by Tom Wood
An idea, really, more of a fantasy, takes shape in my addled brain. What if . . . what if I could be a Thum driver for just one night? I might make enough to support my habit for the night, maybe even a couple of days. Impossible. I could never pull it off. But if I do, how would I do it? Where do I begin?
Deke
Back from our lunch break, and Lexie’s sitting in my office shaking her head. “It’s not going to happen, Deke. I’m afraid that our ad campaign isn’t going to be approved.”
“It ain’t over till it’s over,” I say, trying to sound confident. What’s that old fool Batson thinking, delaying this project? If it falls through, I’ll . . . no, don’t go there. Not yet. Then an email pops up from old man Batson. It’s a thumbs-up emoji, followed by his catchphrase, “Knock ’em dead.” If he only knew.
Lexie leaps into my arms and plants a wet one on my lips. She doesn’t mind when my hand snakes under her skirt and lingers. She’s intoxicating, but then the phone rings and startles both of us. Lexie leaves hurriedly, smoothing her dress. I laugh and take the client’s call.
Arnold
It is almost noon, and I’m about to break for lunch. The morning has been good to me with seventy-five dollars in my pocket. Just as I put down my “VETERAN NEEDS HELP” sign, a car that I recognize pulls to a stop at the red light.
I force a smile. “Officer Mondelli, good to see you. Havin’ a nice day?”
“Good to be seen, Arnold. And it’s Detective.”
“Yes, Detective Mondelli. My apology, ma’am. My mind isn’t what it used to be. Keep forgettin’ stuff. You arrest any bad guys today?”
“Come here.” She motions with a wiggling finger. I comply, leaning to the driver’s side window with my forearm resting on the roof. “Been a good day,” she says. “Investigated a fiery crash and chased down a witness. Nothing serious. What about you, Arnold? Doing okay? Keeping out of trouble?”
I know she wants me close to smell my breath and check my pupils to see if I’m drinking or high. I’m clean right now, so I put my face right to her open window.
“No, ma’am. When there’s trouble I go the other way. But it ain’t been a good day. Folks not too generous this mornin’,” I lie and put on my sad face.
“You hurting?”
“Always, ma’am. Ever since fallin’ off that ladder, pain might as well be my middle name.”
“Here, Arnold.” She passes a ten-dollar bill through the window. As I grasp it, she continues to hold the other end. A trick she does all the time to coerce a promise from me. “Will you get something to eat with this?”
“Yes, ma’am. I was just thinking about goin’ across the road and for a burger. But now, I’ll get a double-cheese and fries.” She releases the ten. “Thank you. Thank you very much, ma’am.”
“Keep your nose clean—you know what I mean by that.”
“Oh, yes ma’am, I will. That’s a promise.” I lie about keeping my nose clean but not about the double-cheese and fries.
The light turns green, and she drives off.
Our relationship began six months ago when I’d overdosed on some street-purchased opioid. An ambulance crew scraped me off the sidewalk and into the Emergency Room. Detective Mondelli investigated my OD. I lied to her about where I made the buy and made up the name of the dealer. After questioning me, hearing my accident story, and learning I’d been sleeping on park benches, she gave me a church flier for the Path to the Holy Redeemer. She’s a good cop. I hate lying to her.
I’m looking out the window from my table in the burger place when a car with a lime-green Thum light in the window pulls into the lot. My eyes track the driver as he enters, orders his food, eats at a nearby table, and returns to his car. He has rekindled my thoughts from this morning. A plan begins to crystalize in my mind. I leave and walk to a local hardware store where I buy a roll of duct tape and a bag of zip ties. Now it is back to the interstate exit ramp to plead for more money and wait for the night to come.
Deke
Around five, I head home to get ready for my big night. Lexie joins me on the ride down to the parking garage. We share a long, passionate kiss on the elevator until it bumps to a stop. Lexie pushes the CLOSE button for another deep kiss. When the doors start to open, I’m tempted to push the button again, but big plans await. Leave ’em wanting more. I head for the car.
