“Absolutely not. Alistair, dear God, do something.” Lady Covington shouts to my father, approaching us in his custom-tailored, Italian tuxedo.
“Now, now. Don’t fret, Louisa.” At her side, he turns to the closest bodyguard. “Can I assume, the piece of jewelry has a tracker?”
The other man nods, my heart pounds, and I glance at the time. The incident is less than sixty seconds old. What the hell is he doing? Does he want to be caught?
The guard puts a finger to his ear, his mouth drops open, and after taking a deep breath, he motions over one of his associates. “The bloody bangle is blocks away.”
My father shakes his head and clucks his tongue. “Young man, whoever took the piece, no matter its worth, is long gone. There’s no point in searching the guests, don’t you agree?”
The bloke nods and Lady Covington grabs my father’s arm. “Alistair, thank goodness you were here. Can you imagine? Having all my dearest friends searched like common criminals?”
His eyes twinkle at me before returning to normal. “Heaven forbid. Let’s get you something to drink, dear.”
Once they leave, a drop of sweat drops off my forehead and I reach in my jacket pocket for a handkerchief. When the sharp edges of the gems scratch my hand, I nearly shite me trousers.Way to go, dad.
Chapter 2
Lanita Manuel
After ending the call with my fiancé, I pour a cup of wine, and pray Alistair’s antics don’t land Dash in jail. Hell, if I’m a danger magnet, his dad is a worm hole, sucking in hazards at light speed. The older man’s unhealthy exploitation of the younger needs to stop, and who better than me to make it happen? The next heist, I’m inviting myself.
Pondering how to accomplish this new goal, I feed my cat, Moishe, and while he chows down, a familiar knock jars me out of my daydreaming.
“Hello, Mrs. Feinstein, give me a minute.” Quickly, I hide my goblet because I don’t have time for gossip.
Answering the door, she hands me a pink and orange lawn chair. “This is for you.”
“Thank you. You’re umm… too kind.” My eyes bug-out at the frayed and rusty seat.
As I ponder how to politely decline her gift, she points over the stove. “Take your wine out of the microwave, come, and kvetch. We’re all waiting for you.”
Desperate for help, I eyeroll Moishe but he’s busy chomping his kibble and ignores my nonverbal plea.
The problem is, by we, she means the lawn chair brigade. Most of the octogenarians have nothing better to do than sit in front of the apartment building and discuss everyone else’s business. Meanwhile, I’ve spent the entire day working in the city and want nothing more than to find a movie, curl up with my cat, then pass out.
No other choice, I follow her to the elevator where she punches the down arrow and pats my hand. “We have chicken schnitzel, pita chips, and hummus.”
For a long time, I’ve suspected Mrs. F of using my spare key to assess the sad state of my refrigerator. On tonight’s menu? A peanut butter fluff sandwich on a stale hamburger bun, and a side of carrot sticks.
Outside, the ten seniors camped out in the shade, look up simultaneously. Mid-August, a breeze the temperature of my blow-dryer, comes off the Atlantic, a couple blocks away.
Rabbi Goldman moves aside to give me a seat, and points to the food on the card table. “Help yourself, bubala.”
Stomach growling, I grab a paper plate, two thick slices of pumpernickel, and add the greasy, fried chicken. As an afterthought, because I always try to have a serving of vegetables, I throw on a thick dill pickle. Done, I lower down on the ancient webbing and plastic threads snap. My ass doesn’t drop to the sidewalk and for that, I count my blessings.
“Have you caught any nogoodniks lately?” Mrs. Levi, whose age I estimate around ninety, peers over her turquoise, cats-eye shaped glasses.
Chewing and swallowing, I shake my head, no. “Hyrum says everyone is showing up for their court dates.”
Even as the words exit my mouth, I don’t believe them. A more likely scenario is my buttinsky bounty hunter threatened the bondsman, physically. I’m betting there’ll be no skips until he returns from London.
Mrs. Feinstein sighs. “The poor, poor man.”
The nine others echo her sentiment while I scrunch up my face. Seriously? The man lives rent-free in his mother’s house and loans people money.
When all eyes turn to me, I sigh heavily. “And so, what happened?”
The response comes from a prune-faced woman dressed in a tie-dyed shirt and bell bottoms. “He’s smitten. In love.”
