Liars & Thieves

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When Dorsey O’Shea walked into the lock shop that morning in October, I was in the back room trying to figure out how to pick the new high-security Cooper locks. I saw her through the one-way glass that separated the workshop from the retail space.

My partner, Willie the Wire, was waiting on a customer. I don’t think Willie recognized her at first — it had been two years since Dorsey and I were a number, she had changed her hair, and as I recall he had only met her on one or two occasions — but he remembered her as soon as she said his name and asked for me.

Willie was noncommittal — he knew I was in the back room. “How long has it been, Dorsey?”

“I really need to see Carmellini,” she said forcefully.

“You’re the third hot woman this week who has told me that.”

“I want his telephone number, Willie.”

“Does he still have your phone number?”

That was when I stepped through the shop door and she saw me. She was tall, with great bones, and skin like cream. “Hey, Dorsey.”

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