Thieving Weasels Page 6

  One of Grandpa Patsy’s favorite sayings was that money separates friends, and big money separates families. I’m not saying a hundred thousand dollars is small money, but it sure ain’t five million bucks, and I knew that no matter what I did, the contents of that locker would tear my family apart. I also knew that if I ran away they’d think I stole more money than I actually had. Any way I looked at it, I was screwed. I stared at the money for a long time and tried to figure out what to do. Yes, I wanted to go to Wheaton, and yes, I wanted to get away from my family, but I was only thirteen years old, and the thought of running away from everything I knew was terrifying. Then I remembered Grandpa Patsy saying he wanted to go out backing a winner and I took the money.

  Unfortunately, four years of Wheaton cost more than a hundred thousand dollars. This would not have been a problem for Skip O’Rourke, but Cam Smith was determined to fund his education honestly. Therefore, instead of robbing department stores or dealing drugs, I got a job in the school cafeteria, worked two and three jobs during the summer, and applied for every scholarship I could find. And somehow, even with two tuition hikes and a twenty-five percent increase in fees, I managed to pay for school and get accepted to Princeton. It was the hardest thing I had ever done, and I was incredibly proud of it.

  This was why I found myself going to Roy’s apartment instead of running away like a sane person.

  “What time is it?” Roy asked, answering the door with a yawn.

  “Nearly four. Talk about sleeping the day away.”

  “Can it, half pint. I only got to bed a couple of hours ago.”

  “Why were you up so late?”

  “The job.”

  “What job?” I asked.

  “I’ll tell you after I take a shower.”

  I followed him inside, and the first thing I noticed was an elite racing bike leaning against the wall.

  “That’s one sweet-looking ride,” I said, inspecting the bicycle. “Do you take it out a lot?”

  “Not as much as I’d like. Especially considering how much it’s worth.”

  I hopped on the bike and squeezed the hand brakes. “How much does something like this cost?”

  “Three G’s. And that’s just for the frame.”

  “Wow, that’s a lot of money for just two wheels.”

  “Tell me about it. The guy I stole it from must be majorly pissed. You should get one, too. We can play Crash.”

  “With three-thousand-dollar bikes?”

  “Why not? Life’s too short to ride a Schwinn.”

  Roy disappeared into the bathroom, and I pedaled across the apartment. It took less than a second, and by the time I reached the opposite wall I wanted to steal a bike just like it for myself.

  Be careful, a little voice inside me said. None of this is real.

  I leaned the bike against the wall and tried to remember the last time Roy and I had played Crash. I couldn’t, and felt sad because playing Crash was one of the highlights of my childhood. Roy and I invented the game out of boredom, and the rules were easy as one, two, three:

  1. Steal a couple of bicycles

  2. Chase each other until one of us crashed

  3. Repeat until bleeding

  Yes, I know it sounds stupid, but Crash was a total blast, and the more we played it, the more fun we had. We added a scoring system to keep things interesting, and points were awarded for the amount of time played, the value of the bike stolen, and the condition of the bike at the end of the game. Points were deducted for falls, blood spilled, and broken bones. Concussions and death ended play, and double-secret bonus points were awarded for causing traffic accidents and getting chased by the cops. No one was ever seriously injured, but I lost half my front tooth and Roy broke his wrist. The absolute high point of the entire escapade was the time we forced a redneck in a Dodge Ram to drive straight into a bread truck. It was awesome. The guy went totally ballistic and chased us all over Copiague, screaming his head off and cursing like a psychopath.

  Crash was idiotic for any number of reasons, but it had everything a twelve-year-old boy could ask for including thrills, spills, and the possibility of getting arrested. The next step would have been to swap our bikes for cars, but I ran away before we could graduate to the next level. This was probably a good thing, considering at least one of us would have ended up dead or in jail.

  “You ever hear of Fat Nicky Gangliosi?” Roy asked, strolling out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist.

  “Is he the guy you stole that bike from?”

  “Not even close.” Roy grabbed a jar of Vaseline off the table and slathered it all over a fresh tattoo on his arm. “Twenty years ago Fat Nicky was reigning champion of the New York crime world. Then about ten years ago he got shot up in a botched murder attempt and had to retire. Now his son runs the business, and Fat Nicky sits around all day watching cooking shows. You with me so far?”

  “I guess.”

  “Good, because our job is to kill him.”

  I waited for Roy to say he was joking, and when he didn’t I said, “Are you crazy? We’re thieves. We don’t kill people.”

  “The world’s changed, Skip. Between the recession and all the new security stuff out there, it’s impossible to make a living off welfare checks anymore.”

  “I thought Vinny just got disability.”

  “For like three weeks. By the time he’s done paying off the doctor and the check cashing service, he’ll clear barely three bills.”

  “So why did he do it?”

  “Birds gotta fly. Fish gotta swim,” Roy said with a shrug. “But listen, I understand your reluctance to cap this guy and I felt exactly the same way.”

