Copyright © 2001 Guy Belleranti. All rights reserved. 

        “Hey, want to get rich quick?”

     Fred Bowers looked up from his beer, saw a short, skinny man with a glass eye staring down at him, and grinned.  “Kirby!  Long time no see.”

     “Yeah.”  Kirby slid into the booth, and gave Fred a sharp look.  “You know, you’re the last person I expected to see.  Thought you’d been busted for murder-robbery.”

     “So you saw that in the news, eh?  Yeah, they tried sending me down for sticking up and killing some geek convenience store clerk, but the only witness suddenly changed her mind and said it wasn’t me.”  Fred smirked.  “Funny thing, she also drowned just the next day.  Cops tried to get the goods on me other ways, but, hey, they’ll never prove anything now.” He lit a cigarette, offered the pack to Kirby.  “Smoke?” 

     “Sure.”  Kirby reached across for a cigarette, his gold watch gleaming in the bar’s dim light.

     Fred lit Kirby up, eyed him carefully.  “What’s this about getting rich?”

     Kirby dropped his voice a notch, leaned forward.  “An old lady I know.  Millie Hempstead.  She’s got enough dough stashed in her house to put us on easy street.”

     “Hempstead . . .”  Fred spoke the name slowly.  “Name sounds familiar, but--”

     “Doubt you know her.  Pretty much housebound.  Uses a walker and wheelchair when she goes out.  Lives out on Creek Road at the edge of town.  Old, red, ranch style place on a few acres.  Anyway, her husband’s long dead, so it’s just she and the daughter, Nicole, living in the place.”  Kirby dropped his voice even lower.  “I swear we could break in there and make a killing.”

     “Yeah, and have the cops after us within a day.”

     “Not if we do it right.”  Kirby’s good eye gleamed.  “It could be just like the old days, Fred.  Only better.  Or do you have a nice high paying 9 to 5 lined up?”

     Fred scowled.  Working a regular grind job was the last thing he wanted.  He finished his beer, signaled for a second, smoked thoughtfully till it came.  “Okay,” he said when the waitress was out of earshot, “what’s your plan?”

     Kirby grinned.  “There’s a new moon Thursday night, right?”

     “I wouldn’t know.  So what if there is.”

     “So it’ll be dark as hell, and the Hempstead’s nearest neighbors are a quarter mile away.  We could do it around 8:30 -- in disguise, of course.  When the old lady opens the door . . .  Hell, we’d stick a gun in her face and invite ourselves in.” 

     “You say she’s a cripple?” Fred asked.

     “Close to it.  Wouldn’t be able to put up any sort of fight.”

     “What about the daughter?”  

     “Goes to night school at the local college.  Doesn’t get home Thursdays ‘til almost ten.”

     “How can you be so sure about this money?  I mean who keeps lots of cash around in this day and age--”

     “I’ve seen it, man.  The old gal calls in grocery orders sometimes, and my boss sends me out with the deliveries.”

     “So?”

     “So, she always takes the cash from this big tin box.  And the last time . . . she kept the lid open a bit, and I got a look inside.  It was stuffed with bills.  Twenties, fifties, even hundreds.”

     Fred crushed out his cigarette, lit another.  “I don’t know . . .”

     “You wanna wash dishes the rest of your life?  I’ve got several extra fake beards and wigs that’ll fit you fine.  Stop by tomorrow evening and you can try ‘em out.”  He scribbled on a napkin.  “That’s my address.  Come around seven.”

     Fred pocketed the napkin.  “How about a gun.  I had to, uh, toss my last piece.”

     Kirby grinned.  “No problem.  I’ve got one you’ll love.”

 ***

     Fred pounded at the door of Kirby’s rundown efficiency apartment late the next afternoon. 

     “Fred!  What--you’re early.”

     “So.  That a problem?”

     “Well, no, but . . .”  Kirby lowered his voice.  “I’ve got a friend here.  She’s in the bathroom and . . .”

     Fred leered.  “You fox you.  All right I’ll go sit in the park across the street ‘til you two are finished.”  

     “Uh, yeah.  Okay.”

     Fred found a bench from where he could see Kirby’s place, and sat down to wait.  It’d been too long since he’d had a woman.  He wondered what Kirby’s looked like--probably nothing special.  The dive Kirby lived in and that glass eye of his sure wouldn’t attract much.

     He’d ground a cigarette under his heel and was lighting another when the door opened.  Less than fifteen minutes.  “Awfully fast, Kirby,” Fred muttered.  Of course, maybe they’d finished before he arrived.  Or maybe the babe was in a hurry to leave and look for someone better. 

     Fred stared as she stepped out.  Long blonde hair, tight jeans . . . curves where they counted.  Whew.  Really hot!  He’d have to find out more about her after they finished the Hempstead job.  After he had money to burn.

     “Put your tongue back in your mouth and come inside,” Kirby told him when he’d crossed back to the apartment.  “The wigs and beards are in that sack on the dresser over there.  Try ‘em out and pick one you like.”

     Fred dumped the contents of the sack on the unmade bed, pawed through them.  “Got a mirror?”

     “Inside the closet door.”

     Fred tried on several wigs, then a beard.

     “Perfect,” Kirby said.

