I Bought The Sun For A Dollar

by Gary Starta

  I Bought the Sun for a Dollar

  Gary Starta

  I Bought the Sun for a Dollar

  Copyright © 2017 Gary Starta

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  First Printing Jan 2017

  2nd Edition

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter One

  Lori felt sweat dribble down the inside of her sweater and the sting of ‘Sheri’s’ shushed commentary was equally unpleasant. It might be easier to manoeuvre in summer clothing. Some crime boss you make.

  “Keep your freaking head down. Stop breathing so loud. Follow my every step like you’re my clone.”

  Following behind Sarah–aka Sheri for the night–she was startled when an automatic sprinkler from a neighbouring lawn began watering. Whoosh! Jackhammer heart!

  The cicada’s chirpings reminded Lori of fans cheering at a concert. Right now, the twenty-something woman didn’t want notoriety but the solitary blackness of night to guide her into the mark’s home. The summer’s parched lawns and a jobless job market had incited Lori and Sarah to pilfer.

  Lori’s running commentary chided Sarah harshly. Too bad it was confined to her mind. What a stupid idea! Create a fake ID. If the police catch us it would only be a matter of time before they find out Sheri is Sarah. And their great plans for the summer, including trips to Myrtle Beach, would wink out as quickly as a squashed firefly’s bioluminescence.

  The duo proceeded until an object scurried right in front of Sarah’s path, producing more heart pounding terror for Lori and a diminutive squeak from Mission Control. See, it isn’t easy to keep your mouth shut when you’re scared out of your skin. Lori stopped for a brief second, wondering if she should dash to the getaway car parked a few blocks away. Up until now, they hadn’t committed any crime. This would be their first home invasion. It might be their last. Although they monitored the split-level home for the past week, Lori and Sarah were not certain if there was an alarm to contend with. They did know the occupant was a single male and left a side window open. The only thing preventing entry was a screen. Cutters would be a quick fix – if there wasn’t an alarm. Today, cable companies pushed home alarms as hard as premium movie channels. This thought terrified Lori but despite her trepidation she placed her left foot forward and moved as if she were indeed Sheri’s clone. Her rational mind envisioned herself as a giant house cat padding away at optimum speed. Some rational mind.

  Whatever the object was that scurried in front of them it was back and stationary to Lori’s left. It was animal, possibly a cat by its size. Lori peered hard to see but the pounding in her head interfered. This surreal moment, this short cusp of time before she willingly entered a life of crime, played havoc with her vision. The whooshing blood seemed to pound behind her eyes as if it were a tidal wave against a dam. She hoped it was a cat but not a feral one. Closer inspection revealed it was indeed a grey feline, it was pawing at the ground with its forepaws and its back was arched high. Was this some kind of pre-emptive attack stance? The animal reminded Lori of a bull before the stampede. Blood rushing to her head made her dizzy and she felt as if anything was possible. In her mind, the cat morphed into a large being with horns but it still possessed cat-like yellowish eyes.

  If only she was more assertive, outgoing and possessed the self-esteem of ‘Sheri’, Lori might have avoided breaking into homes altogether. The daring duo inspired by a string of robberies in South Florida, had tailored their plans to Sarah’s expectations of Lori. The words still stung her. ‘If you could only act like you’re hot and tempt men into the promise of easy sex, we could take rich men to their homes and drug them. Just like the successful bitches do...’ That’s exactly what women, still at large, were doing: luring men back to their pricy residences, drugging them, and making off with cash, jewellery and electronics – all in the vicinity of Disney World.

  But would drugging men be any better than breaking and entering? The very idea that Sarah believed this angered Lori again. She swung the utility bag with purpose and considered for a nanosecond the bliss she might feel if she rapped it over Sarah/Sheri’s smug, unsuspecting head. No. No one is to be harmed. If we’re caught, they’ll go easier on us because it’s our first time. The mantra played in Lori’s head. To her left, the cat losing interest with the human-sized mice, clawed its way up a wooden fence and plopped into the neighbouring yard with the whizzing sprinkler system.

