The Impenitent Thief

The thief and his girl, a pretty blonde number with legs like giraffes’ necks, parked outside the kook's house. The kook was Mr D’Amico, an Italian by nature and Irishman by disposition, having inherited the latter race's potent sense of sin. A rusted iron cross hung in his office; he resisted any suggestion that he restore it, its rust reminding him, he said, of mortal things' tendency to rot. (The cross held no body.)

His guests discussed this eccentricity as they walked to the door. 'I never did like Catholics' said the girl. 'No-one did' said the thief, 'not even Catholics. If they were likeable they'd be Quakers, or at least Mormons.' 'How much is this old Roman worth, anyway?' The thief smiled and coiled an arm around her waist, jerking her near. 'Only I need that knowledge, daffodil. You just think about what dresses and jewels you're going to buy.' 'Jewels? He is worth something, then.'

Before the thief could knock on the door it was opened by a servant, and for a moment he was irrationally worried that their conversation had been heard. Then he remembered the frosted-glass panels, and entered his chosen role before entering the house. 'Mr and Mrs Charlton, here for Mr D'Amico.' 'Follow me, sir.'

The servant led them past a closed door through which piano music and laughter could be heard. One of Mrs D’Amico’s endless parties, the girl thought, reflecting that if he was her husband, she'd be the constant hostess too. The servant led them up two flights of stairs at opposing angles, down three similarly positioned corridors, and then deposited them outside a door in a small alcove, flanked by a couch and coffee table. The servant knocked on the door and left without a word. The girl went to sit down, but the thief caught her arm. 'We don't want to look like humble visitors' he whispered. '“Mr and Mrs Charlton”?' she whispered back. 'Why not just call us the Charlestons and be done with it? Or, better yet, Mr and Mrs Capone.'

D’Amico, they knew, would take a long time reaching the door, also not wanting to look humble, or, worse still, grateful. Eventually, though, he did, and smiled in his guarded way at the two young people on his threshold. The thief began 'Mr and Mrs Charl-' 'Let's cut the chaff now, shall we? I didn't put my office in a housemaid's toilet to make use of the bidet.' Mr Charlton smiled and, taking his wife’s arm, they walked into the office. This room wasn't much bigger than the alcove. Bookshelves were set into the left and right walls. A strand of frosted window hung above the aforementioned cross. Below this was a clerk's desk, before which were two folding-chairs. D’Amico sat behind, in a dusty armchair. Mrs Charlton wondered where the bidet could have lived in this cupboard, and how lithe the poor housemaid must have been.

'I'm sure Officer Harris wired you the story.' 'Is it wise to use his real name, sir?' Mr Charlton replied. D’Amico snorted. 'If you're FBI you'll be grateful for the information, if you don't already have it, and if you are whom I hope you are you won't care.' 'With all respect due to the man who pays us, sir, that doesn't sound very loyal.' D’Amico took a small green hymn book from a shelf to his left. 'As useful to the Pharisees as Judas was, I still doubt that they wanted to break bread with him.'

His middle finger selected the page, unaided by crease or card. He opened the book with one gesture. ‘It pains me, you know, to use a holy text for such business, but I never cared for this particular hymn. Too much assonance and consonance, too little rhyme. A hymn-maker, I feel, should be more sophisticated than a minstrel.’

He turned the book around and pushed it towards them. Under the heading “PART V GENERAL HYMNS” was a work ascribed to “H. Bonar, 1808 – 89”. The Charltons read the first verse to themselves.

“A few more years shall roll,
A few more seasons come,
And we shall be with those that rest
In peace beyond the tomb.
Then, O my Lord, prepare
My soul for that great day;
O wash me in thy precious Blood,
And take my sins away.”

‘May I borrow a paper and pencil?’ said Mr Charlton. ‘Of course.’ D'Amico handed them the requested, and Mrs Charlton wrote while her husband dictated: ‘A1, B2, A1, B2, C0, D2, C0, D2.’ ‘Not exactly “The Gold Bug”, I know, but it serves its purpose well’ D'Amico said.

