Page 50 of Caper Crush
He looks at me briefly, dismissively. “Yeah, that one too.”
“How much are they selling it for?” I could use my savings to buy it back. It would be worth it to me.
He holds out his thick hand for the money.
One thousand dollars. Three weeks’ full-time waitressing to earn.
I stare at him, considering. His jaw is set, protruding, and he’s crossed his arms, waiting. He ignores me, keeping his eyes on Edmund.
The mustache is fake. An edge of the mustache is curled away from his skin. It’s a costume mustache. It looks remarkably real, but not to me. I’ve grown up watching characters created from pots of makeup and racks of accessories.
I put my hand out to stop Edmund as he unlocks his briefcase.
“I’m not sure—”
“You’re not sure what?” growls the guy.
“I want to discuss this with Edmund in private,” I say. “Outside.”
Edmund gets a pinched expression, and his lips compress into a slash. I stand and walk out, not looking back. He’ll follow. As I open the door, his chair rasps on the floor. He’s following. Outside, the street is still deserted.
Inside, the guy stands and pulls out his phone. Standing, he looks even more imposing. I turn away from the café window.
“He’s wearing a fake mustache,” I say. “I don’t think he’s for real.”
“What are you talking about?” Edmund paces. “We can’tnotpay him the money. He just told us about a Staten Island art ring.”
“I’ve never heard of a Staten Island art ring.”
“You haven’t worked at Christie’s for years. I’m sure new rings start up. How would you know?” Edmund’s tone is scornful.
“Why is he wearing a fake mustache if he’s for real?”
Edmund stops cold. “How do you know it’s fake? What does the fake mustache have to do with this?” But he says it in a tone of “what do you know?” as if channeling my mother.
I stand firm. “It has everything to do with this. A criminal is not going to be wearing a fake mustache. Pay him one hundred dollars and let’s go. We’re not paying him one thousand dollars.”
“What if he doesn’t accept that?” Edmund pales. “I’d rather pay him the money than get hurt.”
We stare at each other. Edmund’s eyes blink rapidly. He crosses his arms, his hands in his armpits. He seems genuinely scared.
I bite my lip. For some reason, this guy is pretending to know about the art ring, so someone put him up to this. But even though the criminal underworld is not wearing fake mustaches, the fact that he’s here, even if he’s pretending, is still concerning.
“I’ll pay him the hundred dollars, and you stand out here then,” I say. “Call us an Uber or something that can come get us quickly.”
Edmund checks his phone. “The only Uber is twenty minutes away.”
“Take it anyway,” I say. “I’ll negotiate.” I have a hundred dollars in my wallet. Edmund clicks to request the Uber.
“I can’t let you face him by yourself,” he says.
“Be ready to run,” I say.
Edmund gives me a curt nod.
We march back inside. The guy lumbers forward. He has absolutely huge biceps. He’s wearing a black T-shirt, but are there coats that fit arm muscles that big?
Concentrate.
