It was the season for giving, but not for Toby. He was a contrarian. A callous, calculating man who never gave away anything for free—not even a hint of what he might be thinking—for fear he might lose his competitive edge. For him, maintaining a poker face was part of his public persona and not just a useful ploy when playing Texas Hold’em.
As a corollary to his intense dislike for the bestowing of gifts onto others, Toby was not at all a gracious receiver of presents either. He didn’t want to be beholden to anyone. He didn’t want a handout, or a free ride, and he certainly didn’t want to rely on the kindness of strangers.
Toby was all about self-reliance. In his relentless pursuit of an independent lifestyle, he consistently worked the opposite side of the fence from the moral high ground occupied by the majority of decent, law-abiding citizens. In other words, Toby was a crook. He took what he wanted either by stealth or by force.
Wading through a sea of humanity on a crowded city sidewalk, Toby was on high alert. Like a lookout in the crow’s-nest of a pirate ship, he scanned the seemingly-endless waves of faces passing by. His primary concern was spotting any possible threats to his wellbeing, but his predatory skills were so deeply-ingrained he could not help but look for potential victims at the same time. There were no easy targets in view. Representatives of the flotsam and jetsam of urban society were much more likely to come out at night.
The ordinary pedestrians were of no special interest to Toby. Even the obvious tourists among them looked like they’d come to town on bargain tours and were not worth a second glance.
In the distance Toby spotted a standout prospect approaching—a fashionably-dressed buxom woman who was clutching a large handbag.
In his mind’s eye he saw himself snatching her purse, concealing the bulky leather bag under his jacket and then losing himself in the frenetic ebb and flow of foot traffic before cautiously working his way back to his tiny studio apartment where he could examine his plunder at his leisure.
Toby did not act on that impulse for a couple of very good reasons. In the first place his custom designed jumbo money belt was already crammed full of banknotes and secondly his conspicuous holiday attire would have prevented him from blending into the crowd.
As the woman drew ever closer, her desirability as a victim diminished more and more. She was way too alert to be caught off-guard. Her darting eyes gave Toby a quick once over and then she looked right at his face and met his gaze directly before moving out of his line of sight.
Toby shuddered. He felt as though the unknown female somehow or other had seen through the veneer of his disguise. That was impossible, of course, unless she could read criminal intent in his posture.
Although he was good at his chosen profession, Toby had never deluded himself by thinking he was a perfect criminal, nor did he pretend that he had just committed a perfect crime. Too many things had gone wrong.
It wasn’t Toby’s fault. He had had no intention of using violence that day. The by-appointment-only rare coin dealer was entirely to blame. The shopkeeper should not have agreed to a meeting based on Toby’s phony references. After making that initial mistake, the merchant should have been intimidated by the switchblade Toby brandished during the holdup but apparently was too amused by the would-be robber’s costume to notice the bladed weapon. When Toby gave the man a closer look at the knife, he accidentally made a much deeper cut than he’d planned.
Toby’s getaway strategy did not demonstrate any great originality, but to his way of thinking it was inspired. His decision to dress himself in the full regalia of a department store Santa meant he could stride down the sidewalk at a brisk pace as though he were late for work. An added bonus was when his robbery victim bled like a stuck pig, the man’s vital red fluid did not deposit a readily apparent stain on Toby’s suit.
Just when he thought he was home free, however, Toby felt someone brush against his shoulder.
A uniformed police officer, slightly out of breath from running, stepped in front of the man in the Santa suit and motioned for him to move out of the stream of pedestrian traffic.
Toby complied. He waited for the cop to speak first.
“I’m responding to a citizen’s complaint. A pedestrian said she didn’t like your looks.”
“A woman with a big purse?”
“That’s right. You noticed her, did you?”
“Yes, but I didn’t molest her in any way. No matter what she may have told you, Officer, I wasn’t jaywalking, or littering. You have no probable cause for stopping me.”
“What have we here? A jailhouse lawyer?”
“Maybe I have a record, and maybe I don’t. Either way, that doesn’t give you the right to harass me. Don’t you have any serious crimes to investigate?”
“I do,” the officer said. “In fact, a short while ago I received a radio report about a stabbing that took place a couple of blocks from here.”
“You should be on your way then,” Toby said.
“I can only handle one complaint at a time and, right now, I’m concerned with gathering evidence that’s closer at hand. I must say my informant was right on in her description of a detail you may not be aware of. She called it a dead giveaway.”
“What’s that?”
“The blood splatter on your otherwise snow white false beard.”
The policeman cuffed the suspect and read him his rights.
“She only saw me up close for a split second,” Toby said. “How could she identify the pattern that quickly?”
“She’s a natural born crime spotter. It’s a gift.”
“More like a curse,” Toby muttered to himself.
Bio: John H. Dromey was born in northeast Missouri. He’s had short mystery fiction published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Gumshoe Review, The Literary Hatchet, Mysterical-E, Woman’s World (a mini-mystery), and Thrillers, Killers ’n’ Chillers.
Update…
Just a quick update to let writers/readers know that comments are now disabled on future posts.
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