While his wife folded the paper and placed it in her purse, her husband asked: ‘may we keep the book?’ D'Amico smiled. ‘If a more honest colleague of our friend on the force found it in your car, “Mr Charlton”, he’d wonder how the thieves are finding God.’ Charlton smiled back, returned the book, shook D'Amico’s hand, and said ‘how else, sir? They crucified us beside Him.’

***

‘Don’t tell me “Officer Harris” knew the code’ said the girl as they were driving home. ‘Of course not’ he replied, ‘I told you how I met that guy, right? Ploughing a burrito with tobacco-stained teeth, spilling sauce on a rape report he hadn’t bothered to file. He’s one of the few cops I’ve met who are pigs in the literal as well as the figurative.’ ‘Then how did you know it? D'Amico certainly didn’t give it to you.’ ‘Only I...’ ‘“Need that knowledge, daffodil”’ she finished, ‘yeah yeah, I’ll keep thinking about dresses and jewels.’

They passed a well-lit drugstore, against whose display window a bum leaned, clutching liquor in a brown-paper bag with one hand, and a small box with the other. ‘I think the old man likes you’ he said. ‘What makes you say that?’ she replied. ‘Every man likes tall, blonde women who don’t talk.’

She smiled. ‘Not D'Amico. He prefers tall, blonde men who talk with their hips.’ ‘Huh?’ ‘The last time we were there I cased the joint while looking for the ladies’, the way you taught me back in San Fran. I heard, shall we say, aggressive noises coming from that powder-room he calls an office, and being an inquisitive sort of girl, peeked through the keyhole.’ ‘And?’ ‘He was inspecting one of his bodyguards.’ ‘So? You know how paranoid these old Italian mobsters are getting. With them it’s almost a ritual to check your staff for spyware.’ ‘Yeah, and I suppose stemming the rose is just a tribute to their Virgin.’

He glanced at her. ‘You saw that?’ ‘Uh-huh. Back to the cross and everything. I felt like Fanny Hill, peeking through that keyhole.’ ‘How does a girl like you know someone called Fanny Hill?’ She grinned, put a hand on his leg, leaned over and nibbled his ear. ‘I certainly didn’t marry you for your culture, Mr Charleston.’ He laughed. ‘If you want a cultured man’ he said, breaking away from her as he turned a corner into heavy traffic, ‘find one who stems the rose.’

They waited for the line of cars to disperse. Once it did he drove on, musing aloud ‘I wonder if Mrs D'Amico knows...’ The girl snorted. ‘I doubt she cares.’ ‘And I thought taking a bullet for your boss was brave. Still, it’s nice to know we have something to torture him with, should he ever turn on us. By the way, what did he mean by that “Gold Bug” remark?’ ‘It’s a short story, Edgar Allan Poe, about a coded treasure map.’

He parked in the storeyed garage beside their apartment complex. They walked in silence to their front door. Inside, she fetched drinks from a hostess trolley in the clean, white, otherwise empty hallway. He threw his tie and jacket on their bed, re-entered the hall then accepted his drink. ‘To the generous and gay’ he said, clinking his glass against hers. ‘To Mr D'Amico’ she agreed. They drank. She took the paper from her purse. ‘And, of course, to the hymn-makers’ she said, putting it in an empty cocktail mixer.

***

The code was simple and, knowing its source, she easily broke it. Mostly, each line’s last word shared, with its peer two lines below, a measure of assonance and consonance. A, for instance, referred to “roll” and “rest”, which share one common consonant. (Their association with Mr D'Amico had, she supposed, cultured her lover somewhat.) Hence, A1. These couples were then translated into their corresponding numbers and letters, so A1 became 1A, B2 2B, C0 just C, and D2 4B. This combination - 1A, 2B, C, 4B - were then dialled twice, once forward, once backward, on a safe-lock in Loan Lambs, the credit company D'Amico used as a front (its name chosen, he said, for how it compared favourably with “loan sharks”.)