“You better call tomorrow, Deke, or else,” Lexie says as the elevator doors close.
Following dinner and another shower, I start getting ready to go out. First, a close shave and then I run the trimmer over my eyebrows and elsewhere to get rid of unwanted hair. I inspect the rakish guy in the mirror and smile. You rock, dude. To get ready for a night on the town like what I have planned, and that “other woman” Lexi is so worried about, everything must be perfect.
The TV’s on, and the hockey game I’ve been half-watching cuts to a commercial for Thum, the city’s newest rideshare company. A pang of guilt lasts a millisecond. I know I should stop doing this, but it’s how I get my kicks.
Eight o’clock. Time to get dressed. I go to the closet and rummage through my wardrobe, looking for just the right outfit. Don’t want to draw too much attention, but not something too dark. Maybe the forest green, no . . . I don’t want to get rid of it yet. Aha—the royal blue that says I’m on the prowl, out hunting. They’ll remember it, but not my face. I lay it on the bed to smooth the wrinkles.
After fiddling with the straps around my upper torso, I cup my hands and make sure everything is in place. I sit on the edge of the bed and run my hands over my feet and legs. Smooth as silk, I glide the hose over my football-scarred knees, cinching at the waist. It feels velvety and comforting as I run a hand along my inner left thigh.
Time to fix my hair. This is always the toughest choice. I stare at the nightstand full of wigs. Black again? No, too soon. Blonde? They have more fun, and it would complement the dress. Redhead? Too memorable—but that’s all they recall, so it can be a good thing. Think I’ll start brunette and put the sandy-blonde wig in the trunk. Long or short? Highbrow or lowbrow, intellectual or less sophisticated? Decisions, decisions. It all depends on my target audience tonight. I go for the hooker look.
After getting my hair just right and running a brush through it, I clip on earrings, do my eyebrows, check my strawberry-flavored lipstick and take one last look in the mirror. SWAK! Ooh, girl, you are soooo hot. Add a few accessories and I’ll be ready to go.
Arnold
Darkness slowly rolls into the city like an incoming tide. Streetlights offer conical rays of resistance, car headlights flash by with a temporary brightness only to quickly disappear as a trail of red embers follows.
I go to the burger joint and wait.
Deke
I stand before the mirror, posing with several different necklaces and pieces of jewelry to see which best matches my slinky royal blue, off-the-shoulder dress with a sexy side slit up my left thigh. To draw attention away from my Adam’s apple, I decide on the rhinestone choker accent that matches the bracelet on my left wrist, and the black rhinestone open toe high heels. Add butterfly rings to my middle fingers, and I check the mirror again—perfect!
Looking at my cross-dressing doppelganger’s reflection makes me laugh, realizing how much I enjoy these special “nights on the town.” It’s given me a whole new perspective on feeling sexy, looking hot, taking in the lusty stares of men, and the jealous glares of women. It’s stimulating and powerful. And I love the feel of silk stockings.
The idea came to me almost a year ago while watching the nightly news. They showed a picture of a man wanted for a bank robbery. He wore sunglasses, had a fake beard, and a MAGA hat sat atop his head. Within forty-eight hours, he had been arrested. I recall thinking something like, they’d never have caught him if he dressed like a woman. When that proverbial lightbulb flashed over my head, I had to put my theory to the test, and soon it became not only a challenge, but an addiction.
I’d gotten away wit
h a couple of small petty thefts while in college—some food here, a wristwatch there, a pair of Air Jordans, and a little bit of coin that disappeared from dorm rooms. At some point, I realized how lucky I’d been to not get caught, and that I was putting my college education—and my future—on the line for nothing. I quit cold turkey—until my brainstorm. And now I can’t stop.
Meticulous planning, even back in college, is why I’ve never been arrested or even suspected in my little crime spree that has made headlines and baffled police. I spent every weekend for a month traveling to other cities and buying clothes, wigs, make-up, jewelry, shoes, and all the accessories that were gifts for my “girlfriend.” It was a kick telling the saleswomen that we had roughly the same build—except for her extra curves (which I bought at an adult novelty store in another city). I got funny looks from several of the salesclerks, like they weren’t buying my gift-shopping explanation.
