A thief and a prostitute
walk into a bar.
— A Thief Not Telling A Joke
"So, you're my sister," she said.
"Let's grab a booth so we can talk."
"Look, sister, I don't do girls, so..."
"That's not why I'm here. I just want to talk."
"What do you want?"
"I've got a proposal. By the time you're done with your drink, you'll know if you're..."
She downed the whiskey and slammed the empty glass on the bar before I could finish the sentence, but it was just for show.
Didn't matter. I came ready for a challenge.
"Bartender! Another for sis, on me."
"Make it a double," she said.
As we made our way to a booth at the back of the bar, I could tell she was sizing me up.
Good.
It's good to know when somebody doesn't trust you.
It's bad when you think they do and you're wrong.
This girl didn't even trust herself. I could tell.
She was a prostitute, but she hadn't been doing it long. I'd seen her climb out of a few cars, and she looked more dejected every time, as if there was less left of her. Less of her soul. More often than not, she'd approach a car, then turn away. Maybe she just got a bad vibe, but I got the feeling she couldn't go through with it. Or, hell, maybe I'm wrong.
I tried to follow her home one night, but she didn't have one. She was living out of her car.
It made no sense to waste time with small talk, so I hit her with my pitch as soon as her ass hit the seat. She grimaced a little when it did.
"I've got a two-person job that's worth a lot of money. It requires a prostitute and a thief. I know what you are."
She knew I knew, but I needed her to hear me say it.
I said, "I'm a thief."
Don't judge unless you've walked a mile in these shoes, and I know for a fact you haven't. Because I stole them. But not from you. And besides, what I am is better than what she is. Or, hell, maybe it isn't.
I told her I had a a plan. "What I need is a partner. I need someone with your skills."
"With my skills? Fuck off."
"You know men better than they know themselves. That's why I need you. Give me one year and you'll never have to do what you do for money again."
"One year, huh."
"One year or one million dollars, whichever comes first."
"Shit."
"Still listening?"
"Still drinking."
"Good. Here's pictures of five guys. What do you see?"
I laid the photos on the table like a casino dealer slapping down cards.
I showed her the men, one at a time. Funny how a guy in a suit becomes a man, even when he's not. These were not men. They were boys who never grew up. They thought their gender and the privilege of their wealth meant they were entitled to more than the rest of us. Especially us.
Every girl knows, and we learn this at an unacceptably young age, as if to suggest there is any acceptable age to be informed that you have been deemed to be less than, because of biology.
I knew she knew.
She said, "Are those Polaroids?"
"Yeah. Old school."
Always film. Never digital. Leave no trace.
That's how it's done.
"So," I said, "tell me about the guys in these pictures."
I knew she knew. I wanted her to say it.
"Am I supposed to know them?" she asked.
"I'm not asking their names. I'm asking what you see. What kind of guys are they? I know you can tell. You know what they are. Say it."
"They look like bankers," she said. "Or lawyers."
"Worse."
"Well, they're not cops."
"Keep going. Worse."
"Worse than cops? Shit, I don't know. What's worse than that?"
I needed her to say it!
"I guess this jackass looks like one of those... What do you call 'em? Tech-bros."
"They're all tech-bros."
Rich and privileged. And they believe they are entitled.
She said, "Yeah, I knew guys like that back when I was in Chicago."
I pointed at the third photo. "This one's from Chicago."
"I bet he's not," she said. "He looks like he's from Naperville. No. Glencoe. One of the rich suburbs."
That's right. I got her to say it.
"Oh yeah," she said. "He's a fuckin' Glencoe tech-bro."
"Is that a thing?"
"I don't know. I'm just sayin', he looks like a phony. Like old money tryin' to be new. Y'know, the kind of guy that goes into the city to show off, but he doesn't live there. Probably doesn't even work there."
"If you want, he can be first on our list."
"Our list for WHAT?"
"We're gonna rob them all, and they'll never know who did it. They won't even know how it happened."
"Bitch, I'm not robbing anybody."
"You won't. You and me? We're gonna pull off the ultimate magic trick. I'm the magic. You're the trick."
As the words came out of my mouth, I knew it was a shitty thing to say. I didn't care. I had her on the line, but it wasn't time to reel her in yet. She didn't take me seriously. Respect has to be earned. With women, anyway. Men just need to see cleavage. With women, you need to prove something. Doesn't matter what, as long as it's real.
"Let's get out of here. There's a place I want to show you."
"I'm not goin' anywhere with you."
"Yeah, you are. And we're getting drunk."
"And we're going where?"
"We're going somewhere better. Because we both deserve better, and I'm buyin'."