbed his bag from me and walked away unexpectedly.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw what must have caused him to leave so abruptly. A girl approached to get her mail. So I pretended to check my mailbox and left.
As I moseyed back to my apartment, I wondered whether a burglary wasn’t more than a little over my head. Well, what the hell. Two weeks ago, I might have believed the same thing of a shoplifting. Besides, burglaries had to make for much more interesting writing material. At that point, my bigger concern was staying on guard against Hoffman’s shenanigans.
Aside from not trusting him, I was growing to hate him, not simply for what he was, but because of the level to which he made me sink to get his help. My anger and mounting loathing of the lowlife had not overcome my fear of him, however. And they had not risen above my desire to gain the experience to write a story. To anyone else, going through this anguish for the sake of creating a story likely sounded insane, but that’s how badly I wanted to create a publishable tale.
* * *
Several days later, Jimmy signaled to me as I crossed the parking lot outside my apartment. When I walked to where he stood, he informed me he’d set up a “job,” a burglary, for the coming weekend. Apparently, a buddy of his had reliable information on the comings and goings of a well-to-do household across the city. The family kept a fairly sizeable sum of cash in a jewelry box in their master bedroom. He said it was there for the taking. Their home surveillance system was being updated while they were out of town and had been disconnected for a short period.
I assumed someone in the security company was the source of his inside knowledge. The punk made disparaging remarks, referring to the stupidity of the home’s owners. For this job, he ordered me to wear what I’d initially worn for the shoplifting caper. Also, he told me to buy a pair of dark-colored knit work gloves at a local hardware store, before sending me on my way until late Saturday night.
* * *
“You know, in all this time, I’ve never seen you with a woman. That first night, you said you had a girlfriend who was taping us. Where’s she been?” I was driving my car toward an upscale neighborhood just before midnight on Saturday. We were using the Honda again in case “things went wrong,” as my passenger had explained. As we rode, he’d started questioning me.
In for a penny, in for a pound. “She’s married,” I lied. “It doesn’t behoove her or me for us to be too obvious in our movements together. Her husband is an important dude.” I paused and gave him a knowing smile. “She’s around.”
Again, the man appeared to study my face, trying to read my thoughts, my motives. Going through life thinking everyone else is as conniving and dishonest as you must be tough on one’s nerves. Finally, he spoke. “Huh. Who’d a thunk it. A nerd like you messing around with an important guy’s wife. She’s gotta be as dull as dishwater or as ugly as hell or bored out of her skull.” He didn’t speak for several seconds, shaking his head and laughing to himself. His mood hardened, his tone tougher as he returned to type. “You haven’t talked to anybody about any of this, have you?”
I passed on telling the jerk the original simile had been “as dull as ditchwater.” But that would have amounted to wasted effort. So I simply responded to his question. “No. Why should I talk to anyone? I told you I have more to lose than you. Besides, I don’t even know where the hell we’re going.” He furtively glanced through the car’s back window. “And if you think we’re being followed, you can take the wheel anytime!”
That satisfied him as he relaxed into the seat for the rest of the drive. I grunted, grateful for the reprieve. Later, we parked at a supermarket on a main road and walked a distance through a wooded area behind the store, which eventually abutted the large backyard of the target home. Obviously, my companion had done his homework.
We easily scaled the surrounding privacy fence. As we landed in the yard, I saw my “colleague” in the moonlight, signaling me to keep quiet. I wondered what the hell he thought I intended to do! My heart was racing, my mouth was as dry as sawdust, and I was too damned frightened to murmur a peep! He then gestured for me to put on my gloves. As I did, he appeared to be counting windows across the back of the home. When he finished, he nodded at me, and we scurried over the yard to the house.
He pointed to a ground-floor window above us and motioned for me to open it. As I raised my hands to the casement, my mistrust again came to the forefront. Was his story regarding the security system being disarmed true? Had the family really left town? Or might this be a setup? The only solace in the situation was my “associate” would also be subject to any harm or retribution I might get in the next few minutes. So I lifted the unlocked opening slowly. No audible alarm anyway. So far, so good.
