Grifter’s End
by Johanna Nauraine
Saturday at 10:00 a.m. Kelly and I are sitting at a beat up card table in his tiny, orange kitchen. It’s a steamy New Orleans morning near the tail end of August. Above us an old ceiling fan squeaks like a dying rodent, barely moving the ten pound air.
Breakfast has come and gone, but remnants of egg are still stuck to our paper plates. The smell of greasy sausage slathers the walls.
Kelly rubs his right pointer finger back and forth beneath his gray stubbled chin. He says, “Joe, this game will be easy as takin’ a piss.”
I notice a bugger sticking out of his nose, and worry it may be prophetic. Don’t get me wrong, Kelly and I have managed to avoid the big house over the past twenty years and I trust him like a brother. But sometimes his personal hygiene falls by the roadside like a dead possum.
This morning we’re teeing up for our favorite scam. It was Kelly who suggested we impersonate hearing aid salesmen and go door-to-door, in retirement communities across the country. We take downpayment and leave town before complaints begin to pile up. It’s almost magic.
Beads of sweat bobble on Kelly’s bald pate, making it look like his head is boiling. I yawn and stretch my neck, rotating my head right to left. “This should net us a couple thousand — enough to fly to Costa Rica.”
“You want to retire?”
“I’m done busting my hump. I want to lay on a beach, next to some delicious booty and drink myself silly.”
Kelly leans his kitchen chair back so far I think he’s going to fall over. Finally he sighs and lets the chair bang down on the grubby linoleum floor.
“Okay, we’ll do it your way.” He scratches his balls. “Do you think we’ll get bored down there in the jungle?”
“Don’t worry, we’ll scrounge up somethin’ interesting.”
The next morning we are up and dressed by 8:00 a.m. Both of us are wearing suits and ties and our best shoes as we drive our rented Beemer among the winding lanes of The Villa’s at Del Ray. Kelly is carrying a leather case full of hearing aid samples and brochures we printed at Kinko’s a decade ago. I’m cursing the heat and my too tight shoes as I ring the bell at our first stop.
A shapely doe eyed woman with hearing aids, opens the door. She looks a little younger than me, maybe late sixties. She’s wearing a short green dress and pretty white sandals. She says, “Looks like you fellas are on a mission.” Kelly and I shake her hand and introduce ourselves as Bob Clark and Ray Klein.
She says, “I’m Stella Harris.” Then she ushers us into her pink carpeted living room and offers us iced tea. We sit on her plastic covered sofa and grin at each other like giddy fools.
Minutes later, she returns with our drinks and a little bowl of peanuts, balanced on a wooden tray that’s painted with palm trees. She tilts her curly white head to one side like a little pekinese and says, “Well, let’s hear it.”
Kelly opens his leather case, clears his throat, and launches into his pitch. “I don’t whether you’ve heard of The World of Hearing, but our high end hearing aids are the best on the market. They’ll give you a fifty percent boost in hearing quality.”
Stella smoothes her curls and flutters her lashes at me. She’s wearing mascara and bubble gum pink lipstick. Kelly and I joke about the old ladies who flirt with us and try to get us to stay for lunch or dinner. But Kelly, who’s a softie, always gets tears in his eyes and says, “It’s heartbreaking, isn’t it?” which prompts me to remind him that some day we’ll be old and lonely too.
Kelly and I sip our coffees while Stella examines the merchandise and picks up a brochure. I sneak a glance at Kelly who’s holding his breath — like maybe that might seal the deal.
Then Stella excuses herself to use the bathroom. I drum my fingers on the fake wood coffee table and try to weigh our odds.
Minutes later, she returns, holding a shiny silver pistol in her right hand. She reaches up and rips off her curly white wig. Underneath, her hair is dark and wispy. Her eyes are big and round and sexy. I hear Kelly’s quick intake of breath. Stella throws her head back and laughs, her teeth white as chalk.
“You think I don’t know the old hearing aid salesmen trick?”
Kelly and I look at each other, mouths agape. No one has ever pulled a gun on us or guessed our game.
I say, “Who the hell are you?”
Stella smiles and points her pistol at me. “What’s your name, cutie?”
I stutter and manage to spit out, “Joe Leonard.”
Then she points her gun at Kelly. “How about you, big guy…what’s your name?”
He looks over at me. “Maybe she’s the po po.”
Stella hisses, “What’s your fuckin’ name?”
“Kelly Epstein.”
“Don’t you mean, Rabbi Epstein?”
Kelly’s eyes bulge like a hooked fish.
“I used to attend your synagogue in Pasadena. I remember you skipped town after the synagogue’s annual fundraiser, and took all the money with you. ” Stella puts her left hand on her hip and swings the pistol around like a lasso. “I have a notion to turn you two in.”
I smile and wink at her. “I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you come with us to Costa Rica?”
Kelly looks like his head’s gonna explode. “Are you nuts?!”
Stella smiles at me and drops her gun — exotic as a cockatoo.
I wiggle my eyebrows at Kelly, who’s hyperventilating. “Relax! There’ll be nothin’ but sugar plums in Costa Rica.”