Because It's What I Do

Because it's what I do.

My given name is Logan Edwin Hatchford. But those who know me, call me Hatch.

Rarely am I called by Logan and never by Edwin. So, for as long as I can remember, 'Hatch' it has been.

In my life, I have always been the guy people would come to when they "needed or wanted" something they didn't want to pay full price for.

It started out small. Probably when I was in grade four or five. A friend wanted a bicycle and only had a few bucks to his name. I mentioned that I could possibly find one to his liking. He told me what he wanted and gave me what little cash he had. A week later I delivered the bike he had requested, right down to the color.

From there, my business grew. Bicycles were the easiest, but in the early years I also provided, dogs, cats, and pets of all sorts. And as I got older, my list became more extensive. I filled many shopping lists for make-up, jeans, electronics and other items some people couldn't afford.

But, as illegal as my side job was, I never dabbled in selling drugs. Yeah, that's me. Hatch, the honorable criminal.

Everyone knows stealing is wrong. It hurts many people. But in my mind, I justified what I did by telling myself it wasn't bad. Mostly because I was providing a service for the poor and was only taking things from people who were well off or had money. And the things I stole from stores were never taken from mom-and-pop shoppes or family businesses. Nope. Never. I was a Robin Hood of sorts because I only stole from big box chains. The stores that in my twisted mind, wouldn't miss a few things here or there.

Was it wrong? Well, it sure as hell wasn't right. I knew then and I still know now. The difference is, I didn't care. And it always pisses me off when people point out the evils of my trade. Those who did scold me for what I do are the same people who usually provide me a livelihood. And to those people, the ones who ask me why I steal, I always give the same answer. "Because it's what I do."

*****

By the time I was in high school and had gotten a driver's license. I was well known to the police. They pulled me over every chance they had. And in small town America where I lived, they had plenty of opportunities. The local cops did more than a few illegal searches of whatever car I was driving, but they never, and I mean never found a thing that didn't belong to me or my parents. Because by then, I had stopped boosting small items.

Yeah. By the time I was seventeen. I had moved on to bigger and better things. Cars, jewels, and gold. The things of true value became my expertise. And those things were not out on display or driven about in any way or means to alert the local police of my extracurricular activities.

*****

I stayed in my hometown until I was nineteen. But business was small and had all but dried up, so, like most businessmen and entrepreneurs, I moved to where the money was.

Moving and living in Las Vegas gave me lots of opportunities to find cars. And by the time most of the cars I boosted were reported missing, they were in a chop shop in L.A. or on a boat to South America or Asia.

As smooth as thing went, I had the need to bring in an assistant. I bought an old house on a large lot. It was the perfect spot. Wide open and lots of potential for security. I lived there alone with the exception of a pair of dogs. Mutts really. Breed unknown, but loyal and loud when strangers approached.

I partnered up with my most trusted friend and together, we made history in the car industry.

*****

In the car theft ring, every deal you make is with the devil himself. Being careful only gets you so far. Word spreads very fast and eventually you will find yourself in a situation where you are requested or required to do something you wouldn't normally do. It has happened to me far too many times. Times where I chased after the Holy Grail of vehicles for high end customers. I always did it for the money.

But, even with all the money I have saved up, it couldn't help me if some of the unsavory people who have had cars, trucks, boats, motorcycles and other toys liberated from their procession, found out I was the person who did it.

And that's exactly how I got into my biggest jam.

*****

The chair across the table I was sitting at made a thud and bump sound as it was dragged across the wood floor of the bar room.

A guy who looked like he had either just come off the golf course or was trying too hard not to be a cop, had joined me at my table, without an invitation.

"Two Modelo's," he called out to a server. "You Hatch?"

"Depends on who's asking."

"Well, I'm asking. A mutual friend told me you might be able to help me out with something. Said when I told you what I needed, you'd be happy to help me out."

"Name?"

"Robert. Robert Wright." He held out his hand to me. I shook it, but the thoughts of how rank of an amateur this guy had crossed my mind.

"His name."

"Oh. Shit. Sorry. Yeah. Dave McKay."

"Tell me how you know McKay."

"He sold me a couple of special-order cars a while back. Cars I have since come to find out belonged to some very famous people."

"Nice. Aren't you the lucky one. Tell me about the cars."

