Vodka Sting

He played along, pulling the chain of silk handkerchiefs out steadily while I played it up, focused on the women who'd led the rain of money.

"Right there...there...oh yeah, right there...There...almost..."

He stopped for a second as the handkerchiefs suddenly stopped coming. Because I'd pushed my hip against the bollard, pinning the end.

I rolled my eyes dramatically and panted. "Just a little harder!"

He pulled and I let it go with the loudest squeal I could muster. His arm went straight up with the end of the chain of handkerchiefs, displaying the red lace thong at the end.

With a dramatic sigh, I crossed my eyes, stuck the tongue out of the corner of my mouth and melted down in a classic boneless comic faint, ending on my back with a huge grin, pretending to try to hold my beating heart into my chest in one hand with my other hand draped dramatically across my eyes. "Does anyone have a cigarette?"

The crowd exploded in laughter, louder than I heard since the circus closed. It was that breathtaking rush I'd always loved. I closed my eyes and just let it all wash over me until it faded and the cop nudged me. I let my eyes flutter open. "Hello?"

He looked down at me, with an amused look in his eyes. "Okay, you've had your fun." He glanced over at the tip hat. "And made a lot of money."

I gave a helpless shrug and reached my hand up to let him pull me to my feet. "Sorry, but there was no way I could pass that up."

The crowd was already thinning as people realized the show was pretty much over.

He smiled a little and shook his head. "Helluva way to make a living."

"Me or you? I'm not the one searching clowns on a Friday night, you know."

"Both." He chuckled. A nice warm low chuckle.

His partner wandered over. "Boris over there says he'll drop the assault charge if she forgets about his attempted misappropriation of funds."

I didn't have to think about it long. There was a lot of money in the hat, it'd probably be enough to make rent. I couldn't use it for rent if I had to use it to make bail though. Or pay a fine. "That works for me."

Björn and his partner nodded to each other and the partner wandered back to where Boris was waiting for him. Björn's partner was apparently a little more risk-averse than he was; Boris was still in cuffs.

"Rather not do the paperwork on this one. You'd both get fined and I'd spend all evening doing paperwork over a five-dollar bill and a bruised nose."

"Thanks." I picked up the tip hat and looked into it and saw more twenty-dollar bills than I'd seen in months.

He shook his head. "Let's not make a habit of this."

"Really? I was thinking you and me could do a matinee on Sunday." I wiggled my eyebrows at him.

"I don't think Boris would cooperate."

I shrugged. "We could get a stand-in mime. Most people can't tell them apart anyway." I finished gathering up my take and rubber-banding it together in neat packs. I saw people looking up as a rumble of thunder managed to break over the sounds of people and cars. I could see them pick up the pace, so there was no point in trying to pull in another few dollars tonight.

"I appreciate it, but I don't think so. Stay out of trouble." He turned and walked over to where his partner was still talking to Boris. The woman in red had it right, that was not a bad view at all; the man definitely didn't skip leg day.

He'd neatly stacked my props, so it was no trouble to get them all pocketed up again. Except for the handkerchief line. That took some work to get packed correctly so I just balled it up and dropped it into one of my larger pockets.

Later, at the apartment, I counted five hundred ninety-three dollars and thirty-seven cents. That was the best take I'd had in a single day, ever. Not crazy sell-the-house-and-move-to-Monaco money, but, damn, I should have seriously tried to get the big cop onboard instead of joking about it.

*****

I checked the counterfeit jeans one last time before I put them on. They looked good and I would be able to switch them out for the real thing as long as I was careful. It wasn't the highest risk scam. All I had to do was wear them into the ritzy boutique, swap them for a real pair and walk out. Then I'd wear the jeans for a little while, take them to a high-end resale shop and walk out with at least six hundred dollars.

Desperation kept the little bit of guilt I had at bay. I knew I was rationalizing, but insurance would make up the loss, assuming the shop didn't just sell the knockoff anyway. Besides, the same little kid in Malaysia probably made both pair.

It was technically Grand Larceny with the jeans marked to well over two thousand dollars, but if I did get caught, any lawyer, even the public defender, could plead it down to Petty Larceny. For a first-time offense, anyway.

It was illegal, it was shoplifting, but I kept telling myself that it didn't hurt anyone directly and it kept me from doing riskier stuff like three-card or worse yet, buying into the nastier cons. I just wasn't ready to pull Pigeon Drops on little old ladies yet.

