Spy Jeans
by
Jack Wilson
Kerry ambled out of the posh boutique on Rodeo Dr. mumbling to herself. “I just bought these five-hundred dollar jeans and look at this. Now who would plant a trick button on the fly of these Gucci pants?”
Once home she took off the jeans and replaced the false button with one not quite right but adequate. She put the offending object in a 4x6x5 inch cherry wood box her Grandma Cerise had left her. She did not realize that the button was a GPS device.
Kerry had inherited more than a cherry wood box from Nana. Kerry was rich. She had no particular interest in culture or hobbies or plants or anything except shopping and hanging out in clubs. She had a degree from Claremont but did not think much and never read a book she could skip. She made no effort to understand the why of it all. She didn’t care. She was really, really rich.
The spy-cam sat in the cherry wood box, beeping almost silently. The beeps contained no information except the location of the cam. Knut maneuvered his Miata in tightening circles, or rather squares, till he got the strongest signal, uncoiled himself from the diagonally parked car and inspected the apartment building. He knew that anyone buying absurdly high-priced jeans would live well but he was not expecting such a fortress. He sidled up to one of the sentry plants guarding the entrance, stood in its shade and pondered the possibilities. He depressed the button to call the doorkeeper.
He had dressed in overalls and wore a cap with an SRP logo and carried a toolbox. He presented himself as an electrician requested by a Mrs. Johnson. The doorman knew of no Mrs. Johnson residing in the building. Knut scratched his head and suggested that someone must have played a trick on him. He begged the doorman’s pardon for any inconvenience but asked if he might use the bathroom in the lobby, indicating by his body language a certain urgency. Without expression the doorman directed him.
After an appropriate wait, Knut slipped out the bathroom door and glided down the hallway, listening in his earbud to the faint beep growing little in strength. Must be on another floor. He slithered up one flight and heard the beep reaching maximum volume. He lingered at the correct door. He snaked through all the hindrances and got inside, moved directly to the bureau containing the cherry wood box and pocketed the cam. Now to find the booty, fill up his toolbox and fly.
He felt smooth, getting into the flow of the caper, slightly giddy. He was on the right track when he heard a keycard in the lock and a shuffle outside. He sought to hide, but on quick reflection, chose to face the pants. He planted his feet solidly in the frame between the sitting room and the hall to the bedroom. When Kerry turned on the light, there he stood; quiet, smiling.
Kerry giggled.
Kerry marched right over to Knut and touched his nose with her right forefinger. “What’s your story, hot shot?” Knut said nothing, grabbed her around the waist, pulled her to him and kissed her surprisingly softly. She liked it; kissed him back.
“Let me tell you a story,” said Knut, “about a trick button I planted on your fly.” Kerry listened, enchanted, while signaling to the waiting doorman to take a hike. The cam beeped.
End
