“A dash of frugality is good for everyone.”
Jason Chaffetz
I am a born larsonist with light fingers and a love of shiny things. Legend has it that even as a toddler I was quite adept at liberating my grandmother's multi-carat diamond earrings as she hugged me, without her ever realizing it until they fell from my fat little hands. Wasn't my fault she wore screw backs and made it so easy, right?
My innate talents proved useful as I grew older. I always tried first doing things honorably, of course, but if I wasn't successful in wheedling money from my mom for a cone when the ice cream truck came around, I'd dip into the jar of change my father kept on his dresser. Even at five-years-old, I knew that exactly three quarters would buy me a nice cone of chocolate soft serve. I also knew that he would never miss it as there were many quarters in that old jar. I would assuage my guilt by doing something nice in return. Like present them with a crayon drawing of me eating a cone of ice cream on a sunny day. In so doing, I would confess without the mess.
I've never been particularly greedy. I only stole what I needed. When I needed money for my first car, I'd pick up a nice brooch here and an old watch there, always from benefactors who would cheerfully welcome me into their opulent homes when I showed up with tool box in hand to perform some minor repair work. I always made certain my work was first rate, and that I was paid what I had earned. I took their money with a smile, and their jewelry with a grin. Like my father, they had more loot than they needed anyway, so I saved every penny from what I fenced until I was able to afford the second hand sports car I coveted. I could have afforded a brand new one but that would have drawn too much attention. I made good enough money as a part time grocery store bagger, but not that good.
I paid my way through college using the same techniques. I'd already set my sights on a career in rocks. I studied geology and learned how to rate the quality of gems by working in a jewelry store. Eventually I learned how to cut diamonds, as well as who the best fencers were in the city. By the time I hit my thirties, I had a respectable career as a jeweler...and a profitable one as a thief.
But pilfering the occasional bauble wasn't exciting enough for me. My hobby, as it were, was breaking and entering, otherwise known as B&E. At first I did it simply to prove I could and would take some small trinket as a souvenir. I had quite a collection of them going for a while there and everyone marveled at how I always had the perfect gift to give them for any occasion. My two girlfriends were thrilled when I presented them each with lovely diamond pendants on fine gold chains. Neither woman knew the other existed, nor did they know the pendants had been cut from one large stone. The next morning I awoke exhausted in my own bed after a marathon night of loving two voracious women, content to know I'd left them happy in more ways than one.
I chose my patrons with great care. They had to live close enough to make our acquaintanceship plausible while still living far enough away that the likelihood of their inadvertently stumbling on their missing property was even more unlikely. I never took the largest pieces from their jewelry boxes, nor the choicest. Only those that would fetch a good price without being readily missed. And I was careful to earn absolution by anonymously giving a portion of the proceeds to the local rescue mission. Too bad the original donors weren't able to collect any tax breaks from their generosity.
But karma has a way of biting you on the ass despite your best efforts. Her one warning was when I caved to temptation and bought yet another girlfriend a new car. So eager was I to earn her reward that I paid cash and, of course, the purchase was reported to the government as part of their attempts to identify crime through large cash transactions. Luckily, I was able to empty my savings account of enough money as to give the appearance of being above board in the transaction. That money eventually found its way into my accounts in the Caymans with no one being the wiser.
But karma's true bite came with no warning whatsoever.
It started with an anonymous tip to Crime Stoppers followed soon after by an investigation by first the police department, followed closely by the district attorney's office, and finally by the FBI. Secure in my assumption that nothing could be traced back to me I remained cool in the face of pressure and made myself as accessible as possible. Even when the forensic accountants were brought in, I didn't sweat. I was as chill and outwardly innocent as a newborn babe.
But I never realized that I was prone to divulging my sins in my sleep. And I had seriously underestimated the power of scorned women.
Later, as I sat moldering in jail after being justifiably denied bail for being a flight risk, Beatrice arrived one afternoon, dressed to the nines and with her hair coiffed to perfection. Rather than bearing a file for my escape, she smirked at me through the glass separating us. Her eyes were hard, flinty, and chillingly satisfied. Without lifting the phone, she mouthed one word: Monica. Then she blew me a kiss through scarlet red lips, gave me a matching scarlet tipped one bird salute, and left without a backward glance, still wearing Mrs. Foxworthy's two carat ruby earrings.
Karma works in mysterious ways. As you wrote, bites the most devious in the ass. Your story was so true to life that I believe it may be true and you just changed the names protect the innocent.
I had a pilfering tenant in my room upstairs because I could no longer use it. There were all kinds of hints. He was ejected angrily from his previous abode. He rode a bicycle all over Houston and even appeared on television working at service jobs like a clerk in food truck at least twice. Came home with all kinds of condiments that he gave some to us and asked us to buy the rest.
One day, a woman arrived with him and he wanted to show her my first novel. He gave it to her. Eventually, it came out that she was his parole officer.
The last straw was when a marble and coin base for a bottled flower arrangement came up missing quarters. I ordered him out and he left. At one time there was a bicycle in the garage that he may have stolen. He probably pawned or parted it out. Unfortunately, he had the run of the house while I was at work with my caregiver.
Recently, while accounting for all the things I want to give away or sell before I go, I discovered things in my closet gone that really irritated me. I had put them there to keep them from being in the hands of my tenants upstairs. Fortunately, most of our little treasures and jewelry was untouched because it wasn't kept in the usual places like a jewelry box. Some of these mementos were not worth anything anyway.
But don't get me wrong. I hired two women that had prison records for trumped up charges and they were very helpful and the salt of the earth. Still are friends.
PI novel set in Manhattan during the 1980s when art galleries and model agencies were the two most glamorous businesses in the world. Dangerously well written.
Read Chapter 1 here: https://www.lit4u.com/art-and-beauty-chapter-1/
Literary Titan
