by Bera, Ilia
I laughed. “Exactly like those,” I said sarcastically. “What do you have for me, Jamie?”
“You won’t believe this,” he said, turning to the van. He lifted the back door, revealing multiple stacks of large boxes, shockingly with no visible bloodstains.
“Jesus, Jamie. Where did you get all of these?”
“They came into the airport today. All these boxes were just sitting under a tarp, next to the cargo planes.”
A fist-sized lump formed in my gut. He reached into the truck and pulled a box forward with his bare hands, sending my heart into a flutter. The police wouldn’t have any issues finding his fingerprints. “Just sitting there?” I asked, keeping my distance.
“I know, right? My best guess is, the bay workers went on their lunch break, but they weren’t finished. They probably just threw a tarp over the boxes so no one would notice. They throw tarps over everything: dollies, trucks, you name it. There was no one there, Liv. It was the weirdest thing.”
James continued to put his bare hands all over the box. “Sounds too good to be true,” I said, stuffing my hands deep into my pockets.
“You’re telling me. Wait ‘till you see what’s inside.” A big smirk crossed his face.
“What’s inside?” I asked.
James pulled a knife out from his jacket pocket and cut the packaging tape. “Take a look.”
I kept my hands in my pockets as I approached the truck, standing up on the toes of my boots to peer into the box. Prada, Armani, Dior, Versace—all genuine, all new.
“James?” I said after a long silence.
Olivia’s Survival Guide, tip #35: if it sounds too good to be true, you’re probably being set up by the FBI. This tip is hard to remember when faced with a truck full of genuine Italian clothes and shoes.
“Yeah?” James said.
“Where did you get this?” I asked, speaking slowly and clearly.
“I said, the—”
“—The airport, I know. But—do you see this?” I asked, finally pulling my hands out from my pockets, and holding up a handbag.
“Yeah.”
“You know what this is?”
“A bag?”
“It’s not just a bag. It’s Gucci, James. And this? This is Chanel.”
“It’s good stuff, right?”
“It’s incredible. This stuff’s in every box?”
“Every box,” James confirmed.
I bit my lip, scanning the impressive load. The lump remained in my gut and my heart continued to flutter.
Walk away, Olivia, you’re in over your head. But who can say no to Gucci? “What do you want for it?”
James was silent as he thought. His head tilted to one side so his brain could function properly. “What do you think it’s all worth?”
“I’ll give you five grand for the lot.” It was the low-ball offer of the century. But if anyone would fall for it, it would be James.
“Five grand? I was thinking more like twenty.”
“Twenty grand? I don’t have twenty grand, Jamie. How’s about eight. I can do eight.”
“I’m giving you an incredible deal with twenty. I can get twice that from someone else.”
“Who else do you know?” I asked.
“I know plenty of people.” The grin returned to his face. He was a liar. He knew plenty of drug dealers, but I was the only clothing dealer he knew. I’m the only clothing dealer in Ilium.
“C’mon, Jamie. I don’t have twenty. What about ten?”
“Twenty.” He wouldn’t budge. I made the mistake of letting my poker face slip, and now he was capitalizing—the squirmy rat bastard.
“I don’t even have twenty grand in my bank account.”
“What do you have in your account?”
“C’mon, Jamie. Don’t make me do this.”
“We’ll work something out. What do you have?” His fingers fidgeted and he licked his lips. The more he thought about money, the more difficult it became for him to stand still.
“I have thirteen, but I have bills to pay—and rent is due soon.” I was being honest. I had thirteen thousand in my bank account, and it took me the better part of the year to make.
“Okay—give me thirteen, and you can give me the other seven later, once you’ve started selling the stuff.”
He was asking for my entire bank account, and more. The fist-sized lump in my gut shot up my oesophagus, lodging itself in my throat. Everything I have for the best of the Italian and the French. “Jamie—”
“—That’s the deal, take it or leave it,” James interrupted, still fidgeting his fingers like Scrooge counting his pennies.
Olivia’s Survival Guide, tip #114: don’t go into business with friends if you want to remain friends.
The lump in my throat left an empty hole in my gut. Don’t do it, Olivia. “I get everything, right?”
“Everything. Bring me the money tomorrow when you pick this shit up, okay?” James pulled a Gucci briefcase out from the open box and tossed it to me. I grabbed it with both of my hands, pulling it into the safety of my bosom, as if he’d thrown a newborn baby and not a briefcase.
I snarled. “I hate you,” I said, “and it’s not shit—It’s Italian.”
“Love you, too,” James said, pulling the car key from his pocket. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Hey Liv,” he said before getting into the driver’s seat of the stolen cube van
“What?” I asked, stroking the impossibly soft leather of the Gucci briefcase with my fingers.
He furled his brow and raised his fingers up like The Godfather. “Pesconi. Pes-Co-Ni. You got that? You go that?”
