Twenty #2
“Stephanie St. Clair. She ran a highly profitable numbers racket in Harlem.” She smiled. “And in the event we get some nerdy little kid who happens to be up on female criminals of the past one hundred years, I made more IDs with very generic names.” She tossed them out on the bed.
“Check this out,” Irene said. She had stumbled on several granny nightgowns, neatly folded, all the same pattern cloth, but different colors. It was as if someone cleaned off a shelf of them in an estate sale and donated them to charity.
An hour later, the four of them were dressed in granny gowns, wearing the facial masks Irene insisted upon—“You will look ten years younger, trust me”—and were dining on McDonald’s burgers.
Edie had protested the burgers, and Frances had felt a little queasy looking at them, but Irene insisted it was just next door and there was no need to use the car.
“This will be a disaster,” Edie said as Irene handed burgers around. “Do you think any of us, at our age, can properly digest this? Speaking of which, we need to plan our route based on bathroom availability.”
“Already on it,” Irene said. “And you better get used to eating like this, Fancy Pants. It’s not like we’ll be doing any fine dining in Vegas.”
“You know what I’ve been thinking of?” Joan asked. She’d selected a neon green facial mask tonight and looked a bit like an alien. “That jewelry heist we did in New York. The one where that bastard ripped me off.”
“I remember,” Frances said. “Well, I remember the fashion show. You looked stunning, Joan.”
Joan had scored a modeling job during Fashion Week, and in the course of it had discovered that models would be wearing various pieces of expensive jewelry. She’d worn a hammered gold neck collar that had practically glowed against her dark skin.
“Thank you,” Joan said, smiling through her neon green facial mask. “Too bad the jeweler didn’t think so.”
“Racist asshole,” Irene added.
“Fran almost had me arrested.”
“How many times do I have to say it?” Frances said. “I’m sorry I was late, but I was ironing my hair. You can’t iron one half and not the other. And besides, I thought we’d agreed to go later.”
“Recollections may vary,” Joan said, mimicking Queen Elizabeth.
It had all begun with a runway show. They hadn’t tried to steal a lot of jewelry, but this was a perfect opportunity to pay it back to the designer who had tried to force himself on Joan on previous casting calls. The casting couch wasn’t just limited to Hollywood.
The job had been easier than it should have been.
On the night of their heist, Irene was close by in her craft services position (she always managed to get a service job).
Frances had finagled a ticket through an old family friend and took a seat near the door to the dressing area.
Irene had let Edie in through a service door.
She was, of course, the lure for the security guard.
It was amazingly easy then—there was no technology, just a young guy with a gun whose head was turned by a young woman in a low-cut minidress holding a string of condoms for no apparent reason.
“What, these old things?” she would purr.
Edie could charm the venom from a snake.
And while she flirted with him, Irene and Frances followed Joan into the dressing area and stuffed their pockets and bras and a small tote bag with jewels.
They walked out of there, met up with Edie later in a bar, then decamped to Irene’s terrible little apartment in Chelsea.
Their plan was to take the jewelry to the Diamond District the next day.
They knew of a jeweler who would fence items.
That’s when things went awry. They had a rule—none of them ever alone when “conducting business.” Joan and Frances had agreed to take the jewelry, and Joan had been eager to go. But Frances was ironing her hair. They’d agreed to meet there.
Frances, Irene, and Edie left a little later and made their way to the Diamond District. But when they arrived, Frances noticed Joan through the storefront window. The way she was standing seemed … off.
“Something’s wrong,” she said to Edie and Irene.
Both turned to look.
“What do we do?” Irene asked.
“I’m going in,” Frances said.
“I’ll get a cab,” Irene said.
Frances didn’t hear the rest—she was darting across the street. She entered the store with a lot of noise. “Sorry!” she called out. She walked over to where Joan was standing at the counter, the jeweler behind the counter, holding a phone receiver in his hand. Both looked oddly murderous.
“Do you have pearls?” Frances blurted. “I have a wedding to attend this weekend. Just a choker or something. Maybe earrings?”
“I’m in the middle of something,” the jeweler said.
“So sorry,” Frances said to Joan. “If you could just point me toward the pearls.”
“Lady, if you don’t mind—”
The door opened again, and Edie entered. She’d been wearing a jacket, but that was gone. She had on a thin T-shirt and no bra. “Laura,” Edie snarled. “I’ve been looking for you.”
Frances knew Edie so well that she had instantly understood her role. “Are you following me?”
“Are you sleeping with my husband?” Edie shot back.
“I can’t help it if he doesn’t want to sleep with you. That’s your problem, not mine.”