Black Cat Weekly #92

Chapter 5-1

byBilly found the trunk release button and popped open the trunk. He climbed out of the black Mercedes he’d found unlocked in the driveway of this Garden District house on tree-lined Chestnut Street at three a.m. He turned on his small flashlight, spotted a black leather satchel in the trunk, along with a jump box and two umbrellas. He peeked into the satchel, pulled out a datebook, calculator, a wallet with cash and credit cards, and a smaller case with a watch, a couple gold chains and two rings. The trunk smelled like spearmint air-freshener. He took the cash and jewelry, closed the trunk and walked off.

Billy’s heart stammered in his chest as he took off his gloves and shoved them into the pockets of his blue suit. He looked around the dark street and listened for any cars.

Slow down—he told himself as he tried to calm his breathing. He was just a young, blond-haired guy in a suit walking home. Burglars didn’t wear suits.

Slow downWhat a rush.

What a rush.He slowed down as he turned the corner to head up to his efficiency apartment at the rear of a two-story house that used to be some family’s mansion before it was divvied into seven apartments. He made it there without anyone seeing him or any cars passing him on the street.

Billy James—who’d been thinking of himself as part Billy the Kid and part Jessie James since he took to stealing—locked his apartment door and stepped over to the tiny air conditioner in the lone window of his place and flipped it on. The thing clunked, then chugged as it struggled to cool the room. He took off his suit coat and laid out his take on the tiny single bed.

His best night so far. Three cars left unlocked. He loved working uptown. Well-off people were careless and careless people lose. He counted the cash first—$276. He had five gold chains and four men’s watches—two looked valuable, the gold Vacheron Constantin and the stainless-steel Victorinox Swiss Army professional diver watch he’d found in the console of a white Volvo. He separated the nine rings, all gold. He hoped the green stones were emeralds and the red one a ruby and not a garnet. One had a tiger eye stone, another blue sapphire, another blue lapis lazuli speckled with dots of gold and another a black onyx stone cut in the shape of a wolf’s head.

He put the cash in his wallet and the other stuff in a canvas bag with a drawstring, got undressed and lay down. There had been a g*n in one of the cars, looked like a Glock, under the seat of a BMW. No way he’d touch a g*n, much less steal it.

OK, I’m not really Billy the Kid or Jessie James.

OK, I’m not really Billy the Kid or Jessie James.Billy didn’t have to be at work until noon. He thought back to that day three months ago when Mr. Brooks of Brooks Bookstore called him in to tell Billy his hours were being cut. Business wasn’t good this summer.

“Damn eBooks are killin’ us.”

Which meant Billy needed a second job. Something at night. Again. He’d worked at a coffee shop the year before—four p.m. until midnight and he hasn’t drunk coffee since.

Night work. That’s when Billy remembered the old man.

Customer came to the store on a slow Tuesday afternoon in April. A man pushing ninety who took nearly an hour to finally choose a book. Billy watched him move from the romance section through the mystery section, past the SF books and the non-fiction books, the local author’s section to the literature section. He brought a trade-paperback large print edition of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer to the register.

The Adventures of Tom SawyerThe old man wore a black suit with a black hat. He was maybe 5 feet 2 inches tall with pasty-white skin, his suit hanging loose on his skinny frame. His long face had a pointy chin and a crooked nose.

“Is that a fedora?” Billy asked.

The old man looked up and surprised Billy with a pair of deep set, sharp blue eyes.

“Homburg.” The voice was deep, gravelly. “A gangster hat because I’m a gangster.”

Yeah. Right.

Yeah. Right.Billy rang up the sale. “You ever meet Mark Twain?”

“Knew him well. We ran illegal rum outta Cuba before the war.” The old man passed Billy a twenty.

“Civil War?”

He old man shook his head, “War of 1812. Read anything about it?”

“I don’t read much.” Billy passed the old man his change.

“Work in a bookstore and don’t read much?”

“They don’t pay me to read. Just to stock the shelves and work the freakin’ register.”

The old man picked up the paper bag with his book, dug a card from his coat pocket, handed it to Billy.

“You look like a bright kid. You wanna make better money? Call me.”

The card read—Sparky Jones. 555-1847. Didn’t even put an area code.

“What’s your name so when you call, I can remember you?”

My name—thought Billy.

My name“Uh, Willie.” No one called him Willie. William or Billy, even Bill, but never Willie.

“OK Uh, Willie.”

The old man walked slowly out of the bookstore and crossed Carrollton Avenue to the neutral ground to stand at the streetcar stop. Ten minutes later he took a river-bound streetcar.

Night work. Billy had called Sparky Jones after his hours were cut, told Sparky he was Uh, Willie and said, “You mentioned extra money.”

Night work. Gangster? Right.

