Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Coffee and Convicts
CLIFF
As introductions go, Cliff thought he was off to a good start with his parole officer.
“Do not fuck with me,” Dez Wheeler said, as she swirled oat milk into her fair-trade coffee and stared at Cliff Weston with one eyebrow raised in suspicion.
Cliff met his parole officer, Dezireé Wheeler, ex-prosecutor, tall, Black, and disturbingly sexy, at the Petal Café in downtown Manhattan Beach. As it was their first meeting since he’d been paroled three weeks before from a maximum security prison upstate, he was a little nervous.
“Ms. Wheeler,” Cliff began.
“Call me Dez,” she interjected.
“Dez.” Cliff adjusted in his seat and leaned a little closer, trying to be earnest. “I wouldn’t dream of fucking with you.
” It was the truth. Cliff found her sexy, but Dez Wheeler was also intimidating as hell.
At a statuesque five foot eleven, even taller in heels, she wore black jeans, a short white leather jacket that purposely exposed the .
357 Magnum just inside, and a straightforward manner that stated, “I take zero bullshit.”
“I like you, Cliff, but if I hear so much as you fart in the direction of a jewelry store, I will send you back to Corcoran Prison faster than one of these spandex-clad cyclists can get on my nerves.” She huffed at a cyclist who strode by wearing bright green cycling shorts so tight she could see his future family. “Which is pretty damn fast.”
“M.A.M.I.L.s,” Cliff said as he followed her annoyed gaze to a gaggle of cyclists congregating by the muffin case. “Middle-Aged Men in Lycra. An abomination.”
Dez chuckled. He had put her at ease. Which was a good thing considering she could deem even the smallest of missteps a violation and send him back to the joint.
But the sound of a woman laughing was like music to him; it eased him, made his shoulders unclench.
It was the little things he missed most when he was locked up with violent, hardened men.
No one chuckles in prison unless there’s an angle.
“Look, it’s just a little suspect that you wound up in Manhattan Beach, an extremely affluent community.
These people are rich. Today was the first time I have ever seen a Bentley SUV, right there pulling into that Starbucks.
That was new for me. And get this. It was painted matte orange, Cliff. Do you know what that means?”
“You can’t buy good taste?”
“It means these people have fuck-you money.” She paused for emphasis as her mouth turned into a flat line.
“Like stupid money. Like ‘buy your way out of any kind of trouble even federal crimes’ money. I’ve been around rich people like this before.
They think they’re untouchable. They build these mansions and live in neighborhoods where nothing bad ever happens, a perfect bubble beyond the ugliness of real life.
So, they get careless, lulled into a false sense of security.
They leave their alarm systems off on nights when they drink too much rare scotch and before you know it, a thief—like say,” she pointed her finger at him, “—you, comes along and—”
“Ex-thief,” Cliff interjected.
She let out a frustrated sigh and continued, “You can’t throw a blueberry scone without hitting some millionaire’s mansion around here. It’s catnip to a thief like you. How do you expect to control your impulses? Speaking of, I can’t even afford this rent. How can you?”
“I’m renting a little beach pad over a garage from Ernie Palau’s mom at a severely discounted rate.”
“The wheel man from the Encino bank job?”
“That’s the guy. With the bullet scar on his shoulder to prove it,” Cliff acknowledged with raised eyebrows.
“I did Ernie a big favor in the joint. It’s his way of repaying me.
” Cliff shrugged as if ex-cons luck into gorgeous little beach pads like this all the time, anything to minimize her suspicions.
But he had his doubts if it was working. She was sharp.
Cliff decided to try honesty even though several million dollars’ worth of jewels were resting at his feet in a backpack and weighing on his toes as well as his conscience.
He leaned in and spoke quietly. “You know Sig Johnson, the accountant for the Humboldt Cannabis mob? Nice guy. Nonviolent. He was a friend inside. I watched him take a shiv in the ribs the week before I got out because he was mistaken for Sid Hanson. The dumbshit punk who handled the hit got the wrong guy because their names were similar. Sig bled out. I watched the life drain out of his eyes; his blood was on my shoes for eight straight days until the day I got out.”
