I seemed to have found a niche, I thought, as I worked the lobby of the Marriot. The affair in the ballroom was the Bat Mitzvah of Ms. Jennifer Sandler of Springfield, Massachusetts. It didn’t take long to spot a mark walking towards the bar.
5’3, jet-black hair, curvy. A tiny black dress with a string of pearls around her neck, a yellow and white Bvlgari snake watch, crawling up her right wrist, estimated value, about twenty grand, rings, but no wedding ring. Too bad.
When I got to the bar she was ordering a Tanquery and tonic. I ordered myself a JB on the rocks. “Jewish Booze,” she commented. “Drink up, it’s open bar.” She gave me the big eye, admiring my Brooks Brothers suit, navy with blue and white bead stripe, white shirt, tie and shoes, hesitating ever so briefly on my 18K yellow President Rolex with the diamond dial. I could see the calculator in her brain working, estimating its value. About twelve grand, by the way. Now I knew what I was up against.
She tossed back her drink and headed in the direction of the rest rooms, looking over her shoulder to make sure that I was following her. Her foot was holding the door to the ladies room open when I got there, so I went it.
“Lock it,” she said. I did as I was told. She was against the wall pulling up her dress and moving her panties aside.
“Fuck me,” she said. So I unzipped and banged her against the tile walls.
After we were done, she told me her name was Molly Gold, and asked me mine. “Bill Stein,” I said, as I washed up at the sink.
I watched her as she fumbled in her handbag, pulling out a barrette at the same time separating a box cutter from the rest of the crap in there. Looking in the mirror, she pulled her hair into a bun while I moved in back of her and kissed her neck. She pushed her ass against me.
“Come on. I’ll introduce you. My friends will be so glad that I found a nice Jewish boy.”
“There’s only one problem,” I whispered into her ear. “I’m not nice.” I tightened my arms around her neck and twisted sharply to the left. There was that sickening snap. Her head slumped. Then done. Christ, I thought. I hate when women pigeonhole me.
I dropped her like a hot knish, grabbing the pearl necklace, the Bvlgari and the rings. I looked in her handbag and picked out the box cutter. Primitive, but effective, I thought and tossed it in the direction of the toilet.
I peeked outside the door. The party was in full swing in the main ballroom. I took off for the exit in the opposite direction.
When I got to my BMW, I consulted the local newspapers that I had purchased that morning. I could still make the 4:00 pm in Holyoke. After that I could hop on Route 391 to Interstate 91, work Connecticut and then straight into Bergen County.
It was late March and spring was in the air. A beautiful time for a wedding, I thought.
Paul Greenberg’s crime fiction can be read at Out of the Gutter, All Due Respect and Shotgun Honey. He lives in Beverly, Massachusetts with his wife Sandy and two sons. http://pgreenbergcrime.wordpress.com/