Okra.
— Raisin Fudged
It was late. Claire and I both felt good about our test run with Andre. Our evening with Dave went even better, but our system needed work, and it should have been obvious. Changes needed to be made for the sake of safety.
Also, there was booze.
"To celebrate a job well done, I got something for ya, Claire!" I said with a grin.
"Oh yeah? ...Wait. You got me a fucking..."
"Wrench."
"What the..."
"Keep it by the hot tub, for when you're with a mark. Just in case."
"In case I need to fix a leak with it?!?"
"In case you need to muhfuggin' slug him wid it. A wrench is versatile, yo. A wise man told me that."
"A wise man?"
"OK, a violent man told me that."
"Why a wrench, though?"
"Tradition."
"I don't even know how to process that response, Shay."
"It's a five dollar wrench," I said, as if it mattered. I don't know why. "Oh, and also, Claire?"
"Yeah?"
"New rule. For any text messages about a job, we only communicate in code."
"In code?"
"Yeah. Code. We need a way to talk over texts that only we know. Like, tomorrow. Let's say there's a problem when you're with the mark, and you need to tell me. What would you say?"
"I'm not stupid. I'd be vague."
"I've got a better idea."
My ex, Larry, liked wordplay. And candy. Goobers meant good. Butterscotch meant bullshit. Nerds were just because he was a nerd, but I've gotta give credit where credit is due. That nerd gave me a Goober idea.
"From now on, Claire, here's part of your backstory."
"My backstory?"
"Y'know, random stuff you can tell a guy if it ever comes up. Here's something you can say. You and your sister meet up for grocery runs, because it's boring to shop alone."
"Why would I talk about that?"
"We're gonna use groceries as code words during a job, for text messages. Here's how it works. It's simple. Anything in the produce section is positive. Anything from the bakery means it's a bust. Anything from the ladies' aisle is a code red. Get it? Grapes are Great. Bagels are Bad. Tampons mean There's a Problem. Oh, and alcohol means All Cool, as in, we're done for the day."
"Yougottabefuckingkiddingme."
"Just do it. Produce, Bakery, Aisle 12. And alcohol when we're done."
"Wow."
"If we need to talk while we're doing a job, we can text about groceries and it'll look like nothing if anybody sees it."
"Ooooooh kay."
The next day, Claire headed out to meet the next mark. We were at a hipster coffee shop when I spotted him. "Check out the guy with the laptop. See the sticker that says HODL? That's our guy."
HODL is Bitcoiner slang. "Hold On for Dear Life." In theory, it means they won't sell, no matter what. In reality, it just means they're "Holding," long term.
Hodl is the mark of a great mark.
I figured I'd run some errands when Claire went to meet the mark. She said she'd text me when she had a status update.
Great!
An hour later, I got a text that said:
"Goin for groceries later. Dates. Bananas. Oranges. Maybe grapes."
I assumed that meant the mark was kind of bonkers, probably a right wing wack job, but he might be worth a lot.
All produce. All good.
The system worked.
A little while later, the next text arrived.
"Maybe I'll make a grocery run tomorrow. Gonna hang out with a friend. Wine bar!"
Hey! Wine bar meant we were done for the day. Alcohol. All cool. I knew there'd be times when it would take more than one date for her to get a guy into the hot tub. Not a problem.
Since I wouldn't have to come home to do my part of our key-copy switcheroo, as she called it, I had plenty of time to get supplies for my basement workshop. I also needed to come up with a system for labeling and filing. I already had too many keys, stuffed in too many places, and I didn't want to mix any of them up.
I needed a lamp. A file cabinet with a lock. A typewriter. Paper. Manila envelopes. Pens. Big fat markers. And baggies, though I didn't know why. Let's be honest. I was making it up as I went along.
I was at a used furniture store in Highland when the next text came in.
"Okra."
That was... Odd.
But okra is produce, and produce meant good.
I figured she was toying with me. We were new as a team, so maybe this was just her way of poking me, as if to say, "I think the system is stupid, but I'll play along."
Fine.
I kept shopping.
I found a moderately functional typewriter and a lamp. A funky old gooseneck lamp. Sturdy, metal, adjustable, and I chose to ignore things that last word might remind me o...
"Endive."
Oh, girl. What the fuck.
"Shallots."
More items from the produce department. She was fucking with me. I decided it was fine, so I went to another store to get the rest of the items on my list. Paper. Check. Envelopes. Check. Markers. Check. Baggies. I still didn't know why, but ch...
"Applesauce."
I hated this system. Motherfucking Butterscotch.
"Homemade applesauce."
I found a cheap file cabinet at a hardware store. I had to borrow a truck to get it home. I was halfway back to the house when I got the next text.
"Homemade Tomato Sauce! Raisin Bagels. Raisin Fudgy Baps!"
Shit. Bagels meant bakery. I wondered, "Am I supposed to do something? I don't think so, but we didn't exactly clarify, so..."
...?
I decided to wait.
Produce was good. Bakery's a bust. The girlie aisle was a code red, and she hadn't texted anything from there, so... I lugged the file cabinet into the house and got it down to the basement, which turned out to be a spectacularly bad idea.
Crash! Boom! Bang! It went down the stairs, without me, as more texts scrolled in from Claire.
"Furrge."
Furrge?!?
"FUDGE!"
"COOKIES! CAB!"
"MAXI PADS!"
I had no idea what she was trying to say. Cab, as in cabernet? That's alcohol, which meant all cool, but she'd already given me the all cool hours ago. Is fudge in the bakery? I didn't think so, but cookies are, right?
And... She'd... Reached... Aisle... 12.
As I stared at my phone, wondering what the fuck I was supposed to do, a cab pulled in the driveway. Claire flopped out of it, planting herself on the ground, face down.
"Ohhhrrr gaaahd, ohgod... I just blew my fucking cookies in the cab... goddamn dive bars... I HATE SHOTS. Uuuuhhhrrrgaaahhhd."
I learned three things that day.
First:
My new file cabinet was resilient. It bounced down an entire flight of stairs and took it like a trooper. A little worse for the wear, sure, but who isn't? I named it The Meat Knower, because it's where I filed what to know and where to go, for, y'know.
Second:
Okra meant Oh Crap.
Shallots meant Shots.
Applesauce meant Almost Sauced.
And this?
"Homemade Tomato Sauce! Raisin Fudgy Baps! Maxi Pads!"
That meant: "Oh my. Totally sauced. Really fucking bad. Maximum Problem."
Apparently, baps are Scottish bread rolls, but there is no such thing as a raisin fudge bap, dammit! She was inebriated, so I let it go, though it brings me to the Third Thing I learned that day...
...sigh:
The system needed work.
So far?
Nothin' but Butterscotch.