Read Online Murder Miscalculated by Andrew MacRae - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Andrew MacRae
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no one was watching and let my arm drop to my side, next to her purse. My fingers worked the latch. I kept my eyes on the woman’s face, watching to see if she noticed me opening her purse. She didn’t. I reached into my own pants pocket and withdrew a business card and slipped it into her purse and then closed it again. At the next stop, I got off the bus.
The next time she looked in her purse, perhaps when putting her cell phone away, she would find my card. It’s a simple card with a simple message, “Surprise! You’ve been put-pocketed!” In smaller letters at the bottom it says, “Courtesy of your friendly neighborhood pickpockets.”
It was Saturday afternoon. Although I had told Lynn that I would start picking pockets on Monday, I decided to spend the weekend brushing up on my skills by engaging in some put-pocketing, picking pockets in reverse, so to speak.
I don’t know who came up with the idea of it, but put-pocketing is a way for pickpockets to keep up their skills without having to worry too much about being arrested. It also serves as a warning to people to keep a better watch over their property.
I spent Saturday afternoon riding the streetcars and buses, slipping my cards into the purses and pockets of unwitting victims. I kept an eye out for people watching me, fellow practitioners taking note of a competitor, but couldn’t tell if I was seen.
I spent Sunday afternoon at City Center where crowds of tourists filled the enormous expanse of concrete, replacing the office workers and other working stiffs of weekday afternoons. Sidewalk venders hawked their wares, street musicians competed with each other for volume and tips, and pigeons enjoyed the visitors’ largesse. If I wanted word to spread on the street that I had returned to picking pockets, and I did, this was the place to do it. Over the afternoon I left a couple of dozen cards, and as I did I was aware of more than a few pairs of eyes watching me.
I paused for a moment outside a bookstore on the plaza. It’s a local chain and well regarded, as they do a good job of promoting local authors. To my chagrin, there was a large display of Max Carson’s book in the window with posters for a signing there by Max on Thursday evening. I remembered that April had mentioned Max was staying in town for ten days, working the bookstore circuit, giving interviews and making public appearances. His appearance at our store had been only a warm-up for the larger venues. I shook my head. There was just no escaping the guy.
As I studied the window display I became aware of someone standing about forty feet behind me. I could see him in the window’s reflection. He was noticeable, as he was standing still while others walked past him. He was too far away for me to make out his face.
I turned halfway and began to walk across the plaza at an angle that let me keep my watcher visible in the corner of my eye without it being obvious I was aware of him. By the time I passed him I had a pretty good idea who it was—Chad, the pickpocket from the book fair. Well, I wanted word to get out that I had returned to the street, and now I knew that Doris Whitaker would hear of it soon.
Mission accomplished, I headed back to The Book Nook.
Chapter Thirteen
“Hey, Kid, good to see you. I heard you were back working the street.”
“Hello, Jay, long time no see.” We shook hands. Jay motioned in the direction of some shade by the side of a nearby building, and we walked a few steps over to its shelter. We leaned our backs against the wall, talking sideways to each other. Pedestrians streamed by on the busy downtown sidewalk.
Jay was a street fence, someone who buys and sells stolen credit cards and such from people like me on the street.
It was mid-morning on Tuesday, the second day of my return to a life of crime. In the last twenty-four hours I had relieved a couple of dozen people of their wallets and gleaned a handful of watches from their
The next time she looked in her purse, perhaps when putting her cell phone away, she would find my card. It’s a simple card with a simple message, “Surprise! You’ve been put-pocketed!” In smaller letters at the bottom it says, “Courtesy of your friendly neighborhood pickpockets.”
It was Saturday afternoon. Although I had told Lynn that I would start picking pockets on Monday, I decided to spend the weekend brushing up on my skills by engaging in some put-pocketing, picking pockets in reverse, so to speak.
I don’t know who came up with the idea of it, but put-pocketing is a way for pickpockets to keep up their skills without having to worry too much about being arrested. It also serves as a warning to people to keep a better watch over their property.
I spent Saturday afternoon riding the streetcars and buses, slipping my cards into the purses and pockets of unwitting victims. I kept an eye out for people watching me, fellow practitioners taking note of a competitor, but couldn’t tell if I was seen.
I spent Sunday afternoon at City Center where crowds of tourists filled the enormous expanse of concrete, replacing the office workers and other working stiffs of weekday afternoons. Sidewalk venders hawked their wares, street musicians competed with each other for volume and tips, and pigeons enjoyed the visitors’ largesse. If I wanted word to spread on the street that I had returned to picking pockets, and I did, this was the place to do it. Over the afternoon I left a couple of dozen cards, and as I did I was aware of more than a few pairs of eyes watching me.
I paused for a moment outside a bookstore on the plaza. It’s a local chain and well regarded, as they do a good job of promoting local authors. To my chagrin, there was a large display of Max Carson’s book in the window with posters for a signing there by Max on Thursday evening. I remembered that April had mentioned Max was staying in town for ten days, working the bookstore circuit, giving interviews and making public appearances. His appearance at our store had been only a warm-up for the larger venues. I shook my head. There was just no escaping the guy.
As I studied the window display I became aware of someone standing about forty feet behind me. I could see him in the window’s reflection. He was noticeable, as he was standing still while others walked past him. He was too far away for me to make out his face.
I turned halfway and began to walk across the plaza at an angle that let me keep my watcher visible in the corner of my eye without it being obvious I was aware of him. By the time I passed him I had a pretty good idea who it was—Chad, the pickpocket from the book fair. Well, I wanted word to get out that I had returned to the street, and now I knew that Doris Whitaker would hear of it soon.
Mission accomplished, I headed back to The Book Nook.
Chapter Thirteen
“Hey, Kid, good to see you. I heard you were back working the street.”
“Hello, Jay, long time no see.” We shook hands. Jay motioned in the direction of some shade by the side of a nearby building, and we walked a few steps over to its shelter. We leaned our backs against the wall, talking sideways to each other. Pedestrians streamed by on the busy downtown sidewalk.
Jay was a street fence, someone who buys and sells stolen credit cards and such from people like me on the street.
It was mid-morning on Tuesday, the second day of my return to a life of crime. In the last twenty-four hours I had relieved a couple of dozen people of their wallets and gleaned a handful of watches from their
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