LEO
“Miss, are you aware that shoplifting is a crime?”
She frowned at my hand on her arm and then at my face, her eyes widening, her lips parting, closing, then parting again.
All with no sound. Or blinking.
If she hadn’t been so goddamn gorgeous, she would have reminded me of a fish gasping for air.
Other midday shoppers filtered around us without a second look, intent on their errands, and, like most New Yorkers, uninterested in anyone else’s business. Even the business of blatant thievery.
Although, it was doubtful the woman who’d just slipped a very expensive evening clutch into her shopping bag had meant to be blatant, but because she was amateurish, she was also blatant. A newbie, to be sure.
Which I found all the more intriguing.
“And, if shoplifting is a crime, then I believe that makes you a criminal.”
This was fun.
Yeah, I was a dick.
“Uh… um… I…”
Poor thing couldn’t even form a sentence.
Which was to be expected.
It probably wasn’t premeditated, her stealing. Hell, she’d probably never ripped off so much as a packet of sugar from a coffee shop, much less something worth hundreds of dollars from Saks Fifth Avenue, the very definition of American luxury shopping.
But here she was today, motivated by something so strong she’d decided to risk it all—her self respect, her pride, and her clean rap sheet.
I couldn’t have found a better mark. I mean, people shoplifted expensive trinkets from upscale stores like Saks all the time, but not many of them would be as stunned as this one was at being caught. Thieves knew they’d be nabbed eventually, right? Or if they didn’t, they should.
And if that were the case, then why was the beauty before me so dumbfounded? Did she think it was easy to walk into a store and steal? If it were, everyone would be doing it. Places like Saks would cease to exist.
Seriously. I had half a mind to ask her.
But that was beside the point.
Not ten minutes earlier, I’d been at the men’s tailor on Saks’ fourth floor, a little slice of heaven for shoppers like myself who spend as much on bespoke suits as some people make in an entire year. Yeah, that’s a douche thing to say, but I work hard for my money, and make no apologies for my spending. I used to go to an old guy down in Little Italy for my clothes, but when I learned my business partners frequented Saks, I decided to patronize the venerable institution, too.
Besides, why go all the way to Lower Manhattan when I could walk a few blocks to one of the most elegant stores in the world and get the same if not better-quality clothing, all delivered with a smile and a blowjob?
I’m not kidding about the blowjob part. Or the smile.
The seamstress I typically got—in my private dressing room, where they would bring you lunch and pretty much anything else you wanted—occasionally offered me a blowie. And I occasionally accepted.
It was just the kind of guy I was.
“Janie,” the head tailor had bellowed when I’d arrived, “please take care of Mr. Borroni. I have to step out.”
We all knew what that meant.
He shrugged. “I know it’s a dirty habit, Leo, but I need my midmorning smoke. If I don’t get it, I may just kill someone. And I’d hate to get blood all over these lovely suits.” Laughing, he rolled down his shirtsleeves without buttoning the cuffs, pulled on his suit jacket, and hustled for the door.
“Be right back,” he called over his shoulder.
And there we were, Janie and I, alone.
She directed me to stand on a little box in front of a three-sided mirror so I could watch her turn my trouser hem from all angles.
“You look real nice today, Mr. Borroni,” she said, measuring and pinning the Italian worsted-wool trousers my personal shopper had chosen.
“Thank you, Janie.” As I watched her work below, I was distracted by the dark roots where her hair parted—an intense contrast to the rest of her apparently dyed red hair.
“Mr. Borroni, we’ll be alone for a good ten minutes or so.”
I never got why New Yorkers—or was it all East Coasters?—repeated your name all the time when talking to you. In the West, or at least Las Vegas, nobody did that.
But I’ll tell you, New Yorkers lost their shit when I told them I was a Vegas native.
“You’re from Vegas? I didn’t know anybody was from Vegas.”
Yeah, yeah. Dumb fucks. But I kept it to myself.
Even when they asked silly questions about the desert, like are the streets covered in sand? and are there rattlesnakes everywhere?
“Mr. Borroni?” Janie ran her fingers up the inside of my thigh, her usual invitation to some adult fun.
Who was I to turn down getting my dick sucked? But just as she reached for the fly on my pants, I took her hand in mine. I just wasn’t feeling it.
“Not today, sweetie. But thanks.”
She shrugged, her perky expression wavering. “Okay, Mr. Borroni. You can try on your next pair of trousers if you like.”
Just then, her boss bustled back in. That was a fast smoke. Thank god I kept my dick in my pants. But on the other hand, would he have cared? Saks was all about service.
He inspected her work as she got going on my next pair. “Good job, Janie. Very good job.”
I wondered if she blew my business partners, too. I’d have to ask the guys when I saw them later that evening.
Janie might have been a good candidate for our game. But the guys would never approve her. She was too jaded. A little world-weary. And that meant predictable. And predictable killed the risk that made betting so exciting and worthwhile.
No, people who loved gambling the way my boys and I did threw wagers on unpredictable things. We needed tension. It got our blood running. Our hearts pounding.
No, Janie wasn’t a good candidate. Or even a mediocre one.
There were better options. Much better. And one or two were probably cruising around Saks at that very moment.
Janie finished and I got redressed.
“Thank you. Excellent work, as always,” I said as I was leaving.
“Our pleasure, Mr. Borroni. We’ll have these delivered within the week,” she called after me.
But I was already halfway out the door. I was done shopping. It bored me as nothing more than a chore that must be taken care of.
Now, it was time to have fun.
* * *
