Carol Clark: Hitched

“Don’t let Joyce hear you talk to Romeo like that,” Francis said sleepily.

“That bird drives me nuts.”

“Lazy bums! Lazy bums!” Romeo chirped with gusto.

Marco got off the couch, lifted the window shade, and peered out. His beat-up gray sedan was parked out front on the street. Joyce had the bottom floor of a two-family house, and there was no room for visitors’ cars in the driveway. Which meant Marco was always having to move his car so he wouldn’t be ticketed. He’d been doing this three mornings a week before 8 A.M. since Christmastime when he showed up for what turned out to be his most prolonged visit. It was only because Francis had broken his leg in a construction accident and was stuck at home until it completely healed that Joyce agreed to let Marco stay. He practically set up camp around the Bernadette Castro sofa bed in the living room.

“I’d go out of my mind sitting here by myself day in and day out,” Francis explained to Joyce more than once. “He keeps me company.” But now that Francis was finally doing well with his physical therapy and hoping to get back to work soon, Marco knew his days at Joyce’s pad were numbered. He had no money and no place to go. That’s why he’d convinced Francis, who he’d nicknamed Linus back in kindergarten when he caught Francis sniffing a security blanket he’d hidden in his assigned cubbyhole, to pull off the job last night with him.

“Come on, Linus!” he’d urged. “That snob Alfred turned his nose up at us at the craps table, won the money that should have been ours, and then had the nerve to give us his business card in case we were ever in the market for his designer wedding dresses after he’d insulted our sweatshirts. When he dropped his keys and didn’t notice, it was a sign from God!”

“I don’t think God had robbery in mind when Alfred dropped his keys!”

“Everything happens for a reason,” Marco had argued passionately. His lean body paced the floor of the living room all week. He was five feet ten inches tall, with olive skin, brown hair and eyes, and a narrow slit for a mouth. “There was a reason we went down to Atlantic City last weekend.”

“To gamble.”

Marco ignored him. “There was a reason we picked Gambler’s Palace. There was a reason Alfred ended up at the same craps table we were. There was a reason he dropped his keys.”

“And the reason he dropped his keys was because his pocket was overflowing when he pulled out his business card.”

“Well, the other reason was so that we could teach him a lesson. He not only gloated about winning all the money that had been ours, but he had the nerve to comment on our clothes.”

“All he said was that he never understood the appeal of sweatshirts in social settings.”

“That hurt my pride,” Marco protested. “He was a pompous jerk.”

“You got back at him when you told him that if his green velvet jacket had four more pockets it would look like a pool table.”

“I don’t feel vindicated. Not only that,” Marco paused, “I’m broke.”

“You’re broke?”

“Practically. If we pull off this job, then I’ll be able to leave here.”

Francis’s ears had perked up. He knew Joyce was getting fed up. He had to get Marco out of her house. But this was resorting to drastic means to hasten his departure. Ultimately swayed by Marco’s relentless nagging, Francis had agreed to take the risk. Even though Marco wasn’t big in the charm department, he could still get Francis to do what he wanted.

And they’d done what Marco wanted last night in the middle of the night. Caught up in the excitement of robbing the salon, Marco had gotten carried away and decided to slash one of the gowns. In the process he’d cut himself. Although he was pleased with the way the dress looked with the drops of blood all over it, now his wrist was really throbbing, and he thought the cut needed stitches. But he was afraid to go to the hospital because going to the hospital meant having to explain what happened. He couldn’t risk it.

“Your car still there?” Francis asked.

“That big old clunker isn’t worth stealing,” Marco answered.

“Unless someone knew those dresses were in the trunk. If you sold those you could get yourself a new Mercedes.”

Marco let go of the shade and turned to look at his friend. They were the same height and weight, but Francis had strawberry blond hair that was starting to recede and the map of Ireland on his face. His pale blue eyes looked a little worried. He’d never done anything like this before. In high school, Marco had convinced him to swipe food from the school cafeteria, and they’d taken a few cars for joyrides, but nothing as serious or premeditated as this. It made Francis wonder what else Marco had pulled off in his travels around the country.

“We have to be careful, Marco,” Francis continued. “I don’t want to get in trouble.”

“You’re so chicken! You’ve been worried about trouble since we were five years old. Thanks to me we have twenty thousand dollars, some gaudy jewelry that we can hock in Atlantic City, and four valuable designer gowns. And we put a man who dishonored us in his place. It was a good night’s work.”

“If we get caught, Joyce will kill me. Your blood is all over that dress. They can do DNA testing, you know.”

“We won’t get caught. I’ve never been arrested so they don’t have my DNA on file. I say we go to Atlantic City tonight and celebrate.”

“That’s too dangerous.”

“Dangerous? What are you talking about?”

“If Alfred realizes he lost his keys in Atlantic City, they might start looking for us there. You know, they say criminals often return to the scene of the crime.”

“The scene of the crime was his loft in Manhattan.”

“But we stole his keys in Atlantic City. And what do I tell Joyce? It’s Saturday night again.”

“Tell her to go out with her girlfriends.”

Marco picked up the remote control off the coffee table and flicked on the television. NY1 reporter Kristen Shaughnessy was at the anchor desk.

“This just in. Spring is wedding season and brides all over the tristate area are making preparations for their big day. But a few brides showed up this morning to pick up their dresses at Alfred and Charisse’s Coutures in downtown Manhattan and were shocked to learn that the salon had been broken into and four dresses were stolen…”

Francis sat up quickly, clutching the ratty blanket he’d owned since grade school, while Marco stared at the screen.

“The thieves left one dress behind, which they did their best to destroy. The robbers took the time to slash the gown to ribbons, and it appears that one of them may have cut himself. Blood was spilled on the front of the dress. The NYPD Crime Lab will be checking it for DNA. The owner of that dress, Brianne Barth, is not happy.”

The newscast cut to a clip of Brianne staring into the camera. “Mark my words. If I find out who did this, they’ll regret the day they were born.”

“Them’s fightin’ words,” Kristen said in a voiceover. “I can’t say I blame her. The designers are not happy, either.” The image of Alfred and Charisse filled the screen.

“I’m shocked that anyone could stoop so low as to try and deprive our April Brides of their gorgeous gowns. But we won’t let them!” Alfred declared. “Regan Reilly is going to help us get them back! Right, Regan?”

The camera turned to Regan. “We’re going to do everything we can,” Regan replied in a serious tone. “Thieves often make one stupid mistake that trips them up. If that’s the case here, we’ll find out what it is and make sure the culprits land behind bars. Where they belong.”

Marco stared at the screen. “We didn’t make any stupid mistakes, Regan Reilly!”