I take Jackson’s pudgy hand. I tremble with excitement as I pry the thin scratched ring off his hairy little finger. All that glitters is gold.
I don’t count myself lucky that he didn’t wake up. The sleeping pills he took before bed-the ones I gave him secretly-are serving their purpose well. If he’s sleeping, he’s not objecting to my acts of theft. Unfortunately for him, that precious little ring may well be the least of his worries.
I’d met Jackson in a dive bar near Soho. I’d been wearing tight leather pants and a low-cut top. The heels were a killer touch and he couldn’t stop looking at me when I sat next to him at the bar. He also fell for the long, blond, braided wig. I kept it on when we went to bed later and it’s gotten so clammy and itchy that I really should take it off. He was so entranced he didn’t even ask why I had a huge shoulder bag with me.
The baggy shirt to cover his paunch and the jeans missing two fly buttons weren’t an attractive point. That didn’t matter. I subtly asked how much he had and whether anything was worth stealing from him. Turned out he was off to an auction house the next day to sell his late mother’s antiques and heirlooms. He said he had a gym bag full of them in his hotel room. It was a last resort to sort out his dire financial straits. From that point on, I had him in my clutches. I used my feminine wiles and, soon enough, was invited to his hotel room for sex and more alcohol.
The sex was subpar and he finished before I’d gotten really wet. And then he’d fallen asleep on top of me. I didn’t blame him there. He’d needed a glass of water before he’d finished, and I’d dropped the pills in when he wasn’t looking.
I check the nightstand for my wristwatch. I put it on and check the time. It’s seven-thirty a.m. in a three-star hotel on the Upper West Side in mid-September. I zip up Jackson’s gym bag stuffed with priceless antiques. I plan to take it away and pawn every last item that’s in there. He’ll never see them again.
I look around for my panties. As I search, Jackson stops snoring and rolls over. I freeze, worried he’ll wake up in spite of the pills. Fortunately, he carries on snoring. I relax and continue my search.
I feel under the bed and pull them out, removing some dust from the silk linings. I slip them on. I quickly locate my bra and continue getting dressed.
I throw on a long floral dress and a denim jacket. They’re what I call “morning after wear” in case the police are called too early and they get a description of what I looked like the night before. I smooth the creases in my dress and look at him on the bed; taking in his ugly naked body. Now, in the bright light of day, he is nothing more than an expired product, a completed transaction, a used appliance.
Ah, well. He’ll get over it. He mentioned a big family. He’ll get other heirlooms.
I remove my wig and run my hand over my jet black hair. I’m badly in need of a shower. I stuff it in the shoulder bag, on top of the leather pants and the low-cut top. I sling both bags over my shoulders and quietly ease open the screen doors to the balcony and fire exit. On opening, I notice a gap in the far corner. Beneath it are two flights of steel stairs that lead to the third-floor balcony below. There’s a gap in that balcony that leads to the second-floor balcony and so on. It’s doubtful I’ll be able to squeeze two large bags through that gap so I look for other options.
Peering over the rail, I see a dumpster in the alleyway below. There’s an abundance of black garbage bags on the surface. Not wishing to damage any stolen goods, I drop my shoulder bag onto the dumpster. It makes a noise when it lands but not nearly loud enough to attract attention. With the gym bag on my shoulder, I take one last look at my mark. He won’t be awake for two or three hours. But I mustn’t dawdle. I close the screen doors on him, walk over to the gap and put one foot on the fire escape.
I neglect to blow him a kiss goodbye. Instead, I look to the sky and thank God for letting me escape. Then I make my way out of Jackson’s life forever.
