Sleight of Hand

“No-one can confidently say he will be alive tomorrow.” Euripides

The first time I looked into her eyes I saw an unparalleled energy, a tumultuous vibrancy that held me captive against my will. Who could resist her? Who would want to? It was only my third year in the city, but already I felt like a native. The city with its cobbled alleyways twisting and turning into the distance as rivers through sandstone, the hustle and bustle of the local traders seemed to irritate the floral shirt wearing tourists, but felt familiar to me like a mother’s lullaby and filled me with vigour.

As I sat across the table from her in that stuffy, third-rate diner, I noticed that despite her calm demeanour she obviously had something weighing heavy on her mind. Her unease wasn’t obvious, but the tells were there; the way her voice quivered whenever she raised it above a whisper, the dull scrape of her acrylic nails as they met between her thumb and forefinger and the way she narrowly avoided eye contact on the occasion her late husband’s name crept into conversation. These tells weren’t obvious, but they were there.

I was working as a freelance reporter with the Herald at the time, following up on a story about series of break-ins on the rich-side of town. The dame sitting across from me dressed like a movie star was the latest victim of what other, less reputable papers dubbed the ‘Sleight of hand gang’ on account of their not leaving a single clue at any of the six alleged crime scenes. She was a girl from the wrong side of the tracks made good, I got this information from the profile Jimmy put together back at the office. She was abused by her father, ignored by her junkie mother before finally being handed the reprieve of foster care. At sixteen she ran away to the big city, paying her way with modelling, both legitimate and licentious, but nothing more than a few peep-show shots for bottom of the barrel gentleman’s publications. At nineteen she met and married her late husband, the son of industrial drill magnate Bill Harrington, amid a huge outcry from the social elite citing that she was no more than a gold-digging moll who wasn’t even good enough to grace the pages of the more discerning adult monthlies. Nevertheless, one of the upper-side’s most eligible bachelors married the girl from the lower-side after a whirlwind six-month romance. It was quite the story; even I made a couple of bucks on that one.

They say “a picture paints a thousand words”, my father used to say “a nervous tic writes a novel”, before he was murdered by his bookie for non-payment of debts. A degenerate gambler, my father would take me all over town to whichever underground dive of a casino would give him credit. He used to think by taking his eight year old son he wouldn’t take a beating for defaulting on his debts, he was wrong. My mother never got over the death of my father, me, I’ve made my peace with it. Besides, it taught me a couple of things, you are what you are, a leopard never changes its spots or however you want to gloss over the reality that people don’t change, not even for family.

But there she was, living proof, perhaps people can change. What does it take? Money? As my eyes cast over this Goddess I wondered what price had she paid for the chance to change. Her golden locks flowed effortlessly over her shoulders as the light from the dimly lit diner danced through it like flame taking to kindling. Her face was made up to perfection; she obviously spent a lot of money to look this good. It was worth it. Every man in that backwater diner was thinking ‘how the hell was this nobody with her?’ they were jealous and I’d being lying if said it didn’t feel good. But we hadn’t spoken in five minutes.

At length, she lit up cigarette from a gold carry case; the smoke billowed up slowly before joining the grey pool of stale air above our booth. I swirled the ice around the bottom of my glass.

Her soft rasp broke the silence “why did you agree to meet me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” I replied.

She took a long, steadying drag on her cigarette, “I read that expo you wrote about me a few years back. It was good, untrue, but good” she whispered.

“You read that huh?”

She smiled wryly.

“Listen, I didn’t mean any harm. A writer has to make a living somehow” I sniped in self-defence.

She raised her hand to her ruby lips to suppress her giggle. “Don’t worry, I enjoyed it. Made me feel like a movie star.”

“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so defensive…”

“No need for apologies, Mr. Kite. I, better than most, know what it takes to survive in this city.” She interrupted.

“Thanks. And call me Tom; Mr. Kite makes me sound like a bank manager.”

“Okay, Tom. May we speak frankly?”

“Hey, this is your meeting.” I replied.

“Well then, I need you to look into something for me.” She said before delicately pouring herself another scotch.

“Go on.”

“You are aware I was burgled?”

I nodded.

“I think it had something to do with the death of my husband; the police won’t tell me jack, but I’m convinced.” A certainty was apparent in her voice that wasn’t there a few short minutes ago. She continued “I am a rich woman; I have diamonds and jewellery worth thousands, but none of it was even touched. All that was missing were some files from my husband’s safe. Don’t you think that’s odd?”

She took a sip of her freshly poured drink.