Cliff paused, remembering the terrified look in Sig’s eyes at the shock that he might be dying, not in the arms of his wife of twenty-eight years, but in the arms of a fellow convict on the dirty cement floor of the prison hallway.
The terror turned to sorrow until his eyes were vacant, the life in them gone.
It haunted Cliff. “I am not going back.” He sat back and took the last sip of his fancy coffee, tasted the nutmeg, and marveled yet again at the small joys of life on the outside.
He had to change his thought channel before it threatened his own sanity. “Besides, I have a business plan.”
“Most parolees have trouble keeping a job, so this hits different.” Dez mulled it over then asked, “Go on, what is this business plan?”
“Services only a guy like me can provide, of course,” Cliff said as he handed her a stuffed file folder.
“I’ve printed out my entire business plan for you to review and look over.
I have my first client meeting today and an appointment with a bank manager tomorrow for a small business loan.
With any luck at all, I should have a client by the next time I see you. ”
“That is one week from now.” She leveled her gaze at him, her frown dripping with doubt.
“Don’t make me regret taking you on. I have a perfect record in the department so far and a trip to Tahiti coming up in two months, so I will not have some master thief trying to outsmart me only to realize I am much smarter than he thinks I am. ”
“Ex-thief,” Cliff said again, just as his phone lit up. The name that appeared on his phone was “MO.” Cliff quickly silenced the phone and turned it over.
“That wouldn’t be the notorious Melvyn Ott, would it?” Dez’s gaze hardened.
“No, no, not at all. That’s Mo Jeffers, bike repairman,” Cliff said, trying not to sound nervous. He had good reason to be nervous.
Melvyn Ott was part of Cliff’s old crew and still in prison. Cliff owed him a favor. A big one. He tried to push that last detail out of his mind and end this meeting with his parole officer before she handcuffed him for associating with known felons.
“Dez.” Cliff gave her a tight-lipped smile and stepped on the backpack chock-full of stolen gems. “You think I’d risk my new freedom for a scumbag like Melvyn Ott?”
“I’m just saying, temptation is everywhere. Especially when you’ve got the old crew sniffing around. For all I know, you’ve got stolen jewels in that backpack at your feet.” She sipped her coffee and stared at him over the foam.
Cliff froze. His chest went tight. He forced a smile, hoping it looked genuine. “Don’t be crazy.”
Distracted by a skinny cyclist who was bent over in front of their table to pick up his bike helmet, Dez scowled and said, “It’s easy to decide to go straight. It’s a whole other thing to stay that way.”
“Then let me prove it to you,” Cliff offered. “I have my first official business meeting in thirty minutes, where I will sign my first client, then it’s off to the legit biz races. I intend to make this stick.”
“Thieves make excellent liars. Goes with the con,” Dez said.
“Ex-thief,” he corrected again.
“I like you, Cliff.” She gave Cliff another good, hard look as she grabbed her purse and got up. “But I will bring you down if you con me. Same time, next week.”
“I’ll be here.” He gave her a wave meant to reassure her, but he noticed she looked anything but reassured. Dez walked out of the coffee shop.
His smiled faded as soon as his parole officer was out of sight.
Cliff twirled the empty cup between his hands as he quietly surveyed the layout of the place.
It was a reflexive habit, casing joints.
He looked for the exits, noted the security cameras if any, and assessed all risks.
The call from Mel Ott had jangled his nerves, but he was sure he could put him off a few days longer.
Cliff looked at his watch and went to grab the backpack resting at his feet.
His hands fished around. It was gone. He looked under the table.
Nothing but an empty straw wrapper. Panic rose and his eyes darted around the café, raking over the beach crowd expecting to find a rival thief scurrying off with his loot.
Then he spotted the backpack in the jaws of a scruffy little brown dog trotting across the café.
Cliff watched in mounting anxiety as the little dog stood there looking up at a gaggle of cyclists eating muffins, his backpack full of jewels dangling from its mouth.
Cliff launched from the chair, trying to keep his cool but nearly stumbling through milling patrons as he bolted over to retrieve the backpack. Just before he could get to it, two delicate hands picked it up.
