I'd like to thank Lastman for the notes and recommendations. I like to work on smaller, episodic stories while I'm working on the larger Criminal Affair detective stories. These come out monthly and I try to release the detective stories quarterly.
The annual awards voting is ongoing right now, so if able, be sure to go to the forums and vote for your favorites.
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Tuesday - April 5, 2021
A circle of people sit on fold out chairs in a room of the Grace United Methodist Church. They each take a turn, going on long diatribes about progress and relapses. The father who promised his kids a trip to a theme park but lost the money betting on sports. The second-grade teacher who resisted the urge to buy four hundred dollars of scratch offs. The lawyer who used his firm's expense card at the casino. One by one we discuss victories and defeats.
We started the meeting like all the others. The organizer leads us in a prayer, and we recite the twelve steps. Any anonymous meeting goes the same way. Alcohol, narcotics, and gambling.
This week, I managed to not go to a poker game. Small victories. It was a small buy in, only fifty dollars. I probably could have made it. I should have gone. I could have gotten out if I lost and not bought back in. Are they having another game next week?
"Lisa, care to share this week?" Theo asks. He's leading the group, a recovered addict himself. He gambled away his kid's college fund. Forty-seven thousand on black.
My name isn't Lisa, but this is anonymous after all.
"I passed on a game this week. Holdem. Fifty buy in. Said I needed to work, which I did, but that usually doesn't stop me," I say, and the room applauds. I give an uncomfortable smile and look at my toes. "All I want to do right now is call and ask if there's a game next week."
"Letting go of gambling is hard because it's FOMO. Fear of missing out. One more hand. One more bet. All I needed to do was play one more time and I would have won. It's always just one more hand, but it never is, is it?"
Some of my fellow gamblers stay behind for coffee and conversation, but I don't. I leave the second we're done and cross Avenue B to the gravel parking lot. When I reach the other side the parking lot I dig a pack of cigarettes out of my purse and pull one out by pinching the filter with my lips. Before I light, I see someone leaning against my car. I sigh and slide the cigarette back into the pack.
"You're surveilling me now?" I ask the detective.
Detective Miles Deacon is one persistent sonofabitch. The moment you land on his radar, he bites down like a bulldog and doesn't let go. He keeps it casual in jeans and a button up shirt beneath a black leather jacket. He's off duty, otherwise his shield would be visible on a lanyard around his neck. A veteran officer who has likely been a cop longer than I've been alive. Salt and pepper hair, but more salt than pepper. Even his 70s pornstar stash has gone grey.
"Just in the neighborhood. Saw your car. Figured I'd say hi," he says, adjusting himself to cross his arms. "You think about what I told you?"
"I'm sticking with I don't know what you're talking about," I say and try to step around him. He takes a step to the side, blocking my door. "Unless I'm under arrest, let me in my car."
"You're running out of time darling," he says.
"I'm not your fucking darling."
"Gambling debt I take it?" he asks.
"Move," I demand.
"Four homes were broken into last month. Talented group doing it. They get in, they get out. You know what the properties all had in common?"
"Move."
"They all patronaged the lock smithing services of Lady Smith Lock and Key. Curious coincidence."
"If you had more than a coincidence, we wouldn't be having this conversation in a parking lot," I say. "Get the fuck out of my way."
Miles takes a step away and opens the car door for me. I groan and sit in my car, him closing the door a second later. He knocks on the window, and I turn the crank to lower the window just an inch. My car is so old it still has a crank.
"You don't need to wear a wire. Just tell me what they're hitting and where, and I'll hit them back," he says, and I crank the window pack up.
I don't wait for him to leave before I pull out of the spot and drive toward the exit. When I turn onto the road, I roll down the window and finally light my cigarette.
--
My shitty apartment is waiting for me. The kind you'd be excused for believing it was a shitty motel. Close to the underpass and immediately off the highway exit. The sweet sounds of traffic. When I step out of my car, I crush the butt under the heel of my foot. I look both ways before opening my trunk and removing the tools from my car. My pick set, key fob programmers, drills, bump hammer, the works. No way in hell I leave this stuff in my car overnight.
It's heavy, and every night I struggle to bring it up to my apartment on the second floor. I place the bag on the ground, use my key to open my door, and walk inside. I'm across the threshold when my phone rings. I'm advertised to work until nine, and it's nine thirty. It's a number that isn't in my contacts.
