Chapter 31

 

 

The blue Mazda turned the corner and disappeared. Ron’s pulse gradually began to slow as he stood up from the porch step. He cursed himself for the fact that he’d reacted with a smile when that woman had pulled up and called him by name. Thank goodness he’d had the presence of mind to whip up a ready excuse for driving a nice car and coming to a middle-class neighborhood.

A low chuckle—he’d gotten away with it!

He let himself in the front door and went into the bedroom, reaching into the pockets of his oversized coat and pulling out handfuls of money. Lots of dollar bills, lots of miscellaneous coins, occasionally a fiver. He placed it all on the dresser, then carefully removed the jacket and draped it over a chair in the corner. He would wear it again this afternoon. The pockets of his grimy chinos yielded more cash, and he added those notes to the pile.

When he’d undressed, piling each item of the costume on top of the coat, he headed to the bathroom where he ran the shower until it was steaming hot. It used to bother him, putting on filthy clothing to go to work every day, but he loved what he did. The hours were good and the pay was fantastic. To Ron, most of all, it was the thrill of the game. The quick thinking—as he’d done just now when he came up with the perfect answer to the woman’s inquiry and played it cool. She had no idea.

A lot of the losers on the street corners took their money and snorted it up their noses or drank it. Not Ron. He used to be one of the suckers who drove to an office job every day, stressed out, spending hours in traffic, watching men and women on street corners begging for a few coins. Then one day while stuck at an especially long red light he did a quick count. Roughly every fourth car would yield a handful of coins or a buck or two. The light came on.

Four million people lived in this damn valley, and at least half of them were on the road during rush hour. Pick an intersection, any intersection, and a couple thousand vehicles passed there every day. He did the math. The next morning he quit his day job and went shopping at the Goodwill store. He didn’t buy anything inside. Instead, he went around back to the dumpster and picked out items of clothing that were too ratty to go on the racks.

He took everything home, laundered it to get the previous owner’s filth out, then proceeded to add his own layer of grime to the ragged garments. A little motor oil and a good rub in garden soil achieved the look he wanted. After a couple of comments at the shelter—his hands were too clean—he began to keep a bucket of the dirt in the garage so he could make up his face and hands before he left each morning.

The shower was beginning to run tepid now. He stepped out, dressed in clean jeans and a pullover cable knit sweater. It only took a few minutes to count his cash. The coins went into a big jar, which he took to a Coinstar machine once a week or so; the bills were in his pants pockets.

He took a quick look out the front window; as usual during the week, no one in the neighborhood was home. This was an area of young working couples, and everybody was pretty much out the door around six in the morning and not back for at least twelve hours. Neighbors didn’t socialize—there was no time—and the few who’d ever said hello to him wouldn’t be able to name the company he supposedly worked for or even tell you what he did. He didn’t know their details either, and really didn’t care.

He went through the connecting door to the garage, got in his car, and drove to the nearest convenience store. Living a completely cash existence was a bit of an adventure, especially in the beginning when he’d wanted to pull out a credit card for everything, the way he used to. But he’d learned all the places to get money orders, so his bills were paid that way, and he didn’t even keep a bank account any more. He’d cut ties to most sources the tax man would check. His rent got paid every month and the utility companies got theirs. He had streaming TV services that he prepaid by the year, and an internet connection in the landlord’s name.

Inside the store, a new clerk asked what he wanted. He purchased money orders in specific amounts. The clerk didn’t know or care that one was for the electric company and one for the water bill. Ron sealed them into their envelopes and dropped them in a mailbox. It was shortly after noon; he had enough time to catch a movie or go bowling before doing his evening rush hour shift.

He laughed out loud when he got into his car. Who else had life figured out as well as he did? Work two or three hours in the morning, a couple more in the evening, do it when you feel like it, skip work when you want. Go anywhere, do anything in the off hours. By living simply and finding every bargain available, he’d be able to stash away enough cash to buy a house or take a world cruise, or move to Belize. Life was good.

He debated whether to spend the night at Heaven Sent again. It was always interesting to check out the scene, see what was going on. Most of all, he felt a thrill from getting away with it, fitting in well enough to get a free night’s stay and a couple of meals. And there was that weirdo temple place next door. Palming a twenty had been fun. What if next time he got away with a couple more? He nearly salivated.

A psychologist would have a field day with him, Ron thought as he drove toward the cine-plex. They’d want to analyze why he felt this need to deceive, and most would want to delve into his childhood to find out what had been missing. The truth was much simpler—he did it because getting away with stuff was fun.