In for a Penny

Two deep breaths. I’ve done this loads of times already. Binder on the chest. Suit and tie too long for my torso. I inspect the baggie of coke, and flick it twice because that’s what I’ve seen my new friends do.

I tie a long string around the door lock, and check on all fours to make sure nobody else is in the men’s. The floor stinks of bleach. I get up and exit with the string over the door. I leave my knee-length black skirt and satiny white dress shirt in the stall, along with the baggie. I close the door and give the string a tug. It locks. I throw the tail end over.

I turn to the mirror. Another two deep breaths; one and I’d suffocate, three is for good luck, but two is to create my own fortune. My smile is like a clown’s. My wiry mustache is a limp sausage, exactly like his. I exit the bathroom. 

It’s just gone eleven in the morning, and the buffet bar is untouched, no other customers inside. This won’t take long, so the empty locked stall shouldn’t be suspicious. 

I leave through the back door. The ventilation shaft by my head lets out steam that reeks of grease and vinegar. I stride down the alleyway, stepping over ruptured bin bags while cling film and empty candy packets swirl in the wind. I turn and exit onto the street. From where the undercover police car is sitting around the corner, it’ll look like I’ve exited the Johnson and Johnson’s Lets office building. 

There’s a black Impala parked on the curb opposite. I approach. Sid manually winds down the driver window. He’s sweaty, baking in the sun. 

“Stop checking for where the pigs are,” he grunts.

“I’m not,” I say.

“Your eyes betray you.”

“So do yours.” He’s looking me up and down. It hurts. “So I guess this is goodbye, huh?” I lean against the open window.

He raises an eyebrow. He’s gaunt, eye bags only half-concealed by black eyeshadow and nail polish chipped like he’s just hand-dug a grave. His mouth always tastes of cigarette. 

“If you stand there too long,” he says, “they’ll get double-suspicious.”

“What’s ‘double’-suspicious supposed to mean?”

“You think they’ve never caught a framing in action?”

I sigh. I pretend to hand him something, and he passes me the cash constricted in elastic band. I put it in my pocket. 

“How long do I have?” I ask.

He drums the steering wheel. “I can give you seven minutes.”

“And you’ve definitely cleaned the car?”

“You’re full of silly assumptions today. It ain’t the first time I’ve done this.”

“Right.” I press my lips together. He was burned and twisted into this life by necessity, and he clings to it like it means survival, because it does. I barged my way in due to boredom, and now I’m bolting away at the first sign of danger. Damn the cops. Damn the law. Damn me for ever thinking I could experience something different.

“You’ll be lucky to get thirty seconds if you keep loitering,” he says.

“Thank you, Sid. For everything.” 

He tsks. “I never cursed you because of your lies. We all lie. But fuck you for leaving it all behind.”

There’s nothing I can say to that. I turn around. He winds the window up, and the wheels crunch on stray gravel as he drives off. 

I’m pretty sure I hear another engine rev, further away. I do my best not to look.

I go behind the letting’s agency, and return to the buffet bar. There’s one customer in the corner now, an elderly woman in a dull grey coat, reading the paper with a nicotine patch on her arm. Is that where I’ll be, decades from now? Stuck in my current job, still dining here because it’s cheap, having left behind the taste of cigarette? 

I return to the bathroom, get on all fours, and yank the string down. The door unlocks. I enter, and undress. The binder releases me. I pull myself into the shirt and tights. I button up the white dress shirt, tuck it in. I take off the slicked-back wig, and let my hair, which is the same shade of blonde, fall into a bouncy bob. I run a comb through to ensure it's up to standard. Pads slip in my chest along with the baggie, and I leave the men’s again with the other outfit bundled in my arms, keeping my head down. I’ve learned that strangers don’t care much for what you do, what bathroom you emerge from, so long as you keep your head down. 

On the way back I stuff different pieces of the outfit into different bin bags. The suit stains with curry sauce, chunks of chicken. The wig goes last. I avoid holding it in my hands too long. Nostalgia doesn’t become me. And I only have five minutes left.

I enter through the back door of Johnson and Johnson’s Lets.

“Penny! There you are,” says Taylor. “Boss is after those contracts.”

My accent falls back to its regular rural dips and curves. “Tell him I’ll have it in a moment now.”

“Tell him yourself!”

I head to my desk in silence. The rest of my life will be all about not talking back. But who knows? Once the boss is gone, it’ll open up a power vacuum. Keeping quiet and studious might just work out for me.

The office was dingy when I first started here, and since then it’s only degraded. Dust motes clog the sunlight. The coffee machine sputters, spitting brown on the tie of the intern currently attempting to operate it. All the plants are wilting, frail, wrinkled. I sit at my desktop, and tap keys in nonsense formations for a few seconds, then open the top drawer beside me. It squeaks like a mouse is crushed in the wheels. I take out the contracts, and tap them on the desk to neaten them, then approach the head of the office.