  The moment arrived with no other fanfare. The women stared into the screened window, probably leading to a bathroom, hopefully to a big score. This was the longest time they had allowed themselves the opportunity to linger. Their two dry test runs into the yard lasted no longer than half a minute each. Lori had thrown a ball into the yard, using the toy as an excuse to trespass. But what fool would believe a full-grown woman was chasing after a beach ball in a Virginia neighbourhood? Probably not many; and more than less might carry a weapon to stave off such brazen acts. Fortunately, there were no known witnesses…yet.

  “Open the bag. What are you waiting for?” Sarah’s impatience lifted Lori from her night-time daydream.

  Lori unzipped the bag, cursing underneath her breath. She retrieved the cutters and brought them dangerously close to Sarah’s face. Sarah waved a hand and whisper screamed. “Get the cutters out of my freaking face and up to the screen, Clyde.” The fact Sarah had just referred to Lori as a man was further insult to her injuries but nothing a few prescription drugs couldn’t quiet. Lori didn’t have a prescription plan but thankfully Mom did and her creator had frequently fallen prey to all Big Pharma’s promises of better living through pills.

  Lori glared at ‘Sheri’ while positioning the cutters. She pressed the device against the screen, maybe a little too hard and all it produced was a recoiling of the object with no damage to the screen.

  “Here,” Sarah said, “position it at an angle. Then try to cut.”

  Lori obeyed and the object ripped into the screen. It relieved some of her willies, some of her bottled anger. As she cut, a cat mewled and Lori jumped.

  Sarah laid a hand on her shoulder. “Just that fool cat getting an unexpected sprinkler bath.” Sarah snickered. It didn’t matter if the woman was named Sarah or Sheri to Lori, she was a bitch by any name.

  Lori gripped the cutter tighter. She wanted to smack the bitch between the eyes with it. There was no need to denigrate poor, defenceless animals. Robbing rich bitch corporate human bastards was another matter. They were aware of their robber baron actions. Lori loved that phrase. She learned it by reading turn-of-the-century novels; the 19th century to be precise. The rush of pleasure guided her hands to finish the job of the ripping, tearing and gutting of the defenceless screen. Could she do this damage to another human being if necessary? Lori was 99 percent pos
itive the occupant was out for the evening. His car was gone. And although she hadn’t witnessed him leaving in it, she was certain rich bitch men like him liked to arrive to their destinations empowered by their midlife crisis machines. No. He wasn’t picked up like a teen to the mall. He just couldn’t be home. He just couldn’t. Prior surveillance assured he stayed out until at least 11, still hours away. She heard an involuntary soundtrack running her head, playing like a bad movie. If it comes down to us against him, I’m taking him out. There’s no way I’m going to the pen.

  Sarah removed the screen from its frame and rested it against the house. “Okay, let me give you a boost in.”

  Shit. They hadn’t discussed this part of the plan. Why was she picked to enter first? She whispered in a hiss. “I’m not your pawn. What am I supposed to do if someone’s in there?”

  Sarah handed her a disposable cell phone. “Call 911.”

  “Ha Ha; so not funny.”

  “Put it in the palm of your hand and turn it up and into the fucker’s eyebrows. Get him right between the eyes, under his nose or even his Adam’s apple. And don’t forget his balls and knee caps are pretty vulnerable if you happen to be down there.”

  “Okay, Buffy.”

  “Buffy? If I was fucking Buffy I’d give you a wooden stake.”

  Lori stepped hard on Sarah’s hands with perverse delight and fell head first into the bathroom, landing on top of a toilet. She rolled off it and onto the floor on her back. The silence was deafening except for the ringing stab of pain emanating from her backside.