"Why?"

"Because you've piqued my interest."

"Well, Hatch. You'll just have to trust me."

"Sorry Bob. I don't even trust my mother."

He had an odd look on his face, but he started telling me.

"One was a Benz AMG. One of those GLE forty-three units. Chicks love them."

"Color?"

"Why do you want to know..." he looked at me and stopped talking. He had rethought his answer. "Black. It's flat black. The other one is an older, more of a specialty item. Let's just say, a rare and collectable Italian beast."

"Is it red?" He nodded. "Year?"

"Nineteen-ninety. Italy's best yet that year."

The stranger had nailed that part of our meeting. The Benz came from Phoenix and the Ferrari came from a car show in Los Angeles. I knew this as a fact because Dave had special ordered them both and had only given me a sixty-day window to get them. When they were delivered, we both made bank on the cars.

"So, Bob, what are you looking for this time?"

There was a nervous twitch on this guy. His temple seemed to be pulsing as he sat there. I very nervous tell. Something that wasn't wise to have in a town like Vegas.

"Not another car. I would need a bigger garage."

"You need a boat for Lake Mead? In case you haven't heard, it's drying up."

"No. It's not a boat."

"I've stopped doing airplanes. I can't fly, nor can I find anyone I trust enough to get what I need."

"No. No. It's nothing like that. What I need, is, well, a service of sorts."

"A service." This guy was getting on my nerves. "Let's be adults Bob. If you need service, call the Maytag Man. Or you tell me what you want. If it's in North America, I'll get it. I understand," I said. Trying not to look too interested or too disinterested.

"No. No, you probably don't."

"Why would you think that?"

"Because Mr. Hatch, because what I want does not fall under the realm of your normal line of work and expertise. It's something entirely different."

"And what is my nor..."

"Cars. Cars and other motorized vehicles are your norm...thank you," he said as the young server put both the beers down. He moved one across the table and put it in front of me. When the girl had departed, he looked cautiously around the room and then back to me. He made a mock toast and took a long pull on the cold Mexican beer. Then he spoke and shocked the shit out of me. "I need you to rape someone for me."

Now it was my turn to look around the room. The bar we were at wasn't what anyone would call a "family style" type of establishment, but never in the five or so years I'd been coming in had I never heard anyone talk about 'rape'.

"Not sure if you are aware, Bob, but rape is a felony, and it comes with a nice little stay in an all-inclusive, federal resort. If by chance, you were in possession of a stolen vehicle, and the cops were getting close, you can always find a way to get rid of it. But with rape...well let's just say, you can't un-rape someone. You know as much, right?"

"It's not really rape. It's more of a roleplay thing. You'll be fulfilling the number one fantasy for the young lady in question.

"Sorry man, I don't polish badges."

"Badges? I don't have a badge."

"No? Well, that's a shame. Because you scream cop to me."

"I'm not a cop."

"Well, it would take a cop or someone with huge balls to come in here and ask a complete stranger for something that stupid."

"Sorry to break it to you buddy, but I'm not a cop."

"I'm just as sorry to break it to you, but we aren't buddies."

"If I was a cop, why would I be asking you to commit a crime?"

"It's a little word lawyers like to use. It's called "entrapment". Ever heard of it? It's a game pricks with badges use to lockup someone they can't catch or pin something on. A someone doing what they assume is wrong."

"Yeah, I have heard of 'entrapment'. But you've got it backwards. When you're done doing what I ask, you could hold it against me."

"Now the hell would I hold it against you? All it takes is the girl in question to say it was rape, and no matter what you or I say, it's rape."

For the longest time we sat without speaking. Actually, we both did our own thing. He played on his phone, and I read an article about the docket for the upcoming Barrett-Jackson car auction. In my business, it was almost considered a take-out menu.

"She's really a good-looking girl and she has a super-hot body."

We went back and forth for over fifteen minutes, until I finally asked.

"Do you have any pictures?"

"No. But I've told you a hundred times, she's beautiful."

"So, you've said. But I'd need a picture to even consider it."

"Let me ask you a question. When you do things, is it because of the beauty of the vehicle, or is it for the payday? And in this case, the payday is twenty-five-hundred-dollars. Plus, you get laid."

