Page 1 of His Puppet

1

Emily

“Are you sure about this?” Ellison asks.

I put the cigarette to my mouth and take a drag, keeping the smoke in my mouth so I don’t go into a coughing fit inhaling it. I hate smoking. The taste. The smell. The way it clings to you for hours after the fact. And the kissing… You might as well lick an ashtray.

But the one universal thing that makes someone inconspicuous while standing around outside watching people walk by is a cigarette. Gotta have that smoke break.

My back is against the wall of the old movie theater known for its pop stains on the seats and a floor that makes your shoes sticky hours after leaving. My best friend and literal partner in crime, Ellison, stands next to me with his shoulder lazily propping him on the brick. A cigarette dangles from his hand, and when he flicks it, ashes rain down like snow.

Down the street, headed our way, is our mark. Well,mymark.

I glimpse the man to gauge how far away he is. I have about three minutes before I need to cross the street.

“It’s five hundred dollars, Ellison. And the mark’s atourist. What easier gig is there?”

“Exactly. If it’s so easy, why don’t they just do it themselves?”

“Because not everyone wants violence. They’d have to mug the guy.”

Ellison is quiet for a moment. He puts the cigarette to his lips and pulls in smoke.

My skin crawls when I glance at the man again.

Two minutes.

“I don’t know, Polly. I don’t like this.”

“It’s an easy lift.”

“If we were on the strip, okay. But what the hell is a tourist doing in Naked City?”

Naked City is one of the roughest parts of Las Vegas, and Ellison is right, it’s weird that this guy would be here. Cabs won’t run here at night, and you won’t find a woman walking alone. I’d believe he was just a lost, clueless tourist if the men who hired me hadn’t told me where he’d be.

Helookslike a tourist. He’s wearing khaki shorts with one of those memorable Las Vegas T-shirts they sell at the airport. There’s a beaded necklace hanging on his chest with a figurine of the stratosphere. The big, glaring touristy detail is the fanny pack he has slung around his waist. The one I’m about to steal.

“It doesn’t feel right.”

“Would you stop?” I ask, my heart pumping a little faster. “You’re making me nervous.”

Ellison sighs. “Did they tell you what was in the fanny pack?”

I tilt my head at him and narrow my eyes.

“All right, dumb question,” he says.

I glance down the street again and take one last drag of the cigarette.

There are a few rules to being a pickpocket. The first is you never hit the same spot twice in a day. The second is you never look back after you’ve lifted something. The third is you never tell anyone, not even the people you work with, your real identity. And lastly, you don’t ask questions when hired for a job. No names. No contact after the initial meeting. And no sifting through their shit.

I won’t ever see the two men again. They watched me dump a purse in a trashcan last week, and they figured out what I was doing. They offered me five hundred dollars to lift a fanny pack off a tourist, which is about the easiest five hundred bucks you can make. The money will be waiting for me in a black bag underneath the same trashcan I dumped the purse, and I’ll replace the fanny pack with it. No big deal.

But why the fuck would he comehereon purpose? There isnothingtouristy about Naked City.

“They probably just have a lead on him having a bunch of cash in there,” I say.

Ellison sighs and pushes off the wall. It’s time. “Fine. But call me after you make the drop.”

---