Her real name was Mary Reed, and his James Strictly, and they still used these for their social lives. Professionally, they assumed new names for each job. James began work as a thief, graduating from hold-ups to bank and jewellery jobs after his talents were noted by a Mafia scout. She was a moll, no more than a guest at parties, before her acting gifts became useful. She turned away cops, designed alibis, collected consignments, and even gave evidence in court. Then her husband died, not in a shootout, as would befit a man of his exciting lifestyle, but of skin cancer, extracted from a youth working shirtless in chain-gangs beneath hot rural suns. Her history precluded an average life after that (she dreaded the curse of young, unmarried women with English degrees: secretarial work) so she stayed in “the business”, receiving support from her late husband’s cronies and grifting for them in exchange.

Then, two years ago, she met James at a party, and adored what she considered his essential devotion (to the women he slept with, anyway), coupled with a rugged charm which reminded her of the man who’d made her a widow. Together, their talents for problem-solving and performance art were formidable, and they embarked on a new, safer, better-paid career with the mob: detective-work. ‘A mobster can’t exactly go to the police when his money’s been stolen’ James explained to her, ‘and outside private dicks are a risk. Think of us like the military police. Or, in the spirit of these faithful Catholics, and your unswerving attempts to educate me, Father Brown.’ G K Chesterton, she’d thought, would be appalled by the comparison, were he watching from Heaven.

Their current case, like many others, begun with James’ suspicions that a robbery would soon take place at one of the mob’s fronts. He deduced this by observing peculiarities in the behaviour of certain associates. Mafia life was stressful and dangerous; more so when you knew you’d never become a “made man”: protected by your superiors, a superior yourself, able to command underlings, freer from the threat of prosecution or poverty. Rarely, but not rarely enough to the minds of Mary and James’ employers, people saw a new life in some foreign clime, equipped with a new identity, supported by stolen money, entertained by local women.

‘Who’s the poor mook this time?’ Mary asked, over breakfast the morning after their interview with D'Amico. ‘Officer Frank Harris of the LAPD’ he replied, ‘former mole, now desperate runaway.’ Mary replaced her fork during its ascent. ‘You can’t be serious.’ ‘I’m afraid I am, Mrs Charlton. Not only does he fear exposure by his colleagues, his wife’s on the verge of ratting him out, and he doesn’t have a carpet big enough to roll her in. Nor is there a harbour which could house her anyway.’ ‘That dumb pig? You really think he’s smart or brave enough to work a heist like this? Where would he even go? The tropics? I can see it now: big-breasted creep with accent enough to make a Yankee plug his ears, beached on a deckchair with a black beauty on each arm.’

To her distaste, James filled his mouth with eggs and continued, ‘fear makes people do desperate things, my inamorata. You should know that, having heard my pleas for mercy.’ ‘If you say so, James... At least he’s one I’ll not feel guilty for. How do you intend to trap him, may I ask?’ ‘During his drive home he’ll be pulled over by a “police” car; it’ll be dark, so all he’ll see are the flashing lights on Tony’s roof. Tony’ll handle it from there.’ ‘I’m sure he will.’ Tony’s nickname was “the cutter”. Once a troubled youth fresh from juvenile hall, where he’d spent two-and-a-half years for crippling his father, his arms were a latticework of self-harm. Even ten years later these scars were visible, though they looked more like worms wriggling beneath his skin. His friends in the mafia, he claimed, brought him nearer mental health than any shrink ever had. ‘So what role will I be playing this time?’ Mary asked. ‘This time, Bette Davis, I’ll be winning the Oscars...’