The boss lounges on a cushioned chair. He has cigars on his desk but he never smokes, he just appreciates them as a status symbol. When I first started here, he was posted in the cubicle next to me. We formed an unlikely alliance, pushing to make impossible deals possible, but little had I known he would be so talented at making two people’s work look like one’s.

He prefers to act, of course, as though there’s no history between us. He’s taller than he was then, not that you could tell because he never sits straight. His hair is blonde and slicked back, and his mustache sits like a limp sausage creeping over both sides of his lip. Exactly like mine does– or used to. He barely glances at me as I approach.

At first dressing up as him had been a joke. I sprayed graffiti as this fraudulent, suited-up character, and eventually carried out small-time scams. Until I was picked up by the wrong crowd, or, as it would turn out, the right one. We proceeded to take over the whole west side of–

There’s no point in reminiscing, I remind myself. Two minutes.

I place the papers on his desk. 

“Thank you, Penny,” he says. 

“Clarkson,” I say, and navigate around to his side.

“Hmm?” He quickly closes whatever tab he’d been focused on, but keeps his expression casual, one eyebrow raised, eyes only for the screen.

I lean on the stabbing edge of his desk. “I don’t intend to be drawing up contracts forever, you know?” 

“Hmm,” he says. 

“And listen, we’ve had our past.” I scratch my neck. “You’ve been very impressive, a real inspiration for me.” As my hand travels back down, I stick my fingers between the buttons in my shirt, and extract the baggie, keeping it pressed to my palm so he doesn’t see. “I’m really wondering how I could live up to that.”

I place this hand on his shoulder, and drop it towards his chest pocket. Only, it hits the lip of the pocket, and slaps onto the floor.

My heart hammers. I almost bend down, except me touching him has finally gotten his attention. He looks up at me. His eyes are a dull blue, plastic like kid’s jewellery.

“Do you have any tips?” I keep my voice light. Your eyes betray you, Sid had said. I’m careful to keep staring at the boss’s greasy face to avoid glancing down.

“You’ll never live that down, will you?” he says. “How many coffees must I buy a girl before a few favours are paid off?”

Like the amount he’s raking in where I’m not can be compensated for with a hazelnut latte. I withdraw my hand, cock my head to the side with exaggerated shame. “I don’t mean it like that, Clarkson. I want to learn from you. Help a sister out.”

He grunts. “Thank you for the contracts.” He goes back to staring at his screen, tapping his fingers with definite impatience. He’s performing paying no attention so I’ll go away, which is perfect. I lean down for the baggie.

When I'm halfway, however, Taylor strides over. “You dropped something, boss!” He picks up the baggie. “Here you—” He stops, staring at it.

Yanking it off him will just make me look suspicious. The boss is already staring at the bag, confused. 

There’s only one way out, even if it’s a shaky one. 

Keep it casual. “Yeah,” I say. “I thought I saw something fall out of your pocket.”

“That’s not MINE!” says the boss, so incredulous that if I hadn’t known it wasn’t his, I would’ve been convinced it was. 

I need to ensure the trap sticks. “What was that on your computer, as well?”

“None of your busin-”

Taylor reaches over him, and flicks over to a different window. Women are covered in latex. It’s a film Sid’s in, too. I have to suppress laughter. 

“Excuse me, ma’am,” a voice drawls from near the entrance behind me. “Does a Mr. Jerry Clarkson work here?” I glance. The trenchcoat-clad detectives have chosen the perfect time to arrive. By now they will’ve chased Sid, Sid will’ve stalled for as long as possible but ultimately proven there weren’t even traces of drugs in his car, so they came here convinced this was where the evidence would be. And evidence there is.

An intern leads them our way.

The boss is standing. “You can’t just– A man has a right to privacy–” He waggles a finger at the baggie. “That’s not mine though, that’s just–”

The pair of detectives arrive at his desk. 

“Yes!” Taylor says. “It’s him. I’ve always had suspicions about him.” This is a lie, but in Taylor’s world there’s always a bigger fish to suck up to. He points at the baggie “Look at this. It dropped from his pocket, isn’t that right, Penny?”

I nod like an unassuming bystander.

The detectives pocket the baggie, and take the practically frothing Jerry Clarkson away. He struggles so much they have to cuff him, reading him his rights. Then they’re out the double-doors, which swing back and forth on their hinges as though in applause before settling shut.

There are hushed whispers spreading through the office. Taylor has run off to spread gossip. Without really understanding my own actions, I sit in the still-warm boss’s chair. 

I run my hands over the desk, tap his keyboard. His keys don’t stick down at all. His mouse is Bluetooth, gliding ephemerally as I close his movie. Yet when I look out into the dingy office, I’m hollow.

I also remember that I haven’t planted the cash on him. The cocaine only proves he’s using. The cash dusted with a variety of drugs would mean he’s dealing, which is the crime they suspect him– me– him for. I pad myself down, but the cash isn’t on me. I left it in the other outfit. 

