Number 5: The "It Girl" Job - Flash Fiction Crime Caper

Just got some great news...my latest short story placed second in my group in round one of NYCMidnight's Flash Fiction Challenge! 

We were given 48 hours to write a maximum of 1,000 words based on prompts emailed to us when the competition began. The parameters leave little time for the kind of thought and development you'd expect from a short story written for a publication, so submissions are all rough around the edges. 

I was assigned these surprise prompts:

Crime caper (genre), a limo (location - must be the primary location for the story), and a sandbag (object - must be mentioned in story at least once).

Here's what I did with the prompts, warts and all:

#5 - The “It Girl” Job

Synopsis: Georgina is a master thief and stylish “It Girl.” She’s pulled off four lucrative heists and is ready to get out of the game—after just one more job.

#5 - The “It Girl” Job

If you’re gonna be a successful thief, you gotta go for the long con. Forget about them big heist movies. What you need is the patience to build a cover that’ll hold up even if they put PIs on you. Work hard, pull off a job, then become someone else. And never look back.

“It’s Georgina! Georgie Girl!” I blow a kiss to the fans, then step into the limo. During the short drive, I touch up my lipstick and adjust my long silk gloves. They’re sexy alright—and part of my trademark look.

The limo’s interior ain’t what you’d call elegant. With its wavy lines and neon lights, it’s tacky as hell. The door opens. Rodrigo—a driver and bodyguard—ushers in a man in a banana yellow suit.

“Hiya Linus,” I coo.

A councilman and all-around crook, Linus made his fortune off the locals who pay him for “protection” and other favors. He’s the perfect mark.

He gives me an appreciative look as he takes his seat. “Georgina…you’re prettier’n a picture.” I smile like the vain, vapid girl I am pretending to be.

I’m the Sovereign State’s most famous “It Girl”—over 20,000 fans on the It-Gram—and Linus likes showin’ me off. It took me two years to build this persona. Generally, in this line of work, you want to keep a low profile. But “It Girl” is my last hurrah. I’m loaded and ready to retire to a quiet cottage over the border. Just one last job…

“I need to make a collection at the Raging Machine,” Linus says.

I roll my eyes at this annoying news (it’s not news—we always stop there on Thursdays). “How long are we gonna be at that lousy bikers’ club?”

“You relax and have some champagne. I’ll just be a minute.”

I hope not. We’re counting on the usual 15.

As soon as Linus enters the club, Rod shuffles over and slips out of the limo from the passenger side. He jogs away, his uniform blending into the tree line. By the time he’s back, I’m pouring myself a glass of champagne. I drink half, then pluck a “pearl” from the rope around my neck and plop it in. (If you’re gonna use this particular drug, you gotta go easy. Just enough to make your mark suggestable.)

When Linus returns, he’s in a good mood. He always leaves Raging Machine with a little velvet bag full of diamonds. I know this through my intel—he’s never mentioned it, much less let me catch a glimpse.

“Gimme some of that will ya, Georgie Girl?” It’s rhetorical—he’s already swiped my glass. He gulps it all down. “Okay, business is done for the day and we’re gonna paint the town red. How about dinner at Star Canopy?” he says.

I turn my pout into a little smile. “Well…that sounds romantic.” Linus loves that. He thinks of himself as a gentleman—chivalrous, even. It’s his Achilles heel. (Never work a mark until you’ve identified his weak spot.)

We round a bend in the road when suddenly there’s a big thump. Rod’s communication window lowers with a soft whirr. “Sorry Boss, didn’t see anything on the road. I’ll check the tires.”

Rod hops out. We hear him curse in a low voice. A minute later, he opens Linus’ door. “Sir, you’ll want to see this.”

Linus gets out. I take a small velvet bag out of a compartment, drop it on the floor, and peel off my contaminated gloves. Then I climb out. I spot the body and scream. “Oh Linus! Who is that?”

Rod is feeling for a pulse. “She’s dead. Maybe we shouldn’t hang around, Boss.”

Linus frowns. “Okay. Rod, drag the body into the bushes. Let’s get outta here fast.”

We get in the limo and I pretend to wipe away a tear, then start to shiver. Predictably, Linus drapes his jacket over my shoulders and cuddles me.

Rod drives us to the restaurant. The coppers at the entrance make Linus uneasy.

“Must be a routine check,” says Rod. (It’s not.)

“Okay…let’s go in for a bit,” says Linus. “Good alibi. Then my guys’ll clean up the limo before they even find the body.”

I hand over his jacket, and Linus pats the pockets. “Must’ve fallen,” he mutters. As I’m getting out, he checks the floor and, finding the velvet bag, tucks it into his pocket.

Linus gets out and nods at the coppers, heading toward the restaurant’s bomb detectors with his usual confidence. I lag behind, signing a few autographs. The detectors go off, the shrill siren just about piercing my skull.

The coppers cuff Linus and lead him away. In his pocket they’ll find a velvet bag containing the same explosive gravel used at Sovereign State Middle School three years ago. Linus committed the crime, but there never was any evidence against him…until now. 

The coppers walk me through the detectors, but I’m clean. I get back in the limo.

“So…you pinched the diamonds when you had his jacket?” Rod asks.

“Yeah, he’ll figure that out soon enough. Anyway…with the gems we can set up a pension for the SSMS families...and ourselves.”

We drive back to the site of our “hit and run.” Rod lowers his window and whistles. SSMS victims’ advocate Pauline Pryor—a woman Linus now thinks is dead—emerges from the bushes. She gets in, weary but alive.

We park the limo on an isolated lane near the water. No one wants champagne, so we make do with caviar. Before dawn, we open the trunk to retrieve a sandbag—the “body” our limo ran over—and to plant a few strands of Pauline’s hair.

“I won’t miss Linus, but his ugly limo…” I say.

“Yeah, it grows on you,” says Rod.

We walk to the shore to dump the sand. I toss my gloves into the saltwater and say a silent goodbye to gangsters and limos and champagne. Goodbye, Georgie Girl.