     “You kiddin’ me?  The beard’s itches, and this gray wig . . . I look like a damn freak.”

     “Better than havin’ your real looks broadcast all over the place, ain’t it?”

     Fred scowled.  “We’ll need gloves, too.”

     “Got ‘em.”  Kirby handed Fred a pair of thin latex gloves.

     Fred nodded.  “That leaves my gun.”

     “Tomorrow night.”

     “Now wait--”

     “I’ve got it hid away at my old lady’s.  Gonna pick it up tomorrow.”

     “All right, all right.”  Fred ripped off the beard and wig.  “I’ll be here tomorrow night, eight sharp.”

 ***

     Kirby opened the door on Fred’s first knock, glanced at his watch.  “Right on time.  We’ll park behind some bushes down the road from the house and put our outfits on in the back of the van.  Don’t want anyone seeing us leavin’ here wearing ‘em.”

     “Right,” Fred agreed. 

 ***

     “Hempstead place is just ‘round the next corner,” Kirby said.

     “You sure?  It’s so damn dark--”

     “I’ve delivered out here.  Remember?”

     “Yeah, but . . .”  Fred broke off as the van’s headlights slid over the property on the turn--long frame house, mostly dark except for the dim porch light and a light shining in one of the front rooms.  “What if the old lady’s not home?”

     “She’s home.  I called her right before you came.  Hung up when she answered.”

     Kirby coasted on down the road, saw no sign of anyone else in the vicinity, and pulled off into a copse of trees.  “Showtime.”

***

     “Come on, Fred.  Get a move on.”

     “My piece--”

     “I’ve got it back here.”

     Fred joined Kirby in the back of the van, hefted the gun Kirby handed him, checked its ammo.  “Oughta do okay.”  He stuffed the weapon into his coat pocket.”

     A minute later they both exited the van. 

     “Not a car or person in sight,” Fred murmured.

     “Told you it would be a snap.  Come on.”

     They reached the house a couple minutes later, climbed the wood steps to the sagging porch.

     A board groaned under Fred’s feet and he froze.

     “What’re you stopping for?”

     “Something’s not right . . .”

     “Hell, a floorboard creeks and you get spooked.  We’re ringing the bell, so who cares if she hears us.”

     “Yeah.  I guess.”  Fred moved up beside Kirby, sucked in his breath.  How could they have all that money and not fix things up a bit?  Kirby better not be wrong about this.

     Kirby pressed his finger against the bell, then after a moment pressed it again. 

     “If she isn’t home--”  Fred broke off as the door jerked open.

 The light from a floor lamp was just enough to frame the heavy-set woman leaning on a walker peering out at them. 

     “Special delivery,” Kirby said.

     “I didn’t order nothin’--”

     “We know.”  Fred’s confidence returned, and he stepped in front of Kirby, gun extended.

     “What--”

     “Shut-up,” Fred snapped.  He heard Kirby slam the door behind them.       

     “What do you think you’re--”

     “I said shut up.  Now where’s that stash of cash?”  

     “Cash?”

     “Yeah.  The tin box.  We want it all.”

     Milly Hempstead just stood there.

     “Something wrong with your hearing?”

     “No, my hearing’s fine.  Isn’t that right, Kirby?”

     “W-what--”  Fred jerked around, as Kirby’s gun roared.  He squeezed the trigger on his own without effect as he fell to the floor.  “Jeez, you sh-shot me.”

     Kirby gazed down at him, his face grim.  “Yeah, just like you shot Billy.”

     “B-Billy?” 

     “The clerk you killed at that convenience store.  My kid brother.”

     “And my fiance’,” said a new voice, a voice belonging to the attractive blonde babe he’d seen leaving Kirby’s the previous day.  “You murdered him in cold blood, you bastard!”  She drew her foot back as if to kick him, and

      Kirby grabbed her arm. 

      “Easy, Nicole.  Don’t dirty your shoes on him.” 

      Nicole . . .  Fred pressed a hand to his stomach, felt it grow wet and sticky with blood.  Nicole Hempstead, the daughter Kirby’d mentioned in the bar the other night.  He’d thought the name Hempstead rang a bell and now . . . now he had it.  She’d been mentioned once in the paper’s write-up of the case.

      Fred winced as the pain in his gut increased. 

      “Damn . . . you, Kirby.  You . . . set me up.  You--”  He broke off as the other member of the party moved into his range of focus.  The old woman.  Mollie.  Without her walker.  “Knew something . . . was wrong,” he muttered.  “The porch steps . . . no ramp.  You . . . you ain’t crippled . . . at all.”

      “No,” she said, “and you ain’t ever gonna hurt another soul.” 

      Kirby picked up Fred’s gun, stuck it in his waistband. 

      “Yeah, Fred, I don’t work your side of the street anymore.  Got a good honest job.”  He smiled.  “Didn’t expect me to give you a gun with a ground down firing pin, did you?   Course, I do have a second good -- and untracable -- piece in my jacket, one which I’ll plant on you after you’re dead.  One which’ll make it look like these two poor women acted in self defense.  You kill Billy, learn his fiance’ is still ragin’ to get justice, so you go after her.  M.O. fits you to a tee.”  He took aim with the once-fired gun he still held.  “Say your prayers, dead man.”

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