"Get laid? Do you think getting laid is worth twenty years in prison? I'm sure I'd get laid in there too. Look, I have no plans of ever becoming Mrs. Bubba from cell block six. I think we've wasted more than enough time talking about something that will never happen. So, it's been great meeting you, but I'll have to decline your generous offer."

"Three grand!"

"Sorry, it's not going to happen."

"Thirty-five hundred. Last and final offer."

"Buddy, beat it," I said with a growl.

"Thought you said we weren't buddies?"

"True, and if you keep getting in my face, we'll soon be enemies."

He reached into his pocket and pulled something out. His eyes met mine and he smiled.

"Look, take this," he said, handing me a folded piece of paper. "Have a glance at it. Maybe you'll see something you like. If so, we'll make a deal and get this done for my lady."

"And you're okay with having this 'done for' your lady?"

"Read the notes and try not to judge me. She's my mistress and is almost fifteen years younger than me. We've done it all. Three ways. Swapping. All the crazy stuff my wife won't do. Crazy shit people with mundane lives like you don't understand. She has always accommodated my desires. And I take care of hers. This is the last thing on her bucket list, and I want it for her. If I can make it happen, it will make her happy. And if she's happy...well, you can guess the rest."

"So, she's not your wife?"

"No. It's...well...it's a Sugar Baby situation. I put her up in a nice place with a nice car. She works in an office but keeps her lady parts for me exclusively."

"You believe that?"

"I do. It's either you, or I'll get some other guy to help accommodate my request. When I was told you were a guy who gets things done, I checked you out. I didn't want some reprobate banging my woman. If your reputation for getting things done, is the case, call me when you want the cash. I'll drop it wherever you want. I'm guessing thirty-five hundred is a lot of cash for someone like you. Hatch, let me remind you before I go, I'm a man who usually gets what he wants."

The stranger stood and tossed a $20 on the table. It would more than cover the cost of two Modelos. He turned and walked out without looking back, only stopping at the door to put on his sunglasses to block the glare of the late afternoon Vegas sun. There was no doubt in my mind he was a cunt, because $3500 was big money to most people.

Unfolding the note, I read the few details on the sheet. Age, height, weight, stats. Basic information. Nothing to cause concern. No names or details to get you in trouble. Unless an address could get you arrested.

I read the note twice and took a picture with my burner phone and destroyed the paper. A wood match and ashtray helped me rid myself of any damning evidence.

For some reason over the next two weeks my mind continued to return to the note and the odd request. Reading it over and over, I played out what could and might happen. As intrigued as I was, I put it out of my thoughts.

*****

My regular phone rang from a number I knew and recognized. It was my unofficial office. Susan's Pub.

"Hey."

"Hi Hatch. Just an FYI. That Miami Vice looking prick is here. He's been waiting for you for over an hour."

"Has be asked about me?"

"Nope. Not a word. But I remembered him from last time he was in. Guys like him kind of stand out around here if you know what I mean."

"I hear yah. Thanks for the tip, Kelly. Send him a beer and put it on my tab. If he wants to wait, I'll be there in thirty. You can let him know, if you feel like it."

Bob Wright was still there. Still waiting. It wasn't hard to pick out his car in the parking lot. Most people, even those who could very well afford them, didn't drive iridescent paint scheme Lamborghini's. Far too showy for the non-descript cliental who frequented this place.

With his Sperry's, white shorts and flip collared golf shirt, I got what Kelly meant. Buddy looked like he stepped out of the eighties.

"Bob."

"Well, Mr. Hatchford. How is your plan making going?"

"Lots of plans on the go, Bob. But probably not the same one you're thinking about."

"And why is that? As I recall from our mutual friend, you do 'things'."

"Yes. But very specific 'things', and rape isn't on any of the lists I work off of."

"I'm fairly sure you have a very extensive list if the price is right."

Bob pulled an envelope from his back pocket and tossed it on the table. Like he said, he was a man who was used to getting what he wanted. Without debate. He had a businessman look in his eyes, and he was weighing his options. Trying to see if he had any leverage on me.

