I hold my empty tray just above my shoulder and wander through the ballroom. It’s another Saturday night in Raleigh and yet another fundraiser where hundreds of items are being auctioned off. Tonight these tux- and ballgown-clad people are here to support the local opera guild.
A man in his fifties appears in front of me, and he stares at my chest a lot longer than necessary if he’s just trying to read the name on my name tag.
“Susan, any chance I can get a Macallan on ice?” he asks.
“Sure thing, Mr. Fuller. What’s your member number?”
He’s not surprised that I knew his name, and he rattles off the five digits, even though I already know it.
I take two more orders before I get to the bar, then spend the next ten minutes hunting each member down to deliver their drink. Some patronsI recognize as regulars. They are here for some function or another every weekend. But quite a few are new to me.
I’ve had this gig for a few months, and it’s been more financially beneficial than I thought it would be. Earlier today, after everything was set up and ready to go for tonight, I added a scanner to one of the credit card machines. When the guests pay for the overpriced items they bought, I’ll get a copy of every credit card name, number, and expiration date.
The scanner was expensive, and I’m hoping after tonight I’ll be able to afford an additional one.
The trick is to hold on to that data for a bit. It won’t do me any good if the club is alerted by a bunch of members that their credit card was stolen tonight and then they look closer into who was here. As Mama used to say:The pig gets fat but the hog gets slaughtered.No, I’ll use those credit cards here and there in small increments a few weeks from now. Not enough to raise a flag or question the transaction right away. With so many numbers at my disposal, those insignificant amounts add up pretty quick.
“The all-inclusive trip for four to Cabo is sold to Mrs. Rollins for thirteen thousand five hundred dollars!” the MC announces over the mic, then slams the gavel down on the podium. Cheers erupt through the crowd.
Yeah, not going to feel bad about this one.
The band cranks up as soon as the last auction item is sold. The line to check out wraps along the back wall of the ballroom and the waitstaff jump into action so that any member stuck waiting in line doesn’t want for anything. I even hold a few places while they excuse themselves to go to the restroom.
As the evening starts to wind down, I stick close to the organizers’ table so I can retrieve the scanner.
“Can I be of service?” I ask the woman in charge as her team starts breaking down their area.
“Yes! We could use all the help we can get!” she says, a little overexcited. She reaches over and squeezes my arm in what is probably meant to be aThank god you’re hereway, but I get a ping in my gut that makes me straighten my spine and survey the scene with a critical eye. Something feels off. I start loading the leftover programs into boxes, then stack them on the cart they will use to transport everything to the parking lot while I keep an eye on everyone else. It seems the same as any other weekend, and I swallow my apprehension. Waiting until they are distracted, I move to the credit card machine and pick it up quickly, popping the scanner out in one swift move.
“What’s in your hand?” a voice behind me asks.
A cold chill settles over me. Spinning around, I hold both hands out, the machine in one and the small scanner piece in the other. “I’m so sorry. You can take it out of my pay. I didn’t realize how fragile it was when I picked it up.”
I offer both pieces to my manager, then look him in the eye. I can tell he’s a little thrown for a second or two, but then seems to pull himself back together.
“You can cut the wide-eyed innocent look. We know what you’ve done. Stealing from our members and their guests.” Mr. Sullivan yanks the pieces out of my hands and thrusts them toward the pair of uniformed officers who have appeared at his side. But neither officer takes the device. The one closest to him offers a big plastic bag for Mr. Sullivan to drop the evidence into instead.
My forehead is creased in confusion. My lower jaw hangs open just enough.
There are a few members still loitering around the room, and my interaction with the cops has caught their attention, which causes them to move closer. My mind is racing. I’m thinking about my laptop and modem hiding under the dessert table just a few feet away from where we’re standing. The cleaning crew is only minutes away from pulling the tablecloth off and exposing it.
I hold both my hands up, palms out toward Mr. Sullivan. “Wait. You think I have been stealing from people? With that black plastic thing?” My voice is soft and breaks on a few words, as if I’m too choked up to get them out whole. I turn toward the officers, reading their name badges quickly. “Officer Ford, I was only trying to help clean up!” Tears gather in my eyes until a big fat one spills over. I just need a moment to grab my stuff and get out of here. I can’t let them take me in. I’m employed under a fake name and social security number that won’t hold up under any type of scrutiny. I need to disappear.
Mr. Sullivan turns to Officer Williams, since Officer Ford seems like he’s willing to believe me. “I want her out of here. Now.”
Williams nods but pulls a small notebook from his back pocket. “Of course, but I’m going to have to get a little information before we go.” He points to a chair beside the table and indicates that I should take a seat. I consider running for about three seconds, but without my laptop I won’t get far.
I settle in and scan the room, taking in every face still present, while Williams speaks with the organizers and Ford stands next to him.
“Can you tell me how you determined there was a problem with one of the machines?” Williams asks the woman who squeezed my arm earlier.
“Of course,” she says, beaming. “We ran a card earlier in the evening and when we pulled it out, we noticed that black piece came out with the card. After looking at the other machines, we discovered it was an addition made only to this machine, and that made us question what it was. We brought it to the attention of Mr. Sullivan, and we determined it was one of those scanner things. We didn’t use that machine again.”
He’s writing everything down. “Can you tell me which one of you was working the machine in question?”
A short blond woman nearby raises her hand. “It was me,” she says, then throws me an apologetic look, like she feels bad she played a part in my getting busted.
Williams takes her name and asks question after question.