  “What are you waiting for?” Sarah said. “Get your ass up and open a back door and don’t leave fingerprints.” Sarah was without doubt a criminal at heart. The black winter cap was the icing on the cake. Lori felt like a dweeb for arguing over her attire. She was about to wear a bright pink winter parka and a multi-coloured cap with a pom pom on it. So not career criminal. She opted for a drab, gray pullover. It suddenly made her very warm in the confines of the home. What ridiculous getups in the summertime! But ‘Mission Control Sheri’ demanded they be disguised for the heist. Wear something they could discard and never use again. Sheri bragged it would screw royally with any civilian’s attempt to provide a suspect description.

  Lori listened to the tick-tock of a clock as she navigated a dark hallway. She veered left hoping it would lead to the backdoor. Heart pounding, she tiptoed. Slow and light on her feet as a cat. Easy does it. A bong sound sent her hand to her chest and she dropped the useless, lifeless cell phone. It skittered upon a wooden floor. If someone was here and awake they had heard it. Chances were the occupants would be alert because it was only 9 o’clock. The bong of a grandfather’s clock reinforced what time it was with nine chimes, each note sending another flood of cortisol coursing through her veins, each liquid rush inviting Lori to drop everything and hightail it out the backdoor, flattening Sarah like a pancake if necessary in the process.

  The bull ran and almost made it out of the China Shop.

  Sarah stiff armed her, knocking her back to the floor once again and wheezing for air. She was inches from the threshold of escape.

  Red faced and huffing, Lori pointed to her throat. “My…wind…pipe…you…” she rasped.

  “Yeah, go ahead and say it!” Sarah placed her boot on top of Lori’s heaving chest. “You were about to go AWOL on me or whatever a deserter is called nowadays. You gave me no other option.”

  Lori glared at her until Sarah pulled her to her feet.

  “We’re obviously alone. Help me pilfer.” Sarah removed an empty sack from her coat pocket and shook it at Lori. Lori turned her head away with disgust before accepting it.

  Ten minutes expired and Lori was certain their break in was a bust.

  “How can this schmuck afford this neighbourhood? It’s like he has nothing but shit. Bed linen is department store. Fucking plates aren’t even Martha Stewart quality.” She trudged out of the bedroom. “No jewellery, watches or mementos from a significant other. Maybe this cat’s on the run.” She froze, hands on hips, glaring.

  Lori attempted to appease Sarah’s rising anger. “Or, he’s gay.”

  “Are you shittin’ me, Lor? If he was gay, we’d be coming back with a U-Haul truck for all the goodies. He ain’t got diddly squat as Sheryl Crowe once sang.”

  “He’s got DVD’s and Blu-Ray too.”

  Sarah ripped the disc from Lori’s hand. “I can’t believe he watches this crap. Portlandia? Battlestar Galactica?” She flung the discs against the living room wall. “This stuff isn’t gay but it’s freaking nerd-vana.”

  “Take it easy. You’re leaving evidence and besides, the Galactica is collector’s edition, comes with a Cylon doll.”

  Sarah leered. “You would know. You live to live in fantasy world.”

  “The dream of the 90’s is still alive…” Lori was certain Sarah, or Sheri, wouldn’t get the reference.

  Sarah continued to rummage through drawers of a desk in the living room. “Crap, crap and more crap! And where the hell is a computer or TV to watch the movies on?”

  Lori wandered into the kitchen. So, this is a bust. It means we don’t get charged with burglary. Maybe some B&E and disorderly…

  She retrieved a bowl from the cupboard.

  Sarah’s scratching from the adjacent room reminded Lori of a big, desperate rat.

  “Give it up, already,” she muttered underneath her breath.

  “I heard that!” Sarah yelled.

  “Keep it down then.”

  “I’m owed to trash this mother’s house, leaving us nothing but scraps.” She growled as if she was the stray cat.

