TRAITOR VIC

His hair was perfect.

There may have been more to him than the perfect hair and the dashing eyes and a rippling physique when Margarite first spied him years ago, but today she has her doubts. Doubts that feel old as dust. Doubts that began long before now.

Margarite’s had a thing for beautiful men with sexy hair since she was a young woman and when she first laid eyes on Vic, well, he had a head of hair like no other man on God’s green earth. It really was perfect. And to an ambitious, corn-fed young woman who was determined to ‘make it in L.A.,’ good hair on a good-looking man had seemed like an ignorable distraction. Something for later. But show her a handsome devil with devious eyes and a perfect mop of hair and Margarite sees an exclamation point on God’s best work. And when God parks her best work right there in front of you, well, you don’t sit there and ignore it. You reach for that apple and pluck it.

And pluck it she did.

Which is why Margarite is back in coastal mid-California again, driving all the way from Palm Springs in her Porsche 911 with the top down. Hoteling with Marriott points, locking her blonde hair away from the wind with the help of a yellow visor and a pink scrunchy. The sun dazzling the highways with the taste of freedom. And it takes a rare day like today, truth be told, for Margarite to waste energy and brain space thinking of Vic. Fifteen years have gone by. Fifteen years she’s made her annual pilgrimage to this forgotten Irish pub in this forgotten coastal hamlet of gas stations, motels, and bars. Every year she makes the trek, never knowing if Vic’ll show before the clock finally runs out.

#

Margarite zooms past her usual parking place in front of Mickey’s Pub before making a hard left and parking the Porsche with the top up. She’s happy to walk around to the front and make the same grand entrance she’s made every year. Tugs that heavy wooden door wide open and swishes on in, hips in full pendulum mode, her hair now free and finger combed and tossed behind her shoulders just so. She pauses to let her eyes adjust to the dim as her brain registers the empty room and the fact that nothing’s changed since last year. Or the year before that. Even the bartender is the same though he might be wearing a different shirt. The bar stools are empty, every single one pointing to Vic’s absence. She slides onto her customary stool, handbag on the bar, realizing her memory no longer bothers to serve up an image of Vic and his perfect hair. Can’t? Won’t? What the hell does it matter? Vic never lived up to his potential (or his hair) and Margarite had filed him away as a life lesson long ago.

Jose the bartender slides Margarite’s way, doing that move he does by way of greeting. Some bartender version of Michael Jackson’s moonwalk and a damn good one at that. He’d ended it with a combination of head tilt and sideways grin that somehow acknowledge the razmataz of her grand entry, something Margarite appreciates. She drops a genuine grin on lips unfrozen by age-defying treatments and tilts her pretty head Jose’s way.

“The usual Ms. M.?” Jose’s cocked eyebrow feels as familiar as if she’d been here yesterday.

“Good to see you, Jose, and yes, please.” She says. “And might I just add,” she lets it hang a beat. “This place must agree with you. You’ve still not aged a bit.”

Jose shows a Dorian Gray smile and sets about his mixology.

#

Margarite sips her second Shirley Temple, embracing the moment. If she closes her eyes she wouldn’t know which year it was. Today. Last year. Ten years ago. They all feel so similar when she’s here. She lets a slow sigh filter out. Tilts her wristwatch and then waggles a finger at Jose, arm resting on the bar, painted nail in the air as if she’s at the blackjack table. Her first Shirley Temple went down smoothly and the second is close behind. She swears she’s feeling buzzed, watches as Jose begins mixing her third and final. He knows to use a quality ginger beer. Cut the Grenadine by half. Seven years he’s been here and seven years he’s remembered. The longest running bartender in all her years of dropping in at Murphy’s Pub. The only bartender who remembers everything about her, year after year. She almost wants to tell Jose thank you, and that this is it. In sixteen minutes Vic will be a no show for the last time and she’ll walk out the door and never come back. Take the money and run. And even if Vic does show, this is still her last visit. She’s held up her end of the bargain. She could’ve easily bailed. Fifteen years she’s schlepped her fine ass over from the quiet life in Palm Springs and selling high-end real estate. As much as she wants Vic to open that door, tip that perfect hair, look her in the eye and claim his share of the money she doubts it’ll happen. In years past she would hope they’d leave together but if he shows today they’ll be going their separate ways.

It’s taken longer than it should have but she’s over Vic. One hundred percent.