***

Outside Loan Lambs two goons sat in a car, slid below visibility from across the street, where Officer Harris’ arrival was expected. As they prepared to eat their second sandwiches of the night, the duplicitous policeman turned a corner into the parade and approached the front door. ‘The mook actually wore his uniform’ whispered the goon at the near window, chewing pastrami. ‘I bet he keeps his keys to the place on his desk, too’ said the other. ‘If I thought he’d be showing up for work tomorrow, I’d take that bet.’ Without checking the coast Harris unlocked the door, opened and, turning sideways to accommodate his bulk, stepped through it. The goons watched him through the display window. He picked up a magazine from a couch in the waiting area, and lifted the hatch in the receptionist’s desk. He opened the magazine as he walked towards the manager’s office. ‘Can’t we just do the pig now? Why should Tony the Cutter have all the fun?’ ‘D'Amico’s orders.’ ‘I never did like Catholics.’ ‘You’re in the wrong mob.’ ‘Isn’t my fault’ said the goon at the far window, dejected, chewing a bite of his sandwich, ‘the Quakers don’t have a mob.’

***

Inside the manager’s office James Strictly removed his massive sunglasses. He was perspiring heavily, not from fear but the fat-suit, made with a thick bullet-proof vest and every shirt he owned. He removed these piece by piece and stored them in a sports bag Mary had left for him. Mary emerged from the safe-room, still wearing her sunglasses, and a large black panama hat with widow’s-veil besides. He wondered how she’d dialled the code through all that. She carried her own sports bag, now loaded with 100,000 dollars. Placing this on the desk, she prepared to transfer 50,000 to the bag with the fat-suit. James plucked a handkerchief from her jacket pocket and mopped his brow, then his bare chest. ‘You slut’ she teased, ‘next you’ll be asking for my panties to towel your thighs.’ He grinned, and kissed her cheek. ‘I’ll dance for you later’ he said. ‘Wear the fat-suit. I like my men husky.’

After the 50,000 was transferred, she pulled a folded shirt from the bottom of her bag and handed it to James. She admired him while he buttoned it up. ‘What are you going to say happened to the other 50,000?’ she asked. ‘Nothing. Earlier in the week I wore that fat-suit you so elegantly designed and made another trip for the benefit of those goons outside. D'Amico, for all his Christian humility, won’t like having to write off 50,000 big ones, but I’ll tell him it’s probably fattening a mattress in Harris’ house, which will be heavier guarded than Buckingham Palace after the precincts open their parcels tomorrow.’

Mary shuddered. ‘Just like the concubine in Judges 19...’ ‘Huh?’ ‘D'Amico will tell you some other time. I don’t like that you came here alone, by the way.’ Touched by her concern, he held her shoulders and kissed her cheeks, then her lips. ‘I like to keep you in the dark as much as possible. Who else would I dance for?’ She relented, for now, and kissed him back. ‘Where are we meeting Harris?’ ‘He should be waiting in our garage right now’ he answered, still giving her small kisses around her face. ‘We’ll drive the hire car down there, give him the bag without the fat-suit, and that, my lover, will be that.’ ‘He really thinks he’s doing D'Amico a favour, doesn’t he?’ ‘Don’t feel bad for him, Princess of the Reeds.’ ‘I don’t. You always choose the most deserving victims.’ They left the way Mary entered, through the back door.

***

The only mattress D'Amico’s absent 50,000 fattened, in the end, belonged to a bank in the Cayman Islands. Tony the Cutter found the other half in a sports bag on Harris’ back seat, with a magazine taken from Loan Lambs’ waiting area. On page six, above the headline ‘TO SERVE AND PROTECT? SECRETS OF THE LAPD” was written the safe code, in crude, unsteady characters. While Tony divorced Harris’ limbs from his torso, in preparation for their journey to the twelve tribes of Israel (otherwise known as the various LA precincts), the repentant mook pleaded that D'Amico’s bodyguard, of all people, had told him to deliver the bag to his boss. Why the bodyguard met him in the garage beside Mr Charlton’s apartment complex Harris couldn’t explain. But then he never was the brightest candle in the tabernacle, D'Amico reflected, while caressing his bodyguard’s hair. ‘And as for "Mr Charlton”’ he observed while his lover leaned into the caress, ‘I owe him and his wife my continued prosperity.’