As for playing in the higher end stuff, the big cons? Well, that wasn't something I liked to do much for other reasons.

The big cons could get you killed, not just by the marks either. Confidence men usually avoid violence as a rule, but there's a price for everything. I'd played an extra in a couple, out of sheer desperation, but it was a terrible idea. Rumor had that in a couple of high-end cons, some of the extras, the low-level players like me, had disappeared, much to the inconvenience of law enforcement. Getting dumped in a landfill in a garbage bag wasn't on my bucket list.

Punchy, our old Boss Clown, and his wife, Lulabelle, had spent years in that game before a nickel upstate for Punchy and a close call or two with some heavies had convinced them to find a new calling as clowns. They'd never regretted leaving the con game. He and Lulabelle had always loved children, but she couldn't have any of her own for some medical reason. So they found a place where they could have all the kids they'd ever want. I'd never seen anyone cry as hard as Lulabelle when the circus folded, and it had nothing to do with money. But they'd told stories. You do a lot of that to pass the time when you travel. And when the circus had crashed, he and Lulabelle had taught me what they could; what I needed to know to stay afloat. They'd never judged me and just wanted me to be okay, even if I knew they secretly worried about me and wished I could find better options.

I'd scouted Silver weeks before, along with a dozen other very high-end shops. Those stores don't do security tags, it offends the ridiculously over-privileged customers. The sharp-eyed customer service team is always more focused on the incredibly expensive $50,000-and-up purses than the mere two thousand dollar blue jeans.

Silver was no exception. A shop that doesn't even have a name above it, just a slash of silver through a black background. If you know, you know. That was pretty much Silver's marketing strategy. They didn't depend on tourists; they relied on the very rich.

I checked my makeup. Not clown makeup this time. The best makeup I could get. Salesgirls can tell. Of course, I didn't have the money to buy the makeup either. I got mine from hotel housecleaning staff. People don't just take towels, they leave stuff behind all the time. Rich women buy tons of makeup, then leave tons of it behind. It doesn't always travel easily; airport security can be a pain about some of it. Besides, it doesn't mean anything to the multimillionaire's trophy wife to have her staff buy another thousand-dollar eyeshadow or concealer. You just have to know the right person in the housekeeping staff, and not be particularly squeamish.

I had a makeup kit that would have cost twenty grand if I'd had to buy it retail. Perfume was a little different. I had plastic baggies with sample paper strips in them. Rub one on my skin and I had a trace of expensive perfume about me. Just enough that the salesgirls would pick up on it and automatically class me as "rich but slumming."

Lulabelle had taught me all the angles on the "switch and skip." She'd done variations of it for years.

I put on my "vintage" t-shirt. It was a Chinatown "Vote for Pedro" knock-off, of course, but like the jeans it was good enough to pass, even if they realized it was a knock-off, they'd assume it was "ironic." Whatever that meant to them. A tiny clutch purse that couldn't hide anything more than a bank card or two, a pair of very convincing Fendi sunglasses and knock-off web slide Gucci sandals were the final piece. None of it was good enough for a point-blank examination, but all of it was just good enough to pass the salesgirls for long enough to do what I needed.

The Silver was a perfect venue. The salesgirls wore clothing that cost more than I could bring in during a good month. Still, they were used to wealthy customers wearing whatever the hell they wanted, dropping platinum cards on the counter and walking out with house-mortgage-size purchases in little plastic bags.

They barely looked at me as I came in, the outfit nailing exactly the right "I'm rich, but I'm pretending I don't care" vibe. The tiny purse was the key. Rich people do shoplift for no reason I can figure out, but nothing was going to fit in that purse and they were far too busy to worry about me looking at merely ridiculously expensive jeans when they had women pawing through handbags that could finance the average house. Salesgirls at the Silver worked on commission.

Looking as bored as I could manage, I tried on a couple of pairs of Secret Circus jeans, then casually narrowed my search to the Chakra House display.

I sucked in my breath and damn near screamed in frustration. There were Chakra House Crystal Bolt blue jeans in size zero, two, and one token pair in size eight. None in either of the sizes I could use.

I'd have to hunt down a completely different shop, there'd be too much risk in coming back any time soon. Salesgirls have memories.