  “Good.”

  “That’s why we’re only going to pretend to cap him.”

  This job was getting more ridiculous by the second.

  “And what happens after that?” I asked. “Is someone going to pretend to pay us?”

  “No, the money’s real.”

  “That’s reassuring,” I said with a laugh. “And who wants us to kill this guy?”

  “Your mother’s roommate. Well, he’s not actually her roommate. He’s more like her neighbor.”

  “At Shady Oaks? Now I get it. This guy must think he’s the Godfather and you’re Spider-Man. Who do I get to be? Luke Skywalker, or Indiana Jones?”

  “The guy’s not in the crazy part of Shady Oaks. He’s in the Williams Pavilion.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s their old age home. Besides, the only thing that matters is that his money is sane. Here, check this out.”

  Roy handed me some forms on Shady Oaks stationery. There were lots of big numbers scattered about and I said, “I never realized Shady Oaks was so expensive. I guess it’s a good thing Mom got all that money from Grandpa Patsy, otherwise she’d never be able to afford this place.”

  “What money?”

  “You know, the money money. Where’d you get this paperwork from, anyway?”

  “The Shady Oaks financial services office.”

  “You broke in?”

  “No, I used my master key.” Roy stood up and said, “You’re looking at the new night janitor at the Williams Pavilion. That’s why I was asleep when you got here.”

  “But we went to Shooters last night.”

  “My shift is from midnight till eight in the morning. After I hooked up with Jackie I had her drop me off at Shady Oaks. And speaking of Jackie, she’s got this girlfriend that sounds perfect for Vinny. The only problem is her friend’s kind of shy and wants Jackie to spend some quality time with Vinny to see if he’s boyfriend material. So, take a bath, my favorite cousin, because tomorrow night the four of us are going out to dinner.”

  “Why do you want me to tag along?”

  “To help Vinny impress Jackie. Face it, you’re th
e closest thing to an impressive person we know. What do you say?”

  “I’d love to, but I spent all my money at Shooters last night.”

  “Don’t worry about the money. It’s my treat.”

  A hot meal in a restaurant sounded way better than cold cuts at my mother’s house. “Sure,” I said. “Why not?”

  “Good. Just do me a favor. If Vinny asks about the job, pretend like you have no idea what he’s talking about. Okay?”

  “Sure thing,” I said, wishing it were true.

  12

  ON MY WAY HOME FROM ROY’S APARTMENT I THOUGHT about Claire and why I would let myself get sucked back into the bosom of my family so she and I could be together. The short answer was I loved her. But there was more to it than that. Claire was the first person I loved who didn’t try to rob me. I’d dated other girls before her, but it never felt like love. It never felt like anything. Then Claire entered my life and stole my heart, which is pretty ironic considering my background.

  We hooked up in the fall of our third year at the annual Leaf Peeper Dance. This was the biggest social event of the fall, complete with elaborate decorations, tons of snacks, and a local band from Albany. The band was terrific, but I saw right away that one of the members of their crew was a weasel. Shifty eyes, fake smile, hands in the pockets of a trench coat he never took off, this guy was straight out of the juvenile delinquent handbook. He tried to act cool, but he was physically incapable of keeping his eyes off the big pile of coats and pocketbooks sitting on the edge of the dance floor. I knew exactly what he was thinking because I was thinking the same thing myself.

  Full disclosure: my biggest challenge when I arrived at Wheaton was not robbing the school blind. Old habits die hard, and the place was like a candy store run by blind people. All of the students were rich, nobody locked their doors, and the windows were so feeble you could have jimmied them with a Post-it Note. But I was good. I strolled by unattended laptops in the library, ignored wallets and backpacks, and never so much as borrowed a pencil without asking. I was a model citizen, and the most surprising thing about this was how good it made me feel. I didn’t have as much spending money as the other kids, but that was fine. I was acting like a normal human being, and that’s all that mattered.

  This was why I became so angry when I saw that weasel in the trench coat ripping off my classmates. The smart move would have been to notify security and let them handle it, but I wasn’t feeling particularly smart that evening. Or merciful. Besides, it was fun to kick back and watch someone else be the thief for a change. The guy knew the band’s set list, and whenever they played a good dance song, he’d take advantage of the crowd’s enthusiasm and dip into a few pocketbooks. It was a good scam, and within half an hour his pockets were overflowing with wallets and iPhones. Professionally speaking, it was quite a haul.

  The band played a slow song to finish their set, and as couples paired up to dance, the weasel headed for the door. This was always my favorite part of a job. There’s something positively electric about those last few seconds when you think you’re about to get away with a scam that makes it all worthwhile. It’s the criminal equivalent of skydiving.

  I followed the guy outside and waited for him to think he was home free. Sure enough, halfway to the parking lot he pulled out a cigarette and stopped to light it. This was my cue. I broke into a sprint and aimed for the center of his back. My timing was perfect, and I slammed into him just as the cigarette touched his lips.

