She picked up one stack, her breath coming faster, and counted it. Then another stack. A third. The first had thirty, the second twenty-eight, the third, thirty-three. Non-sequentially numbered.
She did some fast math. A hundred and twenty stacks, say thirty bills in each stack on average.
Three million six hundred thousand dollars.
Oh, man!
What was St. Johns doing with this much cash under his bed?
Darla stared at the cash. If she took one or two bills from each stack, he might not even notice! She could take a hundred thousand, two hundred thousand, and unless he did a count, he wouldn’t be able to tell. And even if he did that, she was pretty sure this wasn’t money he wanted anybody to know about-it had the smell of something not quite legal…
Of course, she couldn’t just walk into a bank and plunk down a couple hundred-thousand-dollar bills and expect that to fly without raising questions; but Harry knew people who could move big notes without batting an eye and he’d take ten or fifteen percent, no more than that…
Two bills from each stack. Two hunded and forty thousand dollars, she could give Harry the two-carat blue- white for his cut and-no, she decided, she’d put all that back. No point in risking this much for petty cash. With two hundred grand in her pocket, she could take a long damn time before she had to make another score.
Yes. That’s how she would do it. Put the coins and gems back, pack a quarter of a million into her pockets-no more carrying it in purses, thank you very much-and walk away with a big smile under her Glamour…
Darla drove toward her place, using a long and winding route, to make sure she wasn’t followed. She was almost home when she heard the sound of a police siren. She looked into the rearview mirror and saw a plain, tan Crown-Victoria with a blue light flashing on the dashboard behind her.
“Oh, shit!” she said. An icy wave washed over her, as if she’d been drenched in liquid nitrogen, turning her stiff with fear.
She pulled to the curb. This wasn’t a traffic stop.
A tall, heavyset, balding man alighted from the car. He wore a cheap, badly wrinkled suit and brown shoes, and a tie that failed to reach his belt. Might as well have had a neon sign over his head flashing out the word “Cop!”
He walked to her driver’s door.
“Would you step out of the car, please?”
“What’s the trouble? Was I speeding?”
“No, lady, I’m a detective, I don’t do traffic tickets. Out here, please, and keep your hands where I can see them.”
Dead. She was dead. She had considered it over the years, what she would do if she was ever caught, but it had never seemed real to her, it had been so theoretical.
What was she going to do?
The Glamour.
Of course! In her panicked fear, she had forgotten she had a perfect weapon. She’d touch him, and when the moment was right, she’d distract him, change, and that would be that!
The woman? she’d say, when he turned around and saw an old man there, She went that way, she was running!
Okay, she’d be okay, she could do this. He’d have to pat her down, and that would be enough, his hands on her would be fine. A touch was a touch.
“Over on the sidewalk, please,” he said.
She obeyed.
“What did I do?” she asked.
“You don’t need me to tell you that. Step in there, please.”
He pointed to a gate that lead to what looked like a small garden.
“Excuse me?”
“We don’t want to do this out here.”
“Do what out here?!”
The panic she’d felt came back. What was going on?
“Open the gate, please.”
She did. He shut the wrought iron behind them. “Wow, look at that,” he said.
She turned. “Wh-what?”
When she turned back to look at the cop he was gone.
In his place was an old woman.
Darla frowned. She knew this woman from somewere… ah, it was the old lady on the MAX train…
“Or this?” the old woman said, in a decidedly masculine voice.
The woman shimmered, and of a moment, Darla found herself looking at the cab driver who had taken her home from St. Johns-
And then, like a strobe light blinking on and off, the cab driver became the teenager who had stolen her purse, the good-looking guy she’d seen in Starbucks, and finally, St. Johns.
Blink, blink, blink.
Darla was too stunned to speak.
“Are we having fun yet?” he said.
She realized her mouth was open. She closed it.
He chuckled. “Sorry. I couldn’t resist.”
The meaning of it hit her. “You-you’re like me,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Yep. What you see isn’t what you get, necessarily.”
He laughed again. “I don’t rob houses, my ambition is a little bigger than that, but I do okay. As you noticed when you spotted my cash box.
“How much did you take, by the way?”
“Two bills from each stack.”
“Smart. I like bright women.”
“Why are you-what-?”
“Well, I’ve been watching you for a while, Darla. Far as I can tell you and I are the only two of our kind. I’d propose a… partnership.”
“Partnership?”
“Well. More than that, maybe. I mean, you are gorgeous and careful and clever, but there there are some advantages to what we can do together. Between the two of us, we could do bigger and better things than either of us can do alone. Imagine how much easier it would be be if we could be a couple that looked like anybody we wanted?”
She considered it. Yes. That would be something.
“Plus there are some other perks.”
He shimmered and turned into a studly young movie star that Darla much admired.
“Or maybe… this?” He morphed into another young man, this one a match to a well-known rock star.
“We have a world of choice to offer each other, don’t we?” He shimmered again, and reclaimed St. Johns. “Not that I think I would get bored with you as you stand. You are stunning, you know, but you also have a kind of variety to offer no other woman does.”
She smiled back at him. “Even though I stole your money?”
“Because you stole my money. What do you think?”
She found herself nodding. Yes. There was an attraction, no question, and if she got tired of looking at him?
Well, he could fix that in an instant.
Because nobody was immune to Glamour…