The job she’d helped him with had been as close to a perfect crime as you can get. A kidnapping. High risk, high reward, and perfectly executed. The kid was twenty. A geeky college student at NYU. Hungry and oblivious and easily reeled in by Margarite’s allure. Filthy rich parents with a real estate empire and apartment buildings strewn across the country and, most importantly, no mob ties. It was Margarite’s first exposure to a life of crime, her first exposure to the upside of real estate and the only time she’d taken advantage of anxious parents more than eager to swap bags of cash for the return of their brainy, young son.

#

“There you go, Sweetheart,” Jose sends her third mocktail, the tall, heavy glass sliding down the bar like an Olympic curling stone floating on the ice. Is Jose feeling buzzed also, she wonders? The glass comes to a rest right next to the almost empty. Jose wearing a look like he knows it’s a big moment. Margarite grins, gives Jose a slight side nod, and drains the remainder of drink number two, holding Jose’s eyes until the glass is empty and then back on the bar with a soft tick. “Appreciate you, Jose,” she exhales, waving at the empty bar. “Not sure why this place is so freakin’ empty, all the charm you bring to the joint.”

Jose chuckles. He’s already down the bar where it’s safe, his feet moving the right way this time, hands circling the bar with the white towel. “We’ll be full later, Ms. M.,” he says. “You should stick around. It’ll be full like last year and the year before and the year before that.”

#

Margarite’s eyes rest on her watch. Then the window to the street outside.

The job had gone so smoothly. The kid minded his manners, did what he was told. He’d been more energetic than cowed or fearful. An excitable boy, Margarite had found. Sensitive to touch and wholly appreciative of the extra personal attention she provided when Vic was out collecting their meals, making calls, taking care of business or whatever it was he did as the handoff approached.

She’d been amazed at how easy it had been, thinking Vic was some kind of crime genius. The kid sprinting across the dark parking lot to mom and dad’s big Mercedes, Vic slamming the trunk on suitcases of cash. Felt like she was in a movie, even expecting the happy ending when Vic started the engine, looked at her and said, “Change of plans, Sweetie. This is where we split up.” He had a palm in the air before she could blurt a word. “Wait. Wait. Hear my words,” he’d said. “We each take half a million now but I want you to take care of the rest. I’ll meet you at this bar, at this time, one day in the future.” He shoved a slip of paper at her, talking faster now, knowing she’s pissed and confused and ready to slap him. “I know it’s weird, but I have to disappear, Sweetie. I’ll keep the burner number going until we meet up or time’s up but no calls unless the cops get you. I’ll explain everything when I pick up my share in a year or three. And if I don’t show on time on the last day, the money is yours. All of it. No matter what.”

Margarite shaking her head, trying to read the note through blurry eyes. “You think I’m stupid?” She knew Vic had a family. She knew he’d go back to them one day but jilting her like this on the heels of a kidnapping with all that money? Now that shit takes the cake.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he snarked. “I’m leaving you with two million cash ‘cause you’re stupid.” Margarite knew something was off-kilter with the new plan, knew it with every fiber of her being but she could never put her finger on it. Never understood why he did it this way. Which was why it ate away at her like it did and why she dipped into the cash over the years, to hell with Vic. The only reason she bothers coming here is to get the rest of her money free and clear and to find out what the hell he’d really been up to.

Turns out she figured it out without him.

#

Margarite checks her watch again. Then the window. Nothing but time slipping by. She drums manicured nails on the bar, remembering how the kid’s old man had died last year. The media chewing over the oft-rumored and never confirmed kidnapping of the almost-billionaire’s son. The kid now all grown up. A handsome young man with very good hair. His face all over the internet news and cable networks. Always somber. Always refusing to give credence to the rumored kidnapping. Margarite admiring how well he’d grown into himself. How well he deflected the reporter’s asinine questions and how grateful he’d been. Margarite knowing he’ll never, ever acknowledge the kidnapping to the public, never tell the cops anything about her. She was proud of him as she read every re-hashed story she could find. And then, buried in the middle of the umpteenth story, mention of a cash ransom and an unknown quantity of cryptocurrency.

What?

Vic never said a word about any crypto, not that anyone was talking about it back then. Said it was a cash job and this was how you pulled off a perfect crime.

“We’ll do the exchange together, Sweetie, so you don’t have to worry about me cutting you out.” He’d been running a brush through his hair and she’d nodded, same as she always did. He’d known how to handle her from the get go.

These days, Margarite knows a lot more about crypto than she used to. Had several clients who’d bought and paid for property using it. She’d educated herself, just like she’d taught herself about basic finance as she built her real estate business. But reading that news report meant she had more to learn so she studied up. Almost blacked out when she realized how much cryptocurrency from fifteen years ago would be worth today. It was insane. Ludicrous, even. A percent growth that had too many zeroes to count. Translation? A single dollar’s worth of crypto from when they pulled the job would be valued at nearly a million dollars today. How can that be? A million!

