The Embezzlers Club

John was a cash-only antiques dealer in Chicago. Everything he sold once belonged to the  rich, famous, and scandalous. His side business salvaged architectural remnants and sold them to contractors. Another all-cash scam. His crews stole stained glass windows and glazed tiles at night and unloaded them at daybreak.

In a bar tricked up like a church, I convinced him I was better than his current bookkeeper. “Look,” I said when he was blind drunk. “Look at my face. Trustworthy as faces get.”

My timing must have been right. In three years I skimmed three million. With John’s drinking problem, I could have grabbed six, but greediness killed the cat.

Then I drove cross-country and bought a Victorian mansion in Yonkers.

Months later, I’m still sniffing around for an occupation. Three mil ain't what it used to be. Besides, I'm bored. But everybody’s already set. No need to talk. And my trustworthy looks? Not even women respond.

So I hire Natalie off the internet, and leave a fat envelope on the armoire. Same girl twice a week, so after a few months, I don’t mind asking her, “What gives?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean why am I still paying for it and why can’t I find a nice situation?”

“Guess the market for embezzlers has just dried up,” Natalie says.

“Listen up, Sherlock, who says I’m an embezzler?”

“Who says I’m a whore?”

“Very funny.” Before I get angry, she says there’s a party down the street--my kind of party--and tells me to wear clean jeans and a good shirt if I have one.

Meanwhile, she washes her face, twists her hair on top of her head, and pulls flat shoes from her purse. Her skirt’s three inches longer than usual and she buttons up a little checked jacket.

Walking to the party, I ask Natalie if this is the same guy who gives piano lessons. 'Cause I've seen his flyer at the liquor store. 

 A little girl opens the door. “Hi Natalie.” My whore teaches the girl ballet. Also, the piano teacher deals drugs.

Natalie introduces me to people in real estate, car dealership owners, tax lawyers, supervisors, and consultants. 

After we shake hands and move on, she tells me how they really make their living, what their con is.

A man wearing a tuxedo extends a platter of stuffed mushrooms. Natalie eats three. I’m not hungry. She asks the bartender for bourbon, straight. 

“What’ll you have?”

“Nothing, thanks.”

“Loosen up,” Natalie says. "The Embezzlers Club is outside, on the deck.”

“Very funny.”

“They don’t call it The Embezzlers Club, but everybody knows. Do you want to land a ‘nice situation’ or not?”

“You’re kidding. Like, if I wander outside, I can meet people who'll hook me up with a sweet deal?"

Her shoulders lift, her head nods.

"And I suppose, I never get caught.”

“Not for a long, long time. Of course, someday you will. We all will, soon or later.”