thought, he was keeping them together by instilling a degree of ambition in TP that would otherwise have been absent.
So far, their scheme had gone entirely to plan. The first man targeted was a married, fifty-something conventioneer in Boston. It had been almost too easy: a couple of drinks, some flirtation, a little chat about how he reminded Corrie of her favorite uncle, one on whom she’d always secretly had a crush, then back to his hotel room. When the knock came on the door – which Corrie made sure she answered, permitting the two masked men to enter – the mark was already down to his boxers, with a hard-on from which he could have hung a flag. Corrie was in a similar state of undress, and stayed that way while BB showed the conventioneer the gun, and explained how it was going to go down. They photographed his driver’s license, which he kept in his wallet alongside pictures of his wife, kids, and first grandchild. They noted his address before, at gunpoint, taking pictures of him in a series of suitably compromising positions with Corrie. Finally, they got him to reveal the PINs for his debit and credit cards, after which Corrie got dressed and withdrew cash to the daily limit on each card, then went and had a cup of coffee until just after midnight, so she could take a second run at them. When she returned, they gave the conventioneer back his wallet, debit card, and one of his credit cards, and told him not to report the second card missing until a further twenty-four hours had elapsed. They assured him that his bank would cover any losses, and it wasn’t like they could do too much damage anyway with a $5,000 credit limit. If they encountered any problems using the card, then his wife would find out just what he’d been doing on his free night in Beantown. No violence had proved necessary, which was just the way they liked it, and they’d netted a total of $3,000, and a number of laptop computers bought on the second card, which they’d sold for twenty-five cents on the dollar.
Afterward, Corrie ditched her cheap wig, and they pulled the scam twice more in Boston and its environs before heading slowly north: Portsmouth, Concord, and now Portland. Brown hadn’t wanted to net that night’s sucker, though. He felt that it was time to give the operation a rest and lie low for a while. They had enough cash to get them comfortably through the winter, and he was convinced the last mark – a salesman in Portsmouth, who’d required a tap on the head to curb his indignation – might take the risk of not remaining silent about what had happened. It was TP who had argued for one last effort, and Corrie had agreed, just because it was TP who was asking.
But Brown and Corrie had recently spoken together at length for the first time in weeks – maybe even the first time ever – without TP present, and it was clear to Brown that Corrie was growing increasingly uneasy about their business enterprise. Brown wasn’t surprised. She was the one taking the major risk. True, he and TP were always on her heels, and they made sure to let only the minimum amount of time go by between Corrie and the mark entering the hotel, and their knock sounding on the door. But suppose they were stopped by security, or their car broke down, or they just screwed up, none of which was beyond the bounds of possibility? Then, my friends, Corrie would most assuredly be on her own, and the big ‘r’ word – rape – was never far from her mind.
Corrie and TP were staying in one room of a motel out by The Maine Mall, and Brown was across the hall. It meant that he couldn’t hear them screwing, which was a relief on a lot of levels. He’d been forced to listen to them when they’d all shared a small one-bedroom apartment down in Quincy, Brown already struggling with sleep thanks to the sadistic springs on the sleeper couch without TP’s grunts and Corrie’s cheerleading as a soundtrack. When they’d first been on the road, and
So far, their scheme had gone entirely to plan. The first man targeted was a married, fifty-something conventioneer in Boston. It had been almost too easy: a couple of drinks, some flirtation, a little chat about how he reminded Corrie of her favorite uncle, one on whom she’d always secretly had a crush, then back to his hotel room. When the knock came on the door – which Corrie made sure she answered, permitting the two masked men to enter – the mark was already down to his boxers, with a hard-on from which he could have hung a flag. Corrie was in a similar state of undress, and stayed that way while BB showed the conventioneer the gun, and explained how it was going to go down. They photographed his driver’s license, which he kept in his wallet alongside pictures of his wife, kids, and first grandchild. They noted his address before, at gunpoint, taking pictures of him in a series of suitably compromising positions with Corrie. Finally, they got him to reveal the PINs for his debit and credit cards, after which Corrie got dressed and withdrew cash to the daily limit on each card, then went and had a cup of coffee until just after midnight, so she could take a second run at them. When she returned, they gave the conventioneer back his wallet, debit card, and one of his credit cards, and told him not to report the second card missing until a further twenty-four hours had elapsed. They assured him that his bank would cover any losses, and it wasn’t like they could do too much damage anyway with a $5,000 credit limit. If they encountered any problems using the card, then his wife would find out just what he’d been doing on his free night in Beantown. No violence had proved necessary, which was just the way they liked it, and they’d netted a total of $3,000, and a number of laptop computers bought on the second card, which they’d sold for twenty-five cents on the dollar.
Afterward, Corrie ditched her cheap wig, and they pulled the scam twice more in Boston and its environs before heading slowly north: Portsmouth, Concord, and now Portland. Brown hadn’t wanted to net that night’s sucker, though. He felt that it was time to give the operation a rest and lie low for a while. They had enough cash to get them comfortably through the winter, and he was convinced the last mark – a salesman in Portsmouth, who’d required a tap on the head to curb his indignation – might take the risk of not remaining silent about what had happened. It was TP who had argued for one last effort, and Corrie had agreed, just because it was TP who was asking.
But Brown and Corrie had recently spoken together at length for the first time in weeks – maybe even the first time ever – without TP present, and it was clear to Brown that Corrie was growing increasingly uneasy about their business enterprise. Brown wasn’t surprised. She was the one taking the major risk. True, he and TP were always on her heels, and they made sure to let only the minimum amount of time go by between Corrie and the mark entering the hotel, and their knock sounding on the door. But suppose they were stopped by security, or their car broke down, or they just screwed up, none of which was beyond the bounds of possibility? Then, my friends, Corrie would most assuredly be on her own, and the big ‘r’ word – rape – was never far from her mind.
Corrie and TP were staying in one room of a motel out by The Maine Mall, and Brown was across the hall. It meant that he couldn’t hear them screwing, which was a relief on a lot of levels. He’d been forced to listen to them when they’d all shared a small one-bedroom apartment down in Quincy, Brown already struggling with sleep thanks to the sadistic springs on the sleeper couch without TP’s grunts and Corrie’s cheerleading as a soundtrack. When they’d first been on the road, and
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