"Lady Smith Lock and Key," I say after putting the phone on speaker so I can use my other hand to drag the bag past the door.
"I'm locked out. Broke the key in the door. Could use a good drill," a male voice says. His voice is shaky, like he's not sure if he has the right number or is asking for the right thing.
"Single cylinder is a hundred. Double cylinder is two," I say.
"It's a double."
The man gives me the address over the phone, and I write it down on a sticky note I place on my mirror as I change and freshen up. I find my best cocktail dress I can wear without a bra, slide off my normal panties and drag up a black thong. Deodorant and a spray of perfume. I look at myself in the mirror, and practice making a sexy face.
My cheeks are so red, I always look like I'm blushing. Pale skin doesn't help. My light brown hair is held together with a ponytail, but I let it loose and brush it straight. In the right light, I'm almost a blonde. When free it completely covers my breasts. Not big, not small, but a healthy handful of perfect symmetry. A jealous friend once said they remained perky in defiance of gravity.
I take the sticky note off the mirror and exit my apartment, locking it behind me. The GPS tells me it's a hotel, and I start driving. Twenty minutes later I pull into the parking lot and look at myself in the visor mirror. I apply lipstick and pucker to make sure it's even. I walk through the lobby of the hotel and straight to the elevator. Third floor. Room 317. I knock on the door and wait.
A man opens the door and looks down the hall both ways before letting me in. Is he looking for a cop or his wife? His gold ring shines against the overhead lights of the room. There is a single bed in the room and a computer open on the desk. Excel spreadsheets with what looks like accounting information. His suit jacket is hung up on the back of the shower door. Overall, he has a traveling businessman look, wanting that away from home fling.
"Ground rules. Money up front. No anal. No kissing. You wear a condom, no negotiation," I say, and he nods. He goes to his jacket and removes his wallet. He hands me ten crisp and freshly withdrawn twenty-dollar bills. I count it and put it in my purse.
"How do you want me?" I ask.
"I don't know. Not sure how this works," he says nervously. He's never done this before. He's probably in a rough patch with his wife and this is something he thinks she'll never find out.
"What does your wife not do?" I ask and think for a moment. "Besides anal."
"I can't remember the last time I got head. She doesn't do doggy," he stammers.
"You can have all that and more. The hour is all yours. You come, if you get it back up in that time frame you just go again," I say, and turn my back to him. "Help a lady out." He undoes my zipper, and I let the dress fall to the floor. He's on the clock now. He kisses my shoulder, and I turn around, and softly push his head back. "No kissing."
"I figured you only met lips," he says.
"I could make an exception for the other pair," I tease and grab his belt. He jumps a little, bumping my purse off the table. The contents spill out, but I ignore for the time being. "You sure you want to do this?"
"I do."
"I'm getting mixed signals," I say.
"My wife and I, it's..." he starts, but I place my index finger to his lips to shut him up.
"Stop thinking," I say. I walk to the bed and position myself on all fours. I reach under my body and between my legs. The thong is moved, giving him an inviting view of my pussy. I peel myself open to make it more enticing. "All yours."
The man just stares at me for several seconds, and I roll to my back to look back at him more comfortably. The thong is still tucked to the side, so he's still getting that perfect view.
"I hate to sound like your supervisor, but your hour has started."
"I just found out my wife was cheating on me. Part of me wants, payback, I guess," he says. He sits down on the desk chair and puts his head in his hands. Normally my Johns don't talk this much. This is weird, and even I'm uncomfortable for this man. "Can we just talk?"
"Your hour," I say. Great, now I'm a therapist.
His name is Matt, and he's been married for fifteen years. He recently found out his wife had several affairs. One of these affairs overlaps with the conception of their second child. He wants a paternity test, but he doesn't. He loves his daughter and has been nothing but her father for seven years. It's hard to question something that he used to be so certain of. What if Rosemary isn't his biological daughter? Does he just stop being her father? Does it erase all those memories?
I took the bathrobe while he talked, figuring modesty made this conversation a little less unusual. Nothing like vetting your fears and frustrations to your escort. A half hour passes and Matt offers me a drink.
"I have to drive after this, and I also don't take drinks from clients. Nothing against you, but if you're going to do something stupid, be smart about it," I say, and he understands. He makes himself a Jack and Coke from the minifridge. He retakes his seat and drinks a hearty gulp.
"Half hour left," I say, and he looks up at me. "Just saying."