  “You third-rate slimebag,” I hissed as I dove on top of him and pummeled his face. “You think you can come to my school and steal from my classmates? Well, guess what? You’re wrong.”

  “What the hell are you doing?” someone behind me shouted. “You’re hurting him.”

  “That’s kind of the point,” I said, looking up.

  And that’s how I met Claire.

  We’d passed in the halls dozens of times and even had a few friends in common, but this was the first time we actually spoke. Her dress was soaked from dancing, and she’d come outside to cool her feet in the fall grass. Christmas was months away, but for some reason her toenails were painted red and green and this struck me as the most exotic thing in the world. I couldn’t take my eyes off of them.

  “Look at me when I’m yelling at you,” she demanded.

  “Your wish is my command,” I said, and pulled out my cell phone. “What’s your phone number?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said, what’s your phone number?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “A lot. Trust me.”

  She gave me her digits, and I punched them into my phone. Two seconds later, a Lady Gaga song blared from the trench coat beneath me.

  “Hey,” she said. “That’s my ringtone.”

  “Exactly. I saw this lowlife stealing stuff and came out here to stop him.”

  Claire’s eyes grew wide. “Then he must have my charm bracelet, too!”

  I held up my cell phone. “What’s your charm bracelet’s phone number?”

  “Not funny. My grandmother gave me that bracelet when I was seven, and it means more to me than anything.”

  “Yo, slimebag,” I said, and slapped the guy on the side of the head. “You come across a charm bracelet on your little crime spree?”

  “Eat me.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” I stuck my hand in the trench coat and pulled out a couple of cell phones, some crumpled bills, and a gold charm bracelet.

  “Oh my God!” Claire shouted. She grabbed the bracelet and hugged it to her chest. “I only took it off because I was worried some of the charms might fall off while I was dancing. Last year I lost the little gold horseshoe I got for my eighth birthday and almost had a nervous breakdown.” A dark look crossed her face, and she glared at the weasel in the trench coat. “You idiot!” she yelled, and pulled back her leg to kick him in the ass. Lucky for him, he saw it coming and twisted out of the way.

  I, however, was not so lucky, and the kick landed square on my wrist.

  “Ow!” I screamed.

  “Oh no!” she screamed back. “Are you all right?”

  Before I could answer, the weasel jumped up and raced toward the parking lot. I tried to stop him, but the best I could do was hang on to his trench coat. He pulled himself free, and the coat came off in my hands.

  “Jerk!” Claire shouted, and threw a shoe at him. She was a much better kicker than quarterback, and the shoe landed ten feet short.

  “Damn it!” she yelled.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “It’s going to be a long time before he tries something like that again. I think I broke his nose.”

  “You did? Nice!”

  Not the kind of response you’d expect from the vice president of the junior class who had never so much as given me a second look. Claire went inside and came back with a cup of ice. She held it against my wrist, and I swear it was the warmest thing to ever touch my skin.

  “Does it still hurt?” she asked.

  It took me a while to answer because I was too busy staring at Claire’s face which was so close to mine I could feel her breath. “Yeah, it does,” I finally said. “I better go get it checked out.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “No biggie. Why don’t you take that coat inside and give people their stuff back.”

  “Right,” she said, staring at me for a moment too long. “Good idea.”

  Then she turned and walked back to the party.

  I went to the infirmary and didn’t expect to hear from Claire again. I was totally shocked, therefore, when I walked out of the infirmary and found her sitting on the steps.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “I wanted to thank you again for saving my charm bracelet. How’s your wrist?”

  “It’s just br
uised.”

  “I’m really sorry.”

  “How’s your foot? I’m surprised you didn’t break a toe.”

  “My foot’s fine,” she said, standing up. “I guess seven years at Miss DeMarco’s ballet school finally paid off.”

  “She must have been a great teacher because that was some kick.”

  “She was an excellent teacher. Unfortunately, she also had affairs with half the dads in the school, including mine.”

  “Ouch.”

  The chapel bell rang in the distance and Claire said, “That’s curfew. We better get back to the dorms.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” I said, and pulled a white piece of paper from my pocket. “I have a pass from the infirmary.”

  Claire looked at the pass. “There’s no time written on it. You could stay out all night if you wanted to.”

  “Why would I want to stay out all night by myself?”

  “Who said anything about staying out by yourself?”

  “Won’t you get in trouble?”

  Claire dismissed my worries with a wave of her hand. “My roommate snores like a freight train on steroids, and the floor monitor doesn’t even bother to check our room anymore. As long as Campus Safety doesn’t catch us we’ll be fine.”

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “The Drowning Pool.”

  “Just the two of us?” I asked.

  “I don’t see anyone else around, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  • • •

  The Drowning Pool was a swimming hole behind campus. Rumor had it that a freshman had died there in the nineteen fifties, and a trip to the Drowning Pool was as much a Wheaton right-of-passage as Mrs. Zelinski’s first year Latin class.