Two of the salesgirls went to assist a customer, and I saw exactly what I was looking for on the counter near the sleek black pulpit that hid the crass necessity of a register. One pair of Crystal Bolt, size four. It was odd that they hadn't re-shelved it, but then the salesgirls couldn't be everywhere.

The switch was over in just a few unhurried minutes. I deliberately forced myself to take a little extra time so it wouldn't seem rushed if anyone paid attention. I'd transferred the tags so when I was done, I just walked over and put the knock offs on the display.

One of the junior sales girls drifted into my path, carrying a top-of-the-line plastic purse that probably ran a good twenty thousand.

"Excuse me?"

She paused, trying to keep one eye on her potential commission across the shop, but not really willing to offend me, just in case. "Yes...?"

I watched her try to choose between using "Miss" and "Madame" and decided to let her off the hook by cutting her off gently. "I came in to see if you have the new '7 For All Mankind' jeans yet."

"I'm afraid they aren't due in until next Monday."

"Oh. I just knew I had the date wrong. Thank you."

Having established my reason for being in the shop, but not buying anything, I cautiously drifted out and down the street.

Calm. I focused every bit of my mind on relaxing and staying totally calm. I even paused to look into a few windows.

Damn the jeans felt amazing, smooth as melted butter on my legs. For a moment I almost thought of keeping them, but the resale price was a month's rent and maybe even a meal or two.

Still though, I just knew they made my butt look great. Of course, half a chandelier's worth of Swarovski crystals would make almost anything look stunning.

Another couple of blocks and I relaxed. I was home free. Even if they caught me now, they couldn't prove I'd stolen anything, the jeans didn't have a serial number like some purses. All I had to do was wear them off and on for a few weeks to give them that "broke in" look and to give any incredibly unlikely police inquiries time to die off. As I headed back home, I saw more storm clouds brewing and decided that there was probably no point in trying to get out to earn some money and that maybe I could just sit back and read for a change.

Besides, I'd promised Lulabelle and Punchy that I'd be at the street festival in their neighborhood tomorrow. Some kind of charity, I supposed. For me it was just a chance to take Sparkle out for a little bit of fun, just entertain some kids instead of trying to make money for a change.

*****

Clown Alley

"Hey, Sparkle!"

I finished tying the balloon poodle and made it squeak down my arm to the toddler's hand. She giggled and gave it a small smooch before dancing away with it. "Punchy! You have any balloons left I can use? I'm just about out. I've run through over a hundred."

He looked down the street. "I'm down to a couple, but everything is folding down now."

It was obvious that he was right, most of the stands and tables were already down. I hopped up and sat on top of a stanchion. "That's good, I'm about exhausted. I don't think I could do another handstand to save my life at this point."

Punchy chuckled and checked that his nose was still on firmly. "You getting by okay?"

I shrugged. "Busking Times Square, the Park, and the Dumbo. I have to seriously hustle to make rent and eat, but I've had a decent run of luck."

He looked around seemingly lazily, but I knew him well enough to see his caution. "You into anything?"

"A little switch and skip. High-end blue jeans. Nothing serious."

"What'd I tell you about 'serious'?"

"I know, I know...It's all serious to someone. Really though. They spend more on the air freshener every day than what I'm walking out with."

"You be careful, Kelsea. Rich people don't stay rich by being nice."

I scowled. I hated it when Punchy called me Kelsea while we were in character. It wasn't right, and he damn well knew that. "I know. I'm only doing it because my roommate moved out, and I had to make the whole rent."

"It's a slippery path. It really is. You know I started as a Ducky Boy. Lulabelle was a Ducky too. Got into a lot of gang fights. Duckys were like Clowns. You pick on one and it's 'Hey Rube' and they're all there, ya know? But it got ugly, we got older and we got out and tried to stay on the straight. Came up short on money a few times, started in the little cons." He sighed and dug a giant black hobo clown boot into the asphalt. "Next thing you know, you're in the 'bigs'...and the stakes? Well, they go up with the rewards. Rikers sucks. Believe you me." He blew out a breath and shook his head. "And me an' Lulabelle were lucky. Guys we knew got popped. One we knew conned some guy's Gramma. Only it was a Sicilian Gramma. They never even found his head. Or his arms and legs. Another? Did a big job on a 'protected' shop over in Irishtown...Vinegar Hill, back in the day." Punchy looked at me and shivered. "They took him to a metal shop and they burned all his fingers off with a blow torch. Let him live, but, you know, just to send a message to everyone else."