My partner in crime boosted me into the shoulder-high opening. Pushing the drapes aside, I found I was climbing into a pitch-black room. I reached out to feel the space on which I’d be landing and realized there were no obstacles present. The bottom of the window was only a foot above the floor. I crawled inside and pulled him in behind me. He produced a small LED light. In its glow, we saw a large bedroom, likely the master suite. There were no apparent signs of life.
Hoffman grabbed my shoulder, drew me toward him, leaned into me, and whispered, “Go to the door and keep a lookout in the hallway, just in case.”
Here it comes, I guessed. The double-cross. But, in the light of the LED, I saw nothing in his face that gave me greater concern. He seemed focused only on getting what we’d come for. As I navigated the room, he moved to a jewelry box on a nearby dresser.
I stood in the hall outside the bedroom, trying to make sense of what I thought I saw in the darkness. Then I heard them. The unmistakable sounds of heavy paws moving cautiously, stealthily on a hardwood floor. Now I felt my heart was going to burst out of my chest. Suddenly, claws scuttled faster across the space as their owner recognized he was not alone. When I turned to go into the room, the door was slowly closing behind me. I fell against the door as I looked down the long hallway.
My eyes had adjusted to the dim light. Gradually, I made out the form of a large, snarling dog coming toward me! The canine charged as I pushed hard against the nearly unyielding door and forced my way into the bedroom! The mutt reached the door as I slammed it shut! While the animal on the other side raised holy hell, growling, barking, and clawing, I found my antagonist was beside me, laughing. “This is funny, you son of a bitch? Were you closing the door on me?” I demanded in the loudest whisper I dared.
“Cool it, stupid! We’ve gotta get out of here!”
We both moved for the opened window, clambered out, and ran like hell.
* * *
“What were you trying to do back there? Get me killed?” We had reached the parking lot safely, and my anger overcame my urgent need to leave.
“No, I–”
I stopped running and screamed at him, “Look, asshat, that door didn’t close by itself!”
“Of course not!” Jimmy yelled, moving on to the car. “When I heard the dog, I tried to move to get you outta there! I accidentally hit the door, and it started to swing shut around the time you were trying to come back into the room! My laughing was only what you might call a nervous reaction! That’s all, geek!” Still angry and not satisfied with his inane excuses, I followed him to our ride. Once inside the car, I maintained such calm as I could muster. He, too, quieted, continuing, “Now shut up and drive us out of here! And don’t burn no rubber!”
As my shaking hand started the car, I couldn’t decide why my collaborator remained so relaxed. Was it because he told me the truth about what had happened? Or was it because he’d intentionally scared the hell out of me and was relishing the moment? As much as I might think the former possible, I knew the latter to be far more likely. He truly was a pissant. As we rode through the night, I glimpsed his face sideways in the passing streetlights. It held the faintest hint of a knowing grin. At that juncture, I understood that he’d known the dog was there.
When my passenger caught me cutting my eyes toward him, he tried to divert my focus. “You didn’t ask if the cash was there. Check this!” With that, he pulled a large wad of bills from the pocket of his hoodie. “Half of whatever’s here’s yours.”
“I told you I’m not in this for any money. The only thing I ever wanted out of this deal was the experience.”
“Okay. So you’re saying you don’t want any of this?” His voice was disbelieving, yet hopeful.
I only shook my head in disgust while I worked to slow my breathing back to normal from the frisson that encompassed me. Despite my worries regarding Hoffman and my questions concerning his actions, my adrenaline was still pumping. A rush, a high such as this, was new to me. Learning I had passed my bar exam had not brought me this kind of excitement. I’d read of criminals who committed crimes purely for the sheer exhilaration. But I had never dreamed it would be this way.