Slippery Vic couldn’t have snagged much of it on top of all that cash, of that she was certain. But even a hundred dollars’ worth back then would be a staggering amount of money today if he didn’t lose it or cash it out early (which he probably did). The kind of appreciation that made the greenbacks in the back of her 911 look like chump change. And Vic would never settle for less than a grand of anything. One large, he’d have demanded, even if he couldn’t tell a crypto certificate from Monopoly money.

Vic never told her about the crypto and he never explained why she was the one stuck babysitting the cash, except to imply it might be to keep her honest. As if.

Vic knew she’d do as she was told and who wouldn’t want to keep the cash? He knew the money would keep her quiet. Such bullshit.

And now the memory of Vic’s perfect hair is distorted. Faded by time. Overwritten by betrayal.

“The day I show up is the day you’ll know we’re safe,” he’d said. “I got no evidence against you and you got nothing on me. Only one can hurt us is the kid and he’s not gonna want to dredge up the old stuff. It’s why we were nice to him.” Then he sidles in close, a menacing tone she’d not heard before. “Blow off our meet ups or take my money, I’ll hire someone to find you and it won’t be nice. You can trust me on that, Sweetie. Just like I know I can trust you with my half until that day comes.”

Vic the ass clown had counted on Margarite to be pretty and dumb. Counted on her to never think or imagine anything beyond what she’d been told. She shouldn’t have missed the crypto but, whoa. Her iPhone’s video back then was nothing like it is today but it’s clear as a bell and so much better than empty words and accusations. Vic. His hair. Vic and the kid right there in the room, frantic parents loud on the phone, Margarite nowhere to be seen.

#

The final deadline is 2:00 p.m. today and it’s 1:58 and by God, there he is!

Through the window Margarite sees Vic crossing the street, still jaunty but older. His head shines and he’s dressed like a million bucks. She breathes easy. Vic never cared about the cash. He’s only here to pat himself on the back and to let her know he’s on top of the world. She’d hated how his perfect crime had turned out to be so different from hers. She throws back Shirley Temple number three, blots her lips with a napkin and asks Jose if he would mind locking the door for a moment. Just five minutes. Literally. He looks surprised at the change in routine but obliges with a shrug and a key. Soon the door rattles. Rattles again. A muffled curse.

Margarite checks her Apple watch. Her iPhone. She knows they are indisputably accurate. At 2:02 she takes a photo of the empty bar. Sends it to Vic’s burner, the one she never called or messaged. Sends a couple messages to a different destination. One with an older file attached, all of them routing across the series of anonymous VPNs she’d had her tech guy set up long before she’d studied crypto, long before she took her proposal to the local D.A.

She digs into her handbag. Pins three fresh Benjamins beneath her glass. “It’s been real, Jose,” she says, throwing him a sultry wink. “Anyone asks, you tell ‘em I said you’re a real keeper.” She nods at the door. “Sorry about that. You can open it whenever you want.”

Jose heads to the door and Margarite heads to the back, to where she’d parked the Porsche for the first and last time. As the steel door begins to close behind her, she turns and peeks in for a quick look.

Vic in the middle of the bar, looking around. Confused. Wary.

Margarite hears the sirens, liking how quickly they responded, how close they sound. The door closes and Vic is still there, panic rattling his composure like an earthquake. Margarite makes her way to the Porsche. The afternoon sun is warm and cheerful as she slips away, steering clear of the fracas going down in front of Mickey’s Pub.

Soon the highway approaches and Margarite pulls over to put the top down and tuck her locks in tight, the pink scrunchy and yellow visor back in place. She guns the engine and pulls onto the roadway, smiles as she runs through the gears, wondering what her cut of any leftover crypto might be. As she settles in for the drive, she can’t help but marvel at the memory of Traitor Vic. Fifteen years too late and balding. Perfection and freedom lost to the deceit of time.

THE END

BIO: G. A. Rivers is a former scientist who writes thrillers and short crime fiction in the Midwest. A family man and dog lover, he is represented by Terrie Wolf, AKA Literary Management; his short fiction appears or will be appearing in Punk Noir Magazine, Bull Magazine, The Texas Wind Anthology by Cowboy Jamboree Press and Reckon Review; he can be found at FB (GA Glenn Rivers); BlueSky garivers.bsky.social and at gariversauthor.com.

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