Misses Carmichael's Retirement

With the media, we have pictures painted in our heads. Society reflects its desires on us like a twisted circus mirror. We make assumptions based on expectation.

So when we think of lawbreakers, there’s an image already formed: the bad guy in the movies. Big. Mean. Sunglasses. Tattoos. Chains. A mysterious scar across his face. The cliché list goes on.

In the bar, a mist of cigar smoke makes the whole room hazy. The fog of good times—and regrets—to come. Poker chips crunch in the hungry hands of their masters. Dice roll with great anticipation. Laughter echoes. So does shouting—joyous, violent, unpredictable.

And me? I’m the exact opposite.

No one suspects a thing.

They don’t even look. Better yet—I'm invisible.

I blend into the background, right along with the cigar smoke.

I got where I am today for one good reason: life has not been kind to me.

One gloomy day—yet another day of self-pity—I realized something: I have the power to turn it all around. Working hard got me nowhere. It left me penniless, living off the mercy of others. The walls were closing in, and the future was bleak. Work till death, they said. Starve quietly, they meant.

Well, not anymore. I’m not life’s slave.

Now I’m just an old lady drinking her piña colada in peace at the gambling house.

I used to clean dishes. Now, I clean the money of this fine establishment.

The thought makes me smile. I take a slow sip of my piña colada while the customers throw their money away—and toward me. Charity, if you will. They’re so generous. And it’s not like I forced them to come.

The cards unfold on the green velvet table like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon. My heart gives a tiny flutter.

Royal flush.

“Congratulations, Misses Winchester—you won!”

“Oh my!” I beam, surprised alongside our other players.

The law of the universe is simple: survival of the fittest. And in the casino, just like in life—the house always wins.

Joey, years younger than me, knows the drill. We don’t need to speak. We have an unspoken language. He knows what doors to open and what doors to close. I play my part, acting clueless when I take the cards. Emotionless as I slide in the marked ones. Always looking surprised when I win.

The other players’ shoulders slump. They slink away to other tables, crossing the jungle of patterned carpet, off to find their next prey.

“Have a nice night, young man!”

“Thank you, ma’am—you as well.”

Owners of establishments never play along in their own games. That’s the rule. But here, it makes things far more interesting.

I’m not working every day anymore—I’m enjoying every day.

It’s 9 p.m., nearly bedtime. I go into the ladies' room to change.

The lights are bright—too bright—and the mirrors show every wrinkle. Stupid mirror. I’ve made peace with being old. There’s no shame in that. Though, I still prefer "young at heart."

Closing the stall door behind me, I flip around my reversible coat. From black fluff to cream suede. Off comes the dirty blond bob wig. My short, spiky grey hair bounces free.

In the marble bathroom, under Italian taps standing like guards, I take one good look in the mirror.

Always unseen for so many years. Still not seen. But now? I like it that way.

Misses Winchester walks into the bathroom.

Misses Carmichael walks out.

No one’s the wiser.

Joey glances in my direction, but he knows better than to wave. He simply lowers his head toward the table—a quiet salute. We could’ve been spies in another life.

I take my seat at the bar.

“Good evening, Cathleen. Can I get your usual?” Mickey asks.

“Yes, please, Mickey. That would be wonderful.”

He turns toward the mirrored shelves lined with bottles of every poison imaginable. The other bartenders swirl bottles like witches crafting potions.

At the edge of the bar, a group of stunning girls stands in a row, radiating youth, sporting their beauty like a badge. They glance in my direction but quickly look away, almost embarrassed for me—the old woman at the bar.

I clear my throat and shake off the tiny sting of inadequacy.

Mickey notices.

“Hey, Cathleen—you have something they don’t.”

“And what’s that, dear Mickey?”

He leans in, peers over his glasses. “A brain.”

I nod, smiling. “That’s one thing you at least get over the years.”

“What a blessing,” he says, then turns to help another customer.

Glass in hand, I walk to the elevator and press the button.

As the doors start to close, a man slides his hand between them and steps in.

“Almost missed it.”

He doesn’t press a button. He just stands there, hands folded in front of him.

“So… are you Misses Cathleen Carmichael?”

I swirl the ice in my glass and suck gently on my bottom lip. Leaning back against the elevator wall, I steady myself and try to look casual.

“Well, that depends. Who’s asking?”

“The FBI,” he says proudly, straightening his suit.

The elevator chimes. Doors open.

Of course. It had to happen eventually.

We’ve been careful over the years. But the only thing that never changes is that things always change.

“Are you here for my cocktail recipes?” I ask.

He chuckles. “Not quite.”

“We’ve been picking up signs of what’s going on here.”

“Care to elaborate?”

I walk down the hallway, him following a few steps behind. I’m tired now. Opening the door to my room, I gesture for him to come in.

“Why, thank you, Misses Carmichael,” he says as he steps into my suite.

I walk over to the desk and take my seat—queen of the castle.

He sits across from me. “We’ve been picking up on money laundering.”

“Mmm…”

I could shoot him. I’ve considered worse. But shooting an FBI agent is not ideal.

Instead, I turn to look out over the casino. From here, I can see everything—every table, every customer, every employee. They pay the bills. They built this empire.

It’s been a good few years.

“All good things come to an end,” I say. “At least promise me you’ll put me away for a while. I don’t want to build this from the ground up again. So, let’s get it over with. Arrest me already. Read me my rights. Or whatever.”

“Uhhh… well…” He looks startled. Shuffles some papers. Unsure what to say.

“Oh? Too scared to arrest an old lady?” I smirk. “Don’t worry—if I bite, my teeth will fall right out!”

He chokes back a laugh.

“Miss Carmichael… we were thinking more along the lines of help us, and we help you. There will be no arresting.”

“Oh?”

“You do cause some trouble, sure. But nearly a quarter of your customers are involved in shady dealings or are dangerous people. So we were hoping—” he pauses, leans forward “—you might want to become our informant.”

I lean back, letting out a dry laugh.

“Never saw that one coming…”

I gaze out over the casino floor. My kingdom. My subjects. My secret.

Looks like the queen will rule another day.

“Well, that was never on my bucket list… but oh well. Bring on the exciting life of retirement.”

I down the rest of my chamomile iced tea with vodka and offer the FBI agent a whiskey.

We toast. The queen and the fed.

And once again, life has taken a turn.

Expect the unexpected.

And always, always expect this old lady to somehow swindle the FBI.