  As Lori poured a bowl of cereal, she spied the occupant’s mail. She popped out of her swivel bar chair to retrieve the documents from a tray marked incoming. Who the fuck puts something like this in his home?

  It explained everything. It was a notice from his company about downsizing or outsourcing and a post it note explained he needed to sign and return the document to the offending employer in two days to qualify for severance.

  “Give it up, Sarah, this one’s broke, or going to be broke.”

  Sarah burst into the kitchen, hands shooting hips.

  “You heard me,” Lori said, crunching on the cereal.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “I’m hungry. We’re broke. We have no prospects. I’m getting some consolation, like you said.” She pointed the spoon toward the living room.

  “Yeah, well wash down the bowl good and get ready to leave. We ain’t leaving no…”

  Sarah’s sentence was cut abruptly by the squeak of a door.

  “Shit!” Lori whispered. “Let’s just get the fuck out of here!”

  The bowl and spoon rattled to the floor as the girls fled for the backdoor into the suburban night of sprinklers, stray cats and cicadas.

  Chapter Two

  Timothy Ray allowed his feet to propel him toward the racket coming from his kitchen despite a voice of caution that kept repeating: it’s not worth it. He rounded a lounge chair, spied his precious DVD’s strewn against a wall and gasped. Charged by anger, his feet continued to carry him. A smaller voice in his mind still warned for caution. They could be armed. However, fight trumped flight and he entered the kitchen to find it vacant.

  “Ooh!” Timothy raised his arms as if participating in some Mexican dance, hoping to keep his balance as he skidded along a wet floor. Pieces of cereal led as if bread crumbs to the intruder’s path of exit, the backdoor, opening and closing intermittently. No one gets away with such desecration! Timothy was charged with testosterone. He catapulted against the kitchen counter to his right and grabbed onto the lip of the sink for purchase, face grimaced. Timothy discarded his shoes and bounded toward the intruder’s escape route, padding along in cranberry socks, wet from spilled milk. You can’t escape that easy.

  He was huffing and puffing and his hair had fallen into his eyes by the time he exited his home. A misty light emanating from a street la
mp afforded limited vision. He glanced at the lawn for tracks. As he did, he heard giggling coming in the direction of a wooded area beyond his property line. The nerve! The freaking bastards were laughing over his misfortune.

  Timothy stopped pursuit and bent over, hands on knees, to even his breath. “Shit. Shit. Shit.” He rose to an upright position with deliberation, still cursing, but quieter and just as he was calming himself a shriek from the neighbour’s yard made his heart rattle against his chest. He placed his hand over his heart. It’s just a cat. At least I think it is. For a moment, he wondered if mischief had indeed descended over his entire neighbourhood.

  An inspection of the yard led to more dismay. So, this is how they got in. He picked up the cut screen and jammed it back into place. At least he had something to tell police, the laughter from the woods was female. As he entered the house, he smacked his hand against his forehead. Damn it! I shouldn’t have touched the screen: fingerprints!

  Timothy changed his socks and combed his hair waiting for the arrival of Officers Chen and Ramirez. He had been informed the officers were coming nearly an hour ago but time no longer felt relative. It felt more like ten minutes and they’d arrive any minute. He better be prepared. Timothy recited his story underneath his breath as he did and resisted the compulsive urge to clean the kitchen floor. It was evidence after all. He fought the temptation to run the sink because possibly the grimy little hands of the culprits might have left prints. He paced the living room eyeing his beloved DVD collection. It was all he had left after the breakup with Cathy and possibly it was all he would ever have because his job was outsourced. He decided against entering the kitchen one more time to search for a baggie. He wondered if bagging his socks might help police. Maybe the intruder’s DNA was now mixed into the spilled milk.

  A knock on the door interrupted. Timothy glanced at his watch. It had taken the officer’s an hour and a half to arrive.

  They questioned if he had been injured. He pointed to his DVD’s. “This is injury enough. But I was almost hurt when I lost my balance in pursuit.”