Gangster? Right.Sparky Jones said he was a fence. The gravelly voice told Billy, “You steal it and I’ll turn it into cash.”

Steal? Oh, Lord.

Steal?Oh, Lord.It wasn’t until Billy got off a streetcar a few days later, watched a woman leave her purse atop her car as she hurried into Mater Dolorosa School on Carrollton. Billy walked past the car with the purse atop. Passed a second time, scooping up the purse, taking it around the corner to an alley between a shoe store and an antique shop and rifled the purse. He found $111 and a Nikon digital camera, threw everything else in a dumpster. Worried for days they’d find it and get his fingerprints, he bought a box of black surgical gloves.

Sparky Jones gave him twenty dollars for the camera.

* * * *

* * * *Before going to work, Billy stopped by one of the only pay phones still working. It stood around at the corner of Jackson and St. Charles Avenue and he called 555-1827. The gravelly voice said to come right over. Ten minutes later Billy took the rear stairs of Summer’s Pool Hall to a door at the end of a narrow hall that smelled of sweat and mildew.

The old man wore his black suit, the same one he always wore. Billy noticed a slight gray discoloration on the left lapel the first time he came to this place. It was still there. Sparky Jones sat behind a wooden desk with plenty of scrapes and scratches. The room was smaller than Billy’s place but there was a door to another room with a bed inside.

Billy laid out the watches and jewelry. Sparky turned on a second desk lamp, picked up the watches first, checked them, nodding. He took out a jeweler’s loop and looked at each gold chain for a moment. Put two aside, put the others in a pile. Each ring was examined closely, especially the stones.

Billy sat in one of the padded chairs in front of the desk, the chair with fewer stains. The place smelled better than the hall and Billy spotted a couple plug-in air fresheners. Fifteen minutes after he entered, Sparky reached into a side drawer and pulled out a cigar box. He counted out well-worn bills and put them on the desk.

“The watches are OK, especially the two Swiss. I’ll give you a hundred for each and ten apiece for the other two.” He pointed to the two chains he’d put aside. “24-carat. Give you forty each.” He waved at the other chains, said, “Gold filled junk.” He held up one of the rings with a green stone, said it was an emerald. “Give you four hundred for this one.”

Billy tried not to show anything in his face but probably showed—All right!

All right!The red stone in the other ring turned out to be a garnet and the other stones were semi-precious. The sapphire was low quality. He got thirty each for them. Sparky tossed the black onyx ring with the wolf’s head to Billy, who caught it.

“Get rid of that one. Too unique.”

Billy left with the onyx ring and cash and without the gold-filled chains. A good haul. Time to take a few nights off.

* * * *

* * * *Rain slammed against the bookstore window the next morning, whooshing like waves on an angry sea. Lightning forked in the dark sky as thunder boomed, sending shivers through the old building. Billy stood with his elbows up on the counter, chin cupped in his hands and watched, waiting for one of the big windows to c***k.

The door opened and a young woman rushed in and slipped, caught herself and shoved the door closed. She wiped rain from her face and stood dripping just inside. Her dark hair hung like wet spaghetti past her shoulders, her black dress pressed against her. Billy took a roll of paper towels to her, unwrapping a few on the way.

The woman smiled weakly and coughed and he handed her the wadded-up paper towels, unwrapped a few more for her. Wind whooshed the door open, and he pulled his keys out and locked the door, leaving his keys in the door. She wiped her face and arms and legs, then started dabbing her hair.

“You OK?”

“Can you turn down the AC. I catch a cold easily.” She looked at him with eyes the color of the dark blue lapis, like the stone in the ring he’d stolen. She took in a breath and smiled. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to snap at you.”

He handed her the roll of paper towels and went to the thermostat and raised the temperature until the AC kicked off. Turning around he saw she was wringing out her hair, her head tilted to the side, those bright eyes looking at him. She had a slight overbite and a thin figure. She was prettier than any girl he’d gone out with.

“Sorry about the water,” she said.

“You didn’t make it rain.” He stepped close.

“So, what’s your name?”

“Uh, Willie. No. It’s William. William James.”

Her name turned out to be Lana Bourgeois, old New Orleans French, and she agreed to go out with Billy on Saturday. Dinner and a movie.

* * * *

* * * *Billy checked the address again on his cell phone. Chestnut Street. And the black Mercedes sat in the driveway. He tried to swallow but couldn’t. The time on his phone said it was six sharp. Could he calm himself enough to go knock on that cut glass door, or should he walk away from those lapis eyes and pretty face and Lana?

Two minutes after six he rang the doorbell. A few seconds later, Lana opened the door in a red dress, her hair pinned on the sides with gold barrettes, her lips a shiny crimson. Wow—Billy thought.