The Hatmaker Cycle - Part II: Violation

THE HATMAKER CYCLE
A Tale of Intrigue, Headwear, and Justice
Dominic E. Lacasse

Part II: Violation

   She smiled as the hot breeze blew across her face. Swinging by her side was a black purse, loaded to the brim with American bills. The results of her latest tragic divorce. That made fifty-six, if her count was right; a number which nobody would ever know, least of all the American authorities or any of her past or future would-be soul-mates. A lady never tells.

   This last had been a breeze, though it had taken a little longer than it should have. A wealthy American businessman, jaded as could be, saddled with a plain and aging wife who, she assumed, failed to arouse his sensations the way a lithe young blonde would. Curiously enough, however, the trouble with this last job had been convincing her mark to leave the bloated old wench. If she had believed in love she might have applied the term to this kind of utterly foolish attachment. She had nearly given up hope, resigned herself to the fact that this businessman would never allow her to become anything more than a girlfriend on the side. She laughed softly as she strolled down the street– he was either very optimistic or very stupid if he ever sincerely believed that an overweight forty-something number-cruncher could possibly satisfy a gorgeous woman like herself, and as a girlfriend, no less.

   In any case, just as she was getting ready to cut her losses and run, God proved once again that He loves a thief. She wished she could have seen the look on the old man’s face as he opened the door to his bedroom only to find his wife engaged in something rather frantic, under the covers with another man. He told her that he didn’t even say a word. He took everything that would fit in his car and drove off to find the gorgeous blonde who had stolen his heart. Because he knew they were destined to be together, forever, and nothing else mattered. Two weeks later they were husband and wife. A month after that she was strolling down the sidewalk in the summer sun with a black purse and a bank account both full to bursting.

   She was ready to go. She had grown somewhat tired of Mexico and she had her eye on somewhere a little cooler. England, perhaps, maybe work her way toward Italy. She had never seen Italy and she imagined the rich men there were as desperate as they were in Mexico, or America, or Canada, or anywhere else on this ridiculous planet. Yes, she was ready to move on, but she wanted to do one more job. Just a little one. She had no idea why but she felt compelled to pull a one-night job, the kind she used to do when she was poor and had yet to realize the full potential of a rocky divorce. The kind of job that takes no planning- find a guy, get him to bring you home, fuck him until he falls asleep, rob him blind and get the hell out. She normally wouldn’t consider risking it, but as she was ready to leave anyway the chances of her getting caught were slim to none. That’s it, then. The next shop, perhaps. I’ll go into this next shop and we’ll see what develops.

   She stepped to the door and her hand reached for the knob when she suddenly felt a burning pain in her chest. She had heard no noise, felt no impact, but it felt as though someone had stabbed her with a red-hot dagger. She considered briefly that it could be a heart attack, but that was foolish. She fell to the ground as the blood made a mess of her new green dress. And she did so like this dress.

   As her vision began to darken she half-heard the door swing open, half-saw her would-be victim staring at her in horror. She had a strange sensation that another had arrived, who? She couldn’t see anything anymore. She was briefly struck by the silence, the utter silence. And then there was no more.