Shimmy Bang Sparkle(6)

“Be careful!” Stella barked over her shoulder, totally unaware that the bastard had just nutted himself. “You break it, you replace it, buddy!”

“Yes, ma’am!” he said, staggering like he was dazed . . . or like getting a shellacking from a woman who looked like her was all he’d ever dreamed of for his entire life.

I couldn’t keep the smile off my face. He was probably twice her weight and a foot taller. He was packing heat in a barely hidden ankle holster, and his balls would probably be aching for days. But she was on a mission, and nothing was going to get in her way.

What mission involved a wheelchair, a toaster, a hat, a cane, that machine, and that huge lamp . . . I had no idea at all. But I was damn sure going to find out, so I put my helmet back on and got ready to throw her into gear.

Together, she and the guard got all the shit loaded into the back seat. The guard hoisted up his pants and closed her door for her. She put her sunglasses on her head and smiled at him. She said something and gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. She peeled out of the parking lot with her hair whipping behind her, while the guard watched her zoom away with his hands over his heart.

And I took off after her.

Again.





3

STELLA

My hands were still shaking. At the stoplight next to Big Ed’s Super Pawn, I wedged my knees under the wheel, grabbed a little box of Nerds from my glove box, dumped the whole thing into my mouth, and tried to calm down. My heart was still banging against my breastbone, and I rubbed my hands on my thighs to dry my sweaty palms. I would never get used to the roller coaster of taking something that didn’t belong to me—the rush and the fear, the excitement and the thrill, the guilt and the justifications. The moment when I shouldn’t be doing this turned into I can do this and then I just did. As I waited for the light to change, I focused on the way the sweet globules crackled between my molars. I counted slowly back from five, took a deep breath that got caught in my throat . . . and dumped another box of Nerds into my mouth.

The light changed, but there was cross traffic stuck in the intersection, and my lane stayed frozen. I reached across the passenger seat and buckled in the Elvis lamp. The air filled with the noise of frustrated horns, but I was grateful to have another moment to myself. I let my head fall against the headrest and let the Nerds dissolve in my mouth as I looked up into the desert sky, pink and yellow with the sunset.

For me, stealing wasn’t about the rush or the thrill. Instead, it was a way to put things right. Stealing jewels was how I punched above my weight and fought back against a world that could be cruel, unkind, and unfair. It was how I bucked the system, with a smile on my face. Stealing gems made me Wonder Woman in jeans and Chuck Taylors.

But even Wonder Woman got jumpy. Hands still trembling, I dug through my purse to find my phone. My purse was like a black hole. As usual, I came up with an apple I hadn’t seen in six weeks, a bunch of smooshed packs of gum that I didn’t remember buying, a fistful of lipsticks, a bottle of Advil, and a huge wad of faded receipts. No phone, though. Of course not.

As I pawed blindly through my bag, I kept my eye on the stoplight. In my side mirror, I caught sight of the handlebar of a motorcycle two cars behind me. The guy was way off toward the center line, and I could just see the edge of a big, manly knee straddling the bike. For a brief and ridiculous instant, the thought of him made my heart bounce up and down like one of those rubber balls attached to a paddle.

It was silliness. The last thing I’d ever needed—or wanted—was a man by my side. Men, and especially a man who looked like that, all hunky and inked and oh-so-very . . .

Stella!

Men were a liability when it came to the fine art of jewel theft. They attracted attention, they took risks, they got greedy. And I couldn’t have some banana-studmuffin biker with bedroom eyes getting close to my racket. Too dangerous. Too cocky. Cock-y.

Oh, for God’s sake.

Pushing away the thoughts of Nick the Hunk, I made my way through the rush hour traffic and signaled to take a left on Habanero Drive. I passed my apartment and pulled into Mr. Bozeman’s driveway, next to his ancient truck with three flat tires and a thick layer of desert dust. I put my Jeep in park and got out, holding the Elvis lamp like we were about to start dancing. I set him down on the gravel drive and wrestled the wheelchair out of my Jeep. Unfolding it, I put the Elvis lamp on the seat. On top of the shade I put Mr. Bozeman’s old Stetson. I got his beloved toaster and his even-more-beloved cuckoo clock. The oxygen compressor was going to require a special trip. In the meantime, though, God knew it wasn’t going to go anywhere, so I wheeled all the rest of Mr. Bozeman’s things toward his front door.

“Stella? Is that you?” His voice was creaky and barely audible above the shell chimes that hung from his front porch. Right on cue, a snout pushed into the drapes, and some paws got tangled up in the fabric too. The snout tried to find an opening but couldn’t. In retaliation, there was the obligatory drapes death-shake, which made them fly apart enough to create a gap. A small brown face then appeared between the sheers. Her eyes barely cleared the windowsill, and one of her ears had gotten flipped inside out. Her name was Priscilla; she was a miniature dachshund and the cutest little banana on the planet.

She didn’t have the best vision, so at first she wore her default I-hate-the-mailman-really-a-lot face. When she realized it was me, she hurled herself off the sill, gave a few excited barks, and smashed her muzzle through the hole in the screen on the front door, the one she’d created by trying to love the world senseless every chance she got.