I don’t know if shocked is the right word, but it sure surprised me when the woman behind the counter at the adult store leaned in close, and her voice dropped several octaves. “Don’t be shy, dearie. Just go with the flow—and come back to see me sometime.” I almost quit this crazy crime caper right there, but now I’m glad I didn’t. What a rush—in so many ways.
I’ve found that applying makeup is the hardest thing about dressing like a woman. It’s an art and takes a ton of patience to get it right. Fake eyelashes are a pain to put on but even more painful to take off. The blue nails that match my dress are worth the trouble, and I am careful about using too much glue.
As soon as I had assembled a complete wardrobe—and knowing that I was upping the stakes, I figured I better acquire some protection—I went out on my first date. Older men in bars and ride-share drivers have proven the easiest targets, and so far, I haven’t had any problems. Parroting the police, media reports have blamed a gang of women for the string of armed holdups without ever mentioning the old guys who were also robbed in their hotels. Hah! Cops are stupid. They haven’t even connected the two … I’ll bet less than half of those old dudes went to the cops because they’re married. You sure can pick ’em, Deke.
Enough reminiscing. It’s time. Standing on tiptoes, I reach to the back of the closet shelf. My hand searches under a blanket and finds the mahogany gun case. I place it on the bed and turn the combination locks. Inside is a Ruger LCP II .380 pistol. It goes into the sparkle mesh pouch handbag that I selected.
On the dresser there’s a bottle that says Heart Healthy B-12 supplements 5000 MG. It’s half-filled with something a little stronger—GHB, the date-rape drug of choice in the sleazy, college-area bars where I got them. I remove two and store them in the purse’s inner pocket.
A girl can’t be too careful these days on the mean streets of our city.
Arnold
Cats are to be envied for their never-ending patience. They’ll sit or lie motionless for hours on end as they wait for their prey. I am not a cat. The waiting is maddening. I close my eyes and ears to the screams and cries of undisciplined children, the high-pitched laughter of teenage girls, and the boisterous buffoonery of old men. I’m about to give up and return to the church before the ten o’clock curfew when a lime-green Thum light appears on a car’s window. My patience has been rewarded.
It is an SUV, a different car and driver, but that doesn’t matter. He enters the burger joint. I get up and leave to position myself near his car. I check his car door, but it is locked, so I move behind a truck parked two spaces over and watch as he eats and then disappears. I worry. Did he spot me? Maybe he just went to the men’s room. He reappears and walks toward the exit. There is an audible “pop” when he unlocks the SUV’s doors with his electronic key fob. As he focuses on entering the driver’s side, I swiftly move to the passenger door and jump inside.
He begins to speak, “You can’t—”
I point the Beretta at his face, rack a round into the chamber, and say, “If you want to see the sun tomorrow morning, do exactly what I tell you.”
Deke
I park on a side street two blocks from the Knowles Hotel and ride the escalator to the Terrace Lounge. Several guys are sitting at or near the bar, most of them watching sports on TV. I find an empty table, cross my legs, and survey the scattered patrons.
There’s a dark-haired, larger man whose eyes follow me as I enter the bar. Not what I’m looking for. Two guys maybe my age and size. One laughs at the joke his friend tells. I like his laugh. Hmm, that might be fun. But I only brought two pills, so I’ll pass this time. A couple in the corner’s having dinner and drinks. I love the dress. Red’s her color.
Bingo—there’s Mr. Right. Early fifties, business attire, alone. Full head of hair, a nice smile. Probably here for a convention and looking for companionship. The lighting glints off his ring finger as the guy signals a passing waitress. He polishes off the drink in front of him before the waitress returns to his table with a full one; he thanks her with a twenty-dollar-keep-the-change smile. This will be easy pickings.
Then instead of returning to the bar, the waitress walks over with a large grin on her face.
“The gentleman in the corner would like to buy you a drink.” She lowers her voice. “Buyer beware. He looks harmless but didn’t even bother taking off his wedding band.”