Before the thug got out of the car at the apartments, I suggested one last “job” to complete my “experience in crime.” I knew he wouldn’t resist tormenting me one more time. When he asked what I had in mind, I threw out the idea of a robbery, fighting to keep buried my disbelief in and distaste for what I proposed. He seemed truly taken aback, but smiled and put up no argument. He said he’d think it over and get back to me.
* * *
“Well, are you still up for a new adventure, Mr. Badass?” My confederate had walked up behind me at the mailboxes several days later. He glanced around before he spoke again. And he didn’t try to hide his contempt for me.
I looked him hard in the eyes and reminded him I’d held up my end so far, and if he plotted it, I could pull it off. Despite his disdain for me, he couldn’t argue that point.
He bowed up his sinewy frame. “I’m betting you didn’t sleep much Saturday night. But you get used to it. I can hit something right now, come back here, and sleep on a clothesline.”
Ignoring his snideness, I smiled. “No. Not much sleep.” I decided not to lie this time. “You know I’m not in your league. I–”
“And you never will be!” he interrupted. His swagger returned with my admission of weakness. “Remember that!”
“All right, you win,” I conceded. “What’s the verdict?”
He smirked wickedly. “Don’t care for the word verdict, geek.” He looked around before continuing. “But we’re going after a convenience store. Are you game?”
“Yeah, I’m in.”
“Okay, tonight we’re meeting somebody to buy a handgun.”
“A gun?” I asked, more boisterous than I meant to.
He grabbed my arm, pulled me toward him, and, through clenched teeth, seethed, “Why don’t you say that louder, dipwad? I’m not sure the folks at the pool heard you.”
Pulling away from his grip, I lowered my voice. “Sorry. Do we need a gun? I didn’t say anything about an armed robbery!” He grinned at me knowingly. I swallowed hard as I fought to save face. “Besides, don’t you already have one?”
“No. I don’t normally use a gun in my line of work. And, yeah, we need one. Convenience store clerks aren’t likely to hand over cash if we just point our fingers at them and ask politely, dumbass. And if they pull some smart move, I want to be able to at least bluff ‘em.”
I hated his condescending attitude. And, though not crazy about where this was going, I was in too far now. “All right. When and where?”
“Meet me at my car tonight at eight o’clock.”
“Your car?” This was out of character for him. It aroused my wariness.
“Yeah, mine. These folks we’re meeting know me and my wheels. A strange ride might blow the deal. After we buy the thing, we’ll come back here, then take yours for the job. Any problem with that?”
“No.” In his criminal logic, it made perfect sense. I relaxed a little. “What kind of gun are we getting?”
“Why? You thinking of becoming a collector, geek?”
“Forget it! I only–”
“Okay,” he relented. “We’ll probably just snag a Saturday night special.’’
“That’s a thirty-eight caliber, isn’t it?”
“Maybe it will be and maybe it won’t, college boy. Could be we’ll get a forty caliber or a nine or a three-fifty-seven. Haven’t made up my mind. And it depends on what’s available to buy. See you at eight. Wear something inconspicuous. And, by the way, you need to bring two hundred dollars for the pistol.”
Inconspicuous. That two-dollar word had come forth again from that ten-cent brain. “Two hundred dollars?”
“Yeah. You’re buying. Besides, you’re not in this for money, anyway. Right?”
“Right,” I called out in a stage whisper as he sauntered away.
I looked at my watch. That meant I had seven hours to get set before we’d meet.
* * *
At eight that night, we met and took off to make the buy. We found ourselves in a section of the city with which I was unfamiliar and in which I was very uncomfortable. Jimmy did the talking to a tall, black male in a vacant lot. The man’s entourage was obviously familiar with him, but repeatedly gave me the once-over. After we’d bought the handgun, we started back to the apartments. Leaving that part of town gave me no regrets. Hoffman went inside his apartment building for a minute before we switched cars and drove away.