“What are you doing?” Taylor strides back over to the desk with a hand on each hip, as though to imitate the detectives.

“Just… reeling from it all, you know?” I rise slowly. “I think I need a second.” I run towards the back entrance. I don’t have to exaggerate the fact that I’m overwhelmed.

Which pocket it’s in, I don’t remember, so I grab every piece of the outfit. The suit is wet with its stinking curry sauce, and the trousers look like poo is running all down the inside. 

I burst out onto the street, rifling through the pockets, but what can I hope to do? Chase after a car in heels?

By some stroke of divine luck, Sid’s Impala is on the curb. He’s winded down the window. “Penny, I wanted to apologise for–”

“Shut up.” I fumble open the car’s back door, hurl everything inside, and thrust myself onto the seat. I slam the door shut. 

“What is that stink?” he says.

“I didn’t plant the cash on him. Drive after those detectives.” 

“Just shove it in his desk.”

I shake my head. “Taylor saw me sit there. He’ll know.”

“You’re insane if you think I’ll–”

There’s no time. I pick up a bit of the chicken from the suit, rub it on the trouser’s brown juice, and pop it in his mouth. I clamp my hand over it. He’s screaming as he attempts to spit it back out, to no avail. 

“Drive or swallow.”

He mumbles something that sounds like he’ll drive. I take my hand away and the chicken jettisons onto the seat next to him. He continues to spit for a while, then revs the engine. 

“You know the way?” I ask.

“I’ve been to the station too many times to count.”

He’s fast. Little old ladies scowl at us as we swerve and skid through suburbia. I rifle through the clothes, until the cash pops out. How could I have been so stupid? Doesn’t matter now.  

“What’s the plan?” Sid says.

My mind is a frenzy. “Crash into a lamp post in front of them.” 

“What?” 

“They want a reason to take you in, this is their excuse.”

“You know I don’t want to go to jail, right?”

“Then you run. Can you outpace a couple of pigs?”

I’ve hit his pride. “Of course I can.”

“Then, when you’ve got them distracted, I’ll throw the cash in the car. Clarkson will have his stories, but they won’t believe him.”

Something changes in Sid’s expression. He’s smiling at me through the rear-view mirror. 

“What?” I say. 

He shakes his head. “I’m gonna miss your crazy schemes.”

I grin, looking out at the blur of houses. There’s a pang in my chest even through the adrenaline. “I will, too.”

There’s the detectives. The Impala accelerates. I shut my eyes, click on my seatbelt. There’s a bang. I rock forward. My chest aches with the force. When I open my eyes, Sid is wrestling against an airbag. He stumbles out of the Impala, waits just long enough to be seen, then sprints. The undercover police car halts. The detectives get out, lock their car, and start running in my direction. 

I unclip the seatbelt, and sway in my step as I leave the Impala. “I don’t know who that man is,” I say. “He said he was going to give me a lift home, and then–”

It’s clear the detectives are in a hurry, even as one of them grabs my shoulders so I don’t fall. “Are you okay to call a hospital, ma’am?”

I nod, lean into him, take his car keys, and clench a fist around them so they don’t jingle.

“Stay safe,” he says, and they take off again. 

I watch them to make sure they don’t turn around, then take the cash, and head to their car. My boss is rubbing his forehead with his knuckles, and doesn’t notice me until I press the unlock button. Then he stares at me like a furious neutered hound in its cage. 

I open the front door. 

“Why the hell are you following me?”

I go to chuck him the cash, but there’s a voice beside me, and I freeze. Except, it’s not a person. It’s the police radio. 

“Come in!” it says. “I swear to god, if we lose this guy again I’ll– He’ll be in the papers when he’s caught! Westside Wonder behind bars. We’ll be famous.”

I glare at my scowling boss. This guy will be the Wonder? He takes all the promotions at work, and now in the criminal circle, too? There’s no part of my life he doesn’t rend the credit from. 

I'm gonna miss your crazy schemes.

I shut the car door, lock it. My boss yells at me incoherently. I sprint back to the crashed Impala, take the outfit, and change in a frantic whirl, not bothering with the binder, the mustache only half-attached to my face. I rush back to the detective’s car as I wrestle on the sleeves. This time I open the back door.

“How would you like to go free?” I say.

“I– Uh–” Anger is replaced with confusion as he notices my outfit. “I–”

“Consider it another thing to buy me coffee for. Now run.” 

He doesn’t question me any further. He drags himself out of the car, in cuffs and all, and waddles down the road in the opposite direction from the detectives.

I look at myself. How to explain the food waste juices?

I hurry to the nearest bin, knock it over, and rupture some of the bags. I then trip into them. The detectives come running back. I glance up. No Sid. He’s slippery. I smile. 

Two deep breaths. I’m going to jail. I’m going to feature in the papers. And who knows? Give it a couple years and some good behaviour, and I’ll be out to make more of my own fortune.