Granny gang - By Mizeta Moon

The mechanic refused to work on the car when he saw all the bullet holes in the trunk. If I’d hit the accelerator harder, we’d have been out of range quickly but my spike heel stuck in a hole in the carpet and I couldn’t bear down from the resulting tilt. That allowed the guards to hit us with several rounds–one of which clipped the fuel line, causing us to come to a halt across the street from a garage. We thought that was a stroke of luck at first but the suspicion in the wrench monkey’s eyes had me worried that he might call the cops. We decided the best thing to do was skedaddle before he could act so I called Lyft for a ride to our hideout as we call it. It’s actually an old gardening shed behind Winifred’s house where we drink wine from the bottle, play ten thousand, and plan our next heist. Leaving the car behind wasn’t a problem because it’s still registered to a guy three blocks from my house. When he died, we snagged the keys during his estate sale and hid it under a tarp in the woods behind Estelle’s house. So we grabbed the bags of cash, then walked to a bar down the street and told the driver to pick us up there in an hour since we all needed a drink after such a close call. 

Hours later there were four stacks of money sitting on the table in the shed and Marlene was finally satisfied. She always thinks we might cheat her so she demands a recount. After we counted it all again and measured the piles, she agreed that we were truly equal partners. Oh! You might be wondering why I would wear high heels on a job and that’s a very good question. Dressing up like church ladies makes us less suspicious. Nobody expects a bunch of grannies to pull pistols from their purses instead of a hanky. Just so you know, we only rob places owned by a certain someone who is known to all as a liar and a crook. Stealing from him allows us to buy food for the poor and support our charities. We keep some for us of course, but at least it gets recirculated on lower levels instead of adding to the wealth of the wealthy. After the last hotel heist, I was able to give ten thousand dollars to the animal shelter. 

We were well on our way to a rip-roaring drunk when Winifred suddenly got wide-eyed and looked worried. “What’s wrong?” I asked. Instead of answering right away she reached to her ear and unhooked an earring. Placing it on the table she stated that the mate was missing. She said “I lost it when we jumped in the car. Now I’m concerned that some CSI guy will bag and tag it, then trace my DNA.” 

We had a good laugh at that because a diamond earring on the sidewalk would be a prize to one of the homeless who watched us make our getaway. Fat chance that they’d turn it in. Besides, Winifred has never been arrested or had her lineage traced. Even if a cop found it, she could say she lost it when walking to the liquor store. And on top of that, we only dress up to go on a crime spree. The rest of the time we look like a dowdy bunch wearing sensible shoes and comfortable clothes, so she wouldn’t meet any description from witnesses. Without just cause she couldn’t be forced to surrender a sample. 

We were just finishing up a game of ten thousand when Winifred’s husband banged on the door and demanded dinner. I’m prone to tell him to F… off but keeping him happy allows us to use the shed without too much guff. I do talk back to him when it comes to politics since he’s a big supporter of the guy we steal from, but we were drunk and tired by then, so we filed out and left. The last thing I heard him say to Winifred was “that damn Velma pisses me off. Every time she comes over, I have to beg for dinner. And besides….”

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