I laughed. His Pesconi was crap, but he did a surprisingly good Brando.
“Hey, maybe Carmine Pesconi could use a new pair of Gucci heels!” he said before closing the van door and revving up the van’s engine.
CHAPTER FOUR
TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE
I lost feeling in my fingers waiting for James to count the money at the door of his warehouse. Listening to his mumbling was like listening to a three year old struggling to count to ten. Why he couldn’t count the money inside was beyond me. Maybe he got a kick out of making me stand in the rain.
“It’s all there,” I assured him.
“I know, I know. I just want to be sure.”
“Are we going to do this every time? It’s cold out here.”
“It’s not that cold,” he said, counting every bill in every stack of bills.
“Not that cold? Even the hookers are taking the day off.”
“Give ‘em twenty minutes. The hookers aren’t usually out before noon,” he said. Ilium’s warehouse district was a well known prostitute district. It was also the home of the Costa-Lessa, Ilium’s twenty-two dollar an hour motel.
By the time James finished counting, I was drenched.
His warehouse was like a forlorn flea market. Walls of stacked boxes formed a complex labyrinth of stolen goods. Televisions filled a space the size of my apartment. Neighbouring that was a mountain of sound systems, and another constructed of car parts. The smell of lime and bleach complimented the large stains on the cement floor.
He led me to my latest purchase. The boxes sat unloaded and opened, next to the stolen, vandalized truck.
“Feel free to take a look—make sure it’s all legit. I’m going to stash this away,” he said, motioning to the full Gucci briefcase of money. “I’ll load it all back up for you when I’m back.”
I thought giving that money up would be hard—but it was no question I got the better deal. In a single box, I counted seven Versace handbags and six Versace watches, still in their original packaging. That would cost more than $20,000 retail. Now, the question was, will I be able to find someone to buy it all?
A few of my regulars would buy a couple handbags, a few jackets—maybe even a watch or two. But there was enough clothing in those boxes to dress half of Ilium.
One
of the boxes was on the verge of bursting with Armani jackets. Another box weighed as much as me, filled to capacity with watches, boots, and shoes.
A wave of light-headedness crashed over me. I caught myself before falling to the grounds. Something was wrong.
“James?” I called out.
My voice echoed back at me in the otherwise silent warehouse. Run, Liv. It’s time to get out of here.
I picked up one of the boxes and left the rest behind, hurrying towards the back of the warehouse. The backdoors were either bolted shut or blocked by piles of expensive junk. My heart slammed against my chest. There was no escape except for the front door, but my gut was begging me not to go anywhere near it.
You’re just having a panic attack, I told myself. Breathe, Olivia.
The ringing in my brain loudened. And then it loudened some more. It wasn’t my brain ringing at all, but a distant siren, moving towards the warehouse. My gut was right. $100,000 of designer clothing for the price of a cheap Ford sedan was, in fact, too good to be true.
“Olivia?” I heard James calling out.
Sorry James. You got yourself into this mess; now you’re on your own. I scanned the warehouse floor.
With what I believe was a piece of a car’s transmission, I smashed one of the frosted-glass windows. I climbed out and lowered myself onto the glass-littered gravel. Somehow, I escaped, cut-free.
Run. Don’t think. Just run—run and don’t stop running.
The volume of the sirens rose with my adrenaline. A single loud wailing became two, three, four, and then I lost count. The noise became a single, deafening cry, plunging deep into my bones and clenching at my stomach. I cowered behind a parked semi. Flashes of red and blue shrieked past.
An endless train of cruisers—every cop in Ilium was moving in on James’s flea market of illegal goods. In minutes, the whole district would be crawling with cops.
I pulled a limited edition Louis Vuitton Neverfull bag out from my salvaged box. I knew that the rain would ruin the $3,600 bag, but I also knew that prison would ruin my life. I unzipped the oversized purse and stuffed everything I could inside. I left half of my haul on the wet ground, under the semi—along with the clothes off my own body. Stripped down to my panties, I abandoned my bra, and picked out the skimpiest skirt and tallest heels—and a white shirt.
Olivia’s Survival Guide, tip #103: when in doubt, pretend to be a prostitute. Five years hanging around with criminals, I’ve only seen police arrest one prostitute, and it was because she stabbed another prostitute with a butter-knife. It’s a curious fact: no one cares about you if they think you’re a hooker. Criminals don’t think twice about what you may have seen or heard, and police will just tell you to go home. Remember: it’s not illegal to be a prostitute; it’s only illegal to pick up a prostitute.
Within seconds, my shirt was translucent—almost enough to see my heart knocking on my chest. Completing the image, and saving one final item, I threw a fur shawl over my shoulders.