I smile at her, but inwardly I’m fuming that she can ID me. “Duly noted. Let’s give him his money’s worth. A champagne cocktail, if you please. And deliver it to his table.”
Standing, I smooth my dress and cross the room, passing the waitress as she delivers my champagne.
“I’m Gypsy,” I say with a suggestive tone that oozes promise of things to come. “Thank you for the drink. May I sit?”
“Yes, indeed. You’re quite welcome . . . Gypsy, is it? I’m John.”
“I’ve met a lot of Johns here . . . Wait, that didn’t come out right, did it?”
I giggle like a schoolgirl and act embarrassed, just for show. He laughs, too.
We sip our drinks and make small talk about nothing and everything. When his cell phone rings and he turns to answer, I surreptitiously slip one of the pills into his drink. It’s a brief chat, no more than a minute, then John swallows the rest of his drink and asks if I’d like a refill. He’s already slurring words, and realizing just how easy this is going to be, I smile.
“Say, John, the crowd’s starting to pick up in here. Let’s move this party upstairs.”
A wide leer crosses John’s face. “Sure . . . thing . . . Gypsy. Your place . . . or mine?” His hand touches my leg, and I smile at him again. If only you knew. John throws a wad of bills on the table and extends an arm toward the elevator. I walk arm-in-arm with him to make sure he doesn’t stumble. I don’t want to draw attention to us.
“It’ll have to be your place, John. Don’t you know? Gypsies don’t have homes. We’re free spirits.”
As the door opens, John mumbles something that I don’t understand. I’m gaping past his shoulder at the woman coming up the escalator. It’s that Detective Mondelli who was at the office. And she’s staring my way, a puzzled look on her face. Oh, crap.
The elevator door opens, and John presses the fourth-floor button. The cop cranes her head and continues to look our way as the doors slide shut. Neither will see Gypsy again after this night.
Arnold
We drive to an industrial area of town that is mostly abandoned. I direct him to the rear of a warehouse and stop next to a dumpster. I bind his hands behind his back with the zip ties and cover his mouth with the duct tape and walk him to the dumpster. I force him to lay down while I bind his ankles with more zip ties.
“Don’t worry. You’re only going to spend the night here. I just need to use your car for a little while. I’ll park it illegally with a note on the windshield saying where to find you. Okay?”
He nods, thankful that I’ve not killed him, and with a dash of hope that he’ll live through this night. I stand him up and flip him over the rim of the dumpster. There is
a muted crumpling sound that suggests he’s had a soft landing on some cardboard or paper.
In the car, I rifle through his wallet, only seventeen dollars in cash and credit cards. I know where I can get some drugs for the credit cards, but it’s his phone where I think the real money is.
I’d forced him to give me his passcode for his phone, and now I look at his Thum driver’s photo. We both look like your average middle-age-white-guy. Neither of us have facial hair. It’ll be close enough that no one will challenge. Besides, it’s dark and passengers don’t really look at the driver’s image, just his name and type of car.
So, tonight I’ll be Nick. And the passengers will be in for a surprise.
Deke
John tosses ice cubes into glasses, opens a half-empty bottle of Scotch, and pours. After handing me one, he gulps half of his drink and sits on the edge of the bed, trying to kick off his shoes. He’s talking the whole time, but I’m not paying attention.
All my thoughts are on the cop and wondering if she recognized me. No way, not from that distance. But she was eyeing me the way cops do, so she must’ve spotted something. Damn, Deke. Get moving before this blows up.
That thought is my wake-up call. Get what you’re here for, then scram the hell out. I turn to the bed and John is already stretched out on his back, lightly snoring. I go through his pockets, snatching his wallet and cell phone. Too easy. I rifle through the wallet, and—whaddya know—there’s a picture of John and the happy family. I use his phone’s camera to take a picture of the driver’s license. His money goes in my pocket, but the wallet stays on the bedside table along with a quick note that I scribble.
Dear John, thanks for everything. I had a great time. I know where you live, so don’t call the cops. Luv, Gypsy