His eyes were single-focused on the backpack, his fists clenched, and he was ready to use force if necessary to reclaim it even in the midst of this crowded, uppity café.
His growing terror was instantly neutralized when he found himself staring into a pair of striking blue-green eyes framed by blond wavy hair that was tied in a messy bun.
He stood facing an apologetic, warm smile from a strikingly pretty woman.
“I’m so sorry,” the woman said. “It was my dog. He’s not trained.
But I suppose that’s on me. I haven’t trained him.
Bad dog, Dash!” She admonished the pup and then hunched her shoulders and prattled on.
“He dragged me in here since he smelled the fresh pastries—he can’t resist ham and cheese croissants—and he has a habit of stealing my backpack because I always have treats in it, again my mistake and—wow, this is heavy.
” She held out the backpack so Cliff could take it. “Here you go.”
Cliff could feel himself frowning and sweating as he tried to get a grip on what had happened.
An accident? He wasn’t sure. To an ex-con, everything seemed like a con.
He was also mesmerized by the scent of peaches and honeysuckle.
The two scents combined with her warm energy and dazzling smile served to jumble his brain.
“Not getting any lighter,” she said politely, still holding out his backpack.
Cliff snapped to attention and gently took the backpack from her and slung it over his shoulder, checking that it was safe, trying to take his foot off the gas of sheer panic. “Oh, right. Thank you.”
They stood there for a moment, eyes locked, not saying anything.
Should have been awkward, but instead it was like looking into the eyes of someone he knew a long time ago, or maybe never at all, but something felt familiar, and heady, a feather could have knocked him off balance.
For a full three seconds neither of them said a word, they just stood there with goofy smiles on their faces until her dog barked, breaking the spell.
She cleared her throat and shook her head as if coming out of a daze.
“Any chance you’re a dog trainer?” she asked as she tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear, which caught the breeze as someone opened the door, the bell jangling.
Her dog leash was fully extended to the other side of the coffee shop, where her ill-behaved, shaggy little dog had moved on from the backpack and was now begging customers for food.
“I’ve never wished I was Cesar Millan more in my life.” Cliff watched Dash and then brought his gaze back to her. “Sadly, not my skillset.”
She gave an embarrassed laugh and looked away.
He must keep talking to her. Compliment the dog, dummy! “He’s a cute little guy.”
“With zero manners. But yeah, lovable. Dash, get over here!”
She tried to treat-bribe her dog with a biscuit. The dog was unmoved by her dry niblet, opting instead for a piece of a generous stranger’s eggbite.
“Surprising that he likes eggbites,” Cliff said.
“What do you mean? Watery, rubbery, flavorless. What’s not to love?
” Jamie dug into her purse for a more tantalizing dog snack and whipped out a leathery-looking dog treat with two hair ties stuck to it.
“I think I can tempt him with this.” She read the label and removed the old hair ties. “Organic beef gullet jerky.”
“Mmm. My favorite.”
She cocked her head and looked at him, full grin, and said, “Good to know.”
Cliff let out a quiet laugh. She was wearing oversized heather gray sweats and a Prince 1999 T-shirt with a mustard stain on the sleeve.
Tiny gold hoop earrings. Hair up in a messy bun, a couple of streaks of gray peeking through, no makeup, but that smile was going off.
She was wake-up pretty. Her eyes bright and mesmerizing. She looked real.
He was a sucker for real.
Her phone rang, snapping Cliff out of his momentary daze.
She answered it and motioned that she had to take the call.
She waved at him, and he wasn’t sure if that was an invitation to stay put or a benign goodbye.
She gently pulled on the leash and dangled the beef jerky to get Dash to follow her out to the sidewalk.
At that same moment, his phone rang, too.
It was Melvyn Ott again. He sighed and stared at the screen, deciding whether or not to pick it up.
When he finally sent the call to voice mail, he looked up toward the messy, pretty woman who smelled like honeysuckle, hoping to catch her again, but she was out of sight.
He looked at his watch. The meeting with client his was looming.
“Shit,” he mumbled. He looked out the window to see if he could spot her again, but she wasn’t there. With his hand firmly on his backpack full of priceless diamonds, he rushed out the back door of the Petal Café and toward his first official business meeting.