I stepped out from the loading bay. It was past noon now and the real prostitutes were out on the sidewalks. They stared down the street towards James’s warehouse, where an army of cruisers flashed patriotic shades of red, white, and blue.
The cops moved fast. A unit of Kevlar-clad officers stormed the warehouse, guns drawn. Another armed unit split up and circled the building. Flashing cruisers continued to arrive at the scene.
A prostitute across the street had her eye on my bag. She looked me up and down and then scoffed before turning away. I could see her mouth the words “fucking cop.”
Seconds later, the police dragged the kicking and screaming James by his cuffed wrists. From three blocks away, I could hear him scream, “It’s not mine! None of it’s mine!” My heart skipped a beat as I waited for him to scream my name before disappearing into the back of a cruiser. He didn’t.
I noticed two cops staring in my direction. One of the cops pointed at me and the other began walking my way. Running would be a dead giveaway, but it’s all I wanted to do.
“Shit,” I muttered under my breath, turning away, clenching my bag of stolen clothes. My cold, wet body trembled. My legs became weak.
Olivia’s Survival Guide, tip #33: go big or go to prison. Over-the-top-lies are more convincing than small subtle lies. Commit completely to your character, and abandon all traces of yourself.
“Hey!” the officer called out behind me.
I didn’t turn around.
“Hey—you!” he yelled again. I could hear his footsteps drawing closer, splashing in a nearby puddle.
After forcing a breath past the lump in my throat, I turned to face the officer. I looked at him with my best ‘what do you think you’re lookin’ at?’ stare. “What?” I said, shrugging my shoulders. I held my eye-contact.
Olivia’s Survival Guide, tip #8: always maintain eye-contact when lying. When you break eye-contact, you break all believability.
“You need to get out of here. Go home—all of you!” he called out. The prostitute across the street rolled her eyes as she turned to walk away. “You ain’t getting any business out here anyway—not today—not as long as we’re here.”
I kept eyes locked on the officers.
“You deaf or somethin’? Go—Get lost,” he said before turning back to the red, white, and blue flashing warehouse.
I looked the officer up and down, smiled, and winked. His face turned red. He stuttered something incoherent, hesitated, then turned back to the warehouse.
Olivia’s Survival Guide, tip #1: sex sells everything.
A train of police officers emerged from the warehouse, each holding one of my boxes. Shit. All my savings were gone, being loaded into a police van. I had no money to my name and nothing to sell.
CHAPTER FIVE
MONEY LOST, MONEY EARNED
I haven’t heard from James, or the police, since that day at the warehouse. There’s has been nothing in the paper and nothing on the news. Not a moment goes by that I don’t worry he’s ratted me out—that they gave him a plea deal, and now a small army of policemen are on their way to my apartment. Any second, they’ll crash through my door and haul me off to prison.
It’s been three days now. At what point can I breathe and relax? How many days before I can be sure James kept his mouth shut? What if James thinks I was the one who ratted him out?
Even now, as I make my way home from that motel room where I smashed the lamp over Freddie’s head, the thought of James ratting me out lingers in my mind.
I drop everything at my apartment door, including my soaking wet clothes. It’s not until I’m in the shower that I remember I still haven’t investigated the messenger bag full of money. As far as I know, there could be a million dollars in that bag.
But discovering whether or not I’m a millionaire isn’t worth cutting my shower short. I never want the hot water to stop running down my naked body, washing away the smell of Freddie’s cheap cologne. After two rounds of shampoo and half a bottle of body wash, I can still smell it. The smell must be embedded in my brain, but unfortunately, they don’t make any soap for that.
That lingering smell keeps Freddie’s face at the forefront of my mind—his gym-toned abs, his presumably steroid-enhanced pecs, that big, hard throbber between his legs. Ugh—and all of those tattoos—those stupid prison-style tattoos that he think make him look so tough.
I can still hear his voice. “Wanna suck my dick?” his voice echoes inside of my head—the sleazy piece of shit. I watch the steam rise up from my shower and wonder if it’s from the water or my blood.
I’m turning into a sociopath. Hitting Freddie over the head with the motel lamp was far too satisfying. Watching that smirking idiot slump over the edge of the bed brought me the first glimmer of joy I’ve had in days—maybe even years.
How much money is in that leather bag?
I grudgingly end my shower and retrieve Freddie’s bag, which sits in a puddle at my front door. I forgot how heavy the bag was, g
runting as I lift it from the floor and drop it down on my bed.
Open it, Olivia. I’m afraid the bag won’t have any money in it at all—full of nothing but condoms, a Frisbee, and a stack of shitty-tattoo magazines.
There’s cash inside of the bag. What a relief. I turn the bag upside down and dump its contents onto my bed. Only a few bundles of cash and a bunch of small velvet sacs fall out, and rattle as if full of coins.
What the hell? Who gambles in small change?