When we arrived at the shoddy convenience store he’d chosen, my passenger told me to me drive past it and park in a small strip shopping center around the corner. We happened to be in a high-crime neighborhood, well known in the local media for robberies, drug deals, and prostitution. I surveyed the location. Most of the retail businesses had been abandoned and boarded up, with what remained of its masonry charred and crumbling. Any segments of the shopping plaza that may have been occupied had closed for the night.
He turned in his seat to face me and handed me the gun we’d bought. “I’ll check things out first. Stay behind me and watch. If it’s clear, I’ll give you a signal. First, put this on,” he said, handing me a toboggan hat with mouth and eye holes cut out of it, “and go in holding the revolver and demand the money. Then–”
“Wait a damned minute! I’m not pulling this off by myself while you watch!”
“We are doing this thing together, you moron! Look, I don’t expect to find anyone except a foreigner working the counter. This time of night’s not usually busy for this place. That’s why we’re here. And it doesn’t have any security video. The hats are just a precaution.” As he got out of the automobile, he stopped, turned back to me, and continued, “So’s you know, the gun’s empty. No sense you hurting someone accidentally, including me. Now, give me a ten-second head start, then follow me to the front corner of the store.”
As I watched him walk away, I actually counted the seconds. I was that scared! Was I truly crazy enough to go through this with a person I hated and distrusted so much? Tonight had to be the end of our “partnership”! If I didn’t have the experience I needed to write after this, too bad! In the dim light, I tinkered with the gun as the last moments passed before I left the car. I held the weapon tightly. It felt cold and totally foreign to me.
Time to move. I crept to the store’s front corner and saw Jimmy peering in a window. He glanced around at me and nodded. When I approached him, I pulled the toboggan hat over my head and adjusted the holes so I could see what the hell I was doing. My partner did the same. We entered at the same time. Just as he had said, an undersized young man with Middle Eastern features stood alone at the counter. No one else was in the place. My accessory before the fact took up a position off to my right.
Holding the gun in front of me, I yelled, “This is a robbery! Give us your money!”
The clerk froze in stunned silence, raising his hands.
More nervous than anything, I screamed again, “Give us your money! Now!”
Hoffman moved to the clerk’s side of the register. He shoved the guy to the cash drawer and made him open it. The young man was clearly as frightened as me. After my companion got the money, he appeared to be looking for something below the counter. Suddenly he punched the clerk on the shoulder, pointed to something on a lower shelf, and yelled to him, “Use it, his gun’s empty! Shoot him! Do it now, damn it!” As he pushed the clerk, he looked at me and laughed.
I glanced from the scumbag to the clerk and back again, waiting for either’s next move. I didn’t have to wait long. The young man fainted and fell forward over the counter before dropping to the floor and out of sight. I ran from the store to the deserted parking lot. Stopping there, I bent over, trying to catch my breath as I removed the toboggan hat. Hoffman ran to my side, laughing like a madman. My eyes had adapted to the low light. I saw he’d already pulled his hat off.
“Man, that was hilarious! You should have seen your face, geek! And that kid! Was he scared or what?” He stood upright from his doubled-over position as he howled with laughter between words. “Did you see–?”
As he spoke, I swept the barrel of my gun up to Jimmy’s sternum. Without hesitation, I pulled the trigger three times in quick succession. The revolver discharged with momentarily deafening blasts. In the man’s face, I saw a dying look of utter shock and disbelief. No one can imagine the sense of satisfaction I took from his expression at that moment. When he dropped to the ground, I hustled to my Honda. As I made my way, I threw the gun and the various calibers of ammunition I’d purchased earlier in the day onto the roof of the sections of the closed shopping center. I intended to toss my toboggan hat and work gloves from the car somewhere along the road. I glanced back at my antagonist’s body as I quietly, calmly drove away.
How might the authorities see this? A falling-out among thieves? A drug deal gone bad? It mattered not to me.
Now. Now I’m ready to write. ©