James Swain - Take Down

Mags stared right back at him. The years had been kind, and she was still as pretty as a magazine cover. She knew she’d been made, yet didn’t seem to be terribly upset. It made him dig her that much more.

He’d been in love with her for as long as he could remember. Whenever he had sex, he imagined it was the magnificent Maggie Flynn that he was inside of. It was his fantasy, and so far, it hadn’t gotten old.

Kismet, fate, whatever the hell you wanted to call it, they were together again. He was not going to let her go this time, at least not if he could help it.

“I guess you don’t remember me,” he said.

Mags ground her cigarette into the pavement. “Holy shit. You’re the paperboy.”

He’d been hawking the Providence Journal in front of DelSesto’s Bakery on DePasquale Square when Mags’s sputtering Toyota had kissed the curb. Irish hot and exquisitely dressed, she could have been your best friend’s gorgeous sister, but in fact was a thief. The proof was the stacks of Yves Saint Laurent apparel boxes in the backseat. The easy narrative said she worked the floor at Macy’s and had swiped the clothes when her boss was on break.

“Hey, cutie, want to make some money?” she asked.

“You talking to me?” he said.

“Who else would I be talking to?”

“How much?”

“Fifty bucks for a half hour’s work.”

He threw a plastic sheet over his papers and hopped in. She hooked him no differently than the mythical Greek sirens who lured lovesick sailors to shipwreck on the rocky coast of their island, and they floated down the uneven road as if riding upon a magic carpet.

She explained the deal. The boxes contained knockoff cashmere sweaters made out of fiberglass, cost zilch to manufacture. Folded nice and pretty, each had an impressive gold-foiled guarantee that read “Made in Ireland.” Just don’t light a cigarette near them, or they’ll blow up. His job was to hold the boxes and keep his mouth shut while Mags gave her spiel.

They pulled into a construction site on Federal Hill, and Mags quickly gathered a crowd. It was the most amazing thing he’d ever seen. The construction workers shoved money into her hands without a second thought. Most didn’t know what they were buying, just that it was hot, and they had to have one. Every line that came out of her mouth was designed to separate them from their hard-earned dough. Soon all the sweaters were sold.

They hit it off, and Mags sprang for a chocolate shake at the Mickey D’s on Broad Street. They sat in her car while she sucked on a Kool. He tried to drag every piece of information about hustling out of her that he could. Finally she had enough of his questions.

“I’ve got to beat it. You take care of yourself,” she said.

“Take me with you. We’ll make lots of money.”

“You’re a sharp kid. Do yourself a favor, go to college.”

“You sound like my old man. He wants me to go to MIT.”

“Do as he says. Father knows best.”

“This is better. I like you. I think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.”

She smiled dreamily. Leaning forward, her lips brushed his, became a lingering kiss. Her breath tasted like a menthol cigarette. For the rest of his life, the smell would turn him on.

She pulled away, lit up a fresh cigarette. She was all business now. Whatever had passed between them was gone.

“You really want to fleece people?” she asked.

Billy didn’t know if he wanted to fleece people or not. What he knew was that he wanted to make lots of money, wear fancy clothes, live in a beautiful house, drive an exotic sports car, date great-looking women, and he didn’t want to spend thirty years getting there.

“Where do I sign up?” he said.

“Sherwood Manufacturing on 75 Eagle Street. There’s no sign. Just go upstairs and bang on the door. A black guy will come out. Tell him you want to speak to Lou Profaci.”

“Who’s he? What do they do?”

“Lou owns the place. They make knockoffs that street hustlers sell to suckers. The big movers are the fake sweaters and counterfeit Rolex watches called one-lungers. The watches last about a week before falling apart, even though there’s a lifetime guarantee on the box. Lou will pair you with a pro, and you’ll learn the ropes before he turns you out. In six months, you’ll be making a grand a week easy.”

“Turn me out where?”

“On the street. Every street hustler in Providence rents his turf from Lou. Some guys work the malls, others the train stations; my turf is the construction sites.”

“Can he teach me how to cheat at cards and dice? My old man won’t.”

“Sure. Lou knows all the angles. Now, let me go.”

He slurped down the last of his shake. It washed away the taste of her kiss but not the euphoric rush that had gone with it. She had opened his eyes to so many things; letting go wasn’t going to be easy. “Eagle Street’s on the other side of town, isn’t it?”

“Sure is.”

“Lou Profaci.”

“That’s the man’s name.”

“You sure he’ll do it?”

She reached across the seat and tousled his curly hair.

“Just tell him Maggie Flynn sent you,” she said.

“That’s right. I’m the paperboy. Let me buy you a drink,” Billy said.

Mags knew better than to set foot back inside Galaxy. She shook her head.

“You’ve got nothing to worry about. They grabbed another blond,” he said.

“What’s that supposed to mean? I’m not a blond.”

“You were back inside the casino.”

“I think you’ve got me mixed up with someone else.”

“I saw you at the table painting the cards.” He held up four fingers and wiggled them playfully. “Your chops are outstanding.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You have a can of daub in your purse. You were sitting at third base, painting the ten-valued cards. A guy in the surveillance room made you, so the casino sent me to take a look.”

Fear crept into the corners of her eyes. “You work for the casino?”

“I’m doing a job for them. Now, let me buy you a drink. I’ve got a business proposition to discuss with you.”

“A business proposition.”

“That’s right. One that involves making lots of money. Does that sound appealing?”

Mags looked confused and a little scared. She hadn’t figured out what Billy’s deal was and didn’t know if he was friend or foe.

“You’re not going to bust me?” she asked.

“Hell no,” he said.

She glanced furtively at the valet stand, as if weighing an all-or-nothing dash down the sidewalk to the Strip. Taking her arm, he steered her toward the entrance.

“You’re safe with me,” he said.

He found a bar off the lobby with TVs showing mindless sporting events whose outcomes only bookies cared about, and steered Mags to a corner table where they could talk in private. She fired up another cigarette after they sat down, and he detected a slight tremble in her fingers. She was doing a good job of hiding her emotions. For all she knew, Billy was working undercover with the gaming board and could make her life miserable in so many ways.

A waitress dolled up like Marilyn Monroe took their drink order. The hotel’s celebrity theme was wearing thin and in a few months would probably get scrapped, the employees forced to wear the same tired uniforms that every casino in town made their employees wear.

“Your name is Billy, isn’t it,” she said.

“You’ve got a good memory. It’s Billy Cunningham.”

“What’s mine?”

“Maggie Flynn. Your friends call you Mags.”