I felt queasy for a moment. "That was then, this is now. Nobody does that kind of thing anymore, Punchy." I wasn't even sure I believed me.

"Don't you believe it, Sparkle. People don't change; they just hide things better now, that's all." He looked at the ground for a moment, a deep sadness coming off in waves. "I think we did you wrong, teaching you the grift. Thought it was all history, like teaching someone to sword fight these days. Never thought you'd end up using it."

"I'm a big girl, Punchy. I'm playing it safe as I can. I'm barely doing anything right now." I twisted my mouth a bit. "Winter coming in a couple of months, I'm a little worried about that."

"Follow the sun, Sparkle. Lulabelle an' me are leaving soon, headin' south. Maybe a month or two."

"Gibtown?"

He smiled wistfully at the name, the nickname for Gibsonton, a whole town of circus troupers. "We haven't exactly ironed out the details. But who knows? We know some people there from the old days. Could be Gibtown; could be the Keys." He snapped back to reality. "Whattabout you, Sparkle, what's your plan?"

"I don't know. I keep hoping for a miracle."

"You think about Vegas?"

"It's not right for me...I'm not cut out for it..."

He smiled. A real smile. Full of pride. I felt confused as hell for a moment.

"You're right. You're not cut out for Vegas. You know why?" He didn't wait for an answer. "You're the real thing, Sparkle. A real honest-to-God Clown. You don't give a damn about the money, you live on the laughter. I've seen you, you know. In the Dumbo. I watched you pass up a chance for a good hat to make a little kid smile."

I tried hard to keep a straight face, but I knew he was right. "So I'm a terrible businesswoman."

"But an amazing clown. All the way to the bone. It'll happen for you Sparkle. Just keep looking."

"Well, I'll be working Times Square again tomorrow, so it will have to come find me."

He nodded. "I can get you on with that Agency in Vegas if it doesn't. Bones owes me a favor or two.

*****

I had a pretty good day, after a pretty good week. I was taking big enough hats that I was feeling more optimistic than I had for a while. It'd been worth the time to come out, even if it was threatening to rain again.

About halfway through my set, I saw Bobby Chan hanging back at the edge of the crowd. He kept cautiously looking around, and I almost blew my routine trying to figure out what he was looking for but managed to hold it together.

As I wrapped up, picking up my stuff and counting my hat, which had a total of just over two hundred dollars, he drifted forward and looked at a store display while he talked to me in a low voice. "What are you into, Kelsea?"

"Nothing you don't know about. Why?"

"The Ivans are looking for you. They came through Chinatown asking who knew you."

"I don't even know who that is."

"Big Ivan and Little Ivan. They're strong-arm guys, rumor says they're Russian Mafia. Are you holding out on them or something?"

"Nobody takes a percentage on the Square, this isn't the 1950s." I stopped for a second. "I don't even know any Russians, I..." my voice trailed off as realization dawned. "Crap. This is about Boris. I punched him a few days ago."

"The mime you punched was Boris? That kind of makes sense." He grinned.

"Seriously though, leg breakers over a bloody nose and a five-spot?"

"Who knows? He might be related to one of them." Bobby shrugged, then froze. "Shit, over by the corner."

I looked. Two men, in black jeans and black dress shirts, were headed right for us. Both had pale skin and dark hair. They'd have been twins if one wasn't the size of a truck and the other shorter than I was.

"Bobby, go." There was no way a clown was going to avoid being noticed or fade into a crowd, even in Times Square, but Bobby could at least avoid being seen with me. I doubted they'd actually do anything more than threaten me anyway.

Bobby must have figured it the same way, he casually strode off without a second glance.

I braced myself and watched them get closer. I didn't even try to take off, they had to know I was there. Somehow though, they almost seemed not to see me.

They were probably only ten feet away from me, scanning the crowd, still weirdly blind to me. My nerves were just about to explode when a huge shadow fell over me.

"How's the crowd today?"

I felt myself almost melt and run down into my big red shoes. I'm not sure how much was relief and how much was a natural female reaction to an absolutely prime physical specimen who smelled of...cedar?