"Her schedule is in there. She stays home most nights and only goes out for yoga and work. There's a link to the security cameras and shift change sheets. Now you have everything including the address and condo number. So, it shouldn't prove to be hard. I've marked a calendar with her cycle, just so you know what you're getting yourself into. There's a list of things you'll need and need to do. No exceptions. I'll give you two months to complete your tasks. After that, all your business dealing with McKay are done. He owes me. A lot. And if I pull in my marker, dumping you will be the easiest way for him to pay me back. If he doesn't, a make a call to a friend in California."

Robert Wright finished what was left of his beer and put the empty down softly.

"Count the cash. I'm done fucking around. I upped the payout to five grand, but don't mistake my generosity for weakness. You've got two months."

"Does this mystery girl have a name?"

"Not one you'll ever need. And don't ask her for a name. But, if you feel like you need to call her anything, she likes dirty talk. Call her, Slut, Whore and Cunt. Names like that. It'll helps rev her up."

"Gun?"

"No. For God sakes, don't use a gun."

"I'm not about to use a gun, asshole. Does she have a gun," I said with my patience wearing thin.

"No. Absolutely not."

"If I end up in jail. Shit will hit the fan," I said tentatively, like it would help me.

"Yeah. Yeah. Just do the job you were paid to do. Do it right, and you won't ever need to worry about jail."

Seconds later, the unmistakable sound of a revving Lambo's tailpipes echoed through the bar. When the wheels screeched, I wished the asshole would control and smash the high-priced car into a hydro pole.

*****

Every night for the next week, I drove by the address Bob had given me. Nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing seemed to be out of place. In the two hours I sat outside the gates in the cover of darkness, I saw only four cars come or go. And those cars were driven by seniors.

By night ten, I watched my hand shaking as I pushed the code to deposit the money into my non-traceable account. My mind was made up. I was going to "mock rape", Mr. Wright's girlfriend.

Like every job I had ever done, I over-planned this one. I went over every detail. Over and over again. In my mind and on paper. Paper can be destroyed, and my mind couldn't be read. When I was done planning, it would be another perfect in and out caper.

The list of dos and don'ts wasn't very extensive. The most important item on the list was "Don't hurt her". Following that rule wouldn't be a problem.

Other things were also simple. She had to stay masked at all times. 'Do not wear a condom.' She must be tied up. And he gave very specific details about the restraints. Everything else on the list sounded like, blah, blah, blah, to me. The directions of an amateur who thought he knew how to commit a crime.

One item on the list did concern me. The 'no' condom issue. Who in their right mind would want a complete stranger to fuck their 'sugar baby' without one. But my confusion ended two paragraphs later. The part where it told me 'If the victim becomes pregnant with child, you will receive a $5000 bonus. No questions asked.'.

I borrowed a lawn service truck from a friend and did a dry run Monday afternoon, then again later in the evening. Much later.

On my first trip I looked for signs of homes where the inhabitants might be away. Either on vacation or for work. I found four that might be vacant for the time being. Immediately I eliminated two of those homes. I needed a place backing onto a street which wasn't part of the gated community. Entry was always easier over a six-foot wall, than going through a manned gate.

On my second trip, I did everything but enter the house. Parking three streets down, I skateboarded to my marked spot on the wall. Over. Through the yard. Skateboard hidden in a bush. Baggy pants and hoodie off and put with the board. Dressed in black, I pulled the mask over my face and made my way to the condo / townhouse.

No bright street lights. Lots of coverage from short palms. And most important of all, no cameras.

With 125G in sight, I made my way to the front door.

The lock was a simple Weiser tumble style with an added deadbolt. Easy to pick. And after I did a double check for alarms, I used my lock-pick set to test the door. Silently the door opened. I pulled it closed without so much as a click, re-locked the Weiser and walked away.

When I got back to my Tahoe, my heart was thumping. Not because of my skateboard ride. Not because of scaling a wall and scoping a job site. No, I had done those things far too many times to remember. But this was the first time I had ever worked a gig where sex would be involved in what I was stealing.

Purposely, I kept a low profile on Tuesday. Out of sight. Out of mind. And shortly before midnight, I was in position, in the bushes across from her house. Waiting. Hiding. Telling myself over and over what a fuck-up I was.

*****

The deadbolt moved just like it had the night before. Stepping in I kept my mask in place and put on my night vision goggles. With even the slight traces of light leading me, I searched the main floor just to be sure. Nothing. I made my way up the carpeted stairs and found her room first on the left.