Shred of Evidence

Rachel Zambri knew she’d have to tell her husband, Randy, that her book club had kind of turned into armed robbery and when she did, he said, “Kind of?”

She said, yeah, kind of. They were in their basement, Randy was finishing it, putting up drywall and raising the floor a couple inches off the cement and putting down carpeting. He’d already installed the new 54 inch flat screen and the new surround sound was in, but the speaker wires were still all over the place. They’d just watched Casino Royale and Rachel was ready to tell him, but they made out first, sitting on the couch, Randy still facing the TV and Rachel sitting on his lap, facing him, grinding.

When they were finished she slid off and curled up beside him, stroking his chest, glad the kids hadn’t woken up, and told him that the book club had stopped meeting and she and Cheryl Taugher had started robbing people.

Randy said, “I was wondering, you know, we haven’t had any money troubles lately.”

“We get maybe a thousand, fifteen hundred a week,” Rachel said. “It’s not much, split two ways, but it makes a big difference around here.”

“It sure does.”

Then she told him how just having a little extra cash in her purse took a lot of the pressure off. They went to sign up Kayla and Dylan for soccer, she just wrote the check, not worried. “Look, we’re going over budget on the basement, it’s not such a big deal.”

“Brand new house,” Randy said, “and it’s falling apart. I had to waterproof the whole place, put in more insulation before I could start the dry wall.”

Rachel touched his chest, moved her fingers over his arms, saying, “I always feel like it’s my fault, I wanted to move into this crappy subdivision.”

“It’s okay,” Randy said. “It’s getting better.”

“It is.” She hugged him tight, then said, “So, in the book club, Monica brought this stupid book, some college chick working as a stripper in Minnesota. Lots of talk, no action, you’d say.”

“I would?”

She tickled him and he pushed her hand away but then he pulled it back.

“And, you know, we drank wine and talked about the book for ten minutes and then it was just gossip.”

“That’s what a book club is.”

Rachel said, yeah. “All us chicks trying to sound educated. Anyway, Cheryl said what she noticed about the book, the thing that really stood out, was how much cash changed hands.”

“Strip clubs,” Randy said, “biggest rip offs.”

“I know, you said you wanted a blow job you’d pay the massage parlour chick the sixty bucks.”

“If I’m not getting it at home…”

“So Cheryl, she came up with the idea. She said, you know, banks these days they don’t have any money, gas stations never have more than fifty bucks.”

“But strip clubs?”

“Not the clubs, the guys. She came up with this idea, we stand outside as they’re going in. She does it, really.”

“Being the single Mom on the make, she knows the moves.”

“Moves, right. Well, she knew what MILF meant, I didn’t even know that.”

Randy squeezed her breasts, pinched the nipple a little, said, “Right.”

“So, Cheryl looked online, we picked the Club International out by the airport, it has a big parking lot, nothing around. She put on her leather mini and stood near the door.”

“Halter top?”

“Tight silk blouse, unbuttoned halfway. She waited till a guy came by himself, looked ready, and she said to him, how about a quick blowjob before you go in?”

Randy smiled, said, I can hear her saying it, the same voice she uses on me when she picks up Kevin from the play dates and Rachel said yeah, but lower. “Working on the husky voice. She says to the guy, when you go in you don’t want it to be over too soon, and he said, yeah okay, good idea. He was probably forty-five or fifty, not bad looking.”

“That matter?”

“She brings him back to the Caravan.”

“Wait, you use our van?”

“She gets in the middle seat, behind the driver’s, gets down on her knees on the floor, had a porno playing on the DVD, she tells the guy, come on, let’s see it. The guy, he thought she meant his dick, he starts undoing his pants and Cheryl says, no, honey, the money.”

“You’re in the front seat, the driver’s?”

“Standing outside the door, he thinks Cheryl’s alone. His pants are half open, he gets his wallet out, starts to get out some cash, Cheryl points the gun in his face, says, thanks honey, I’ll just take it all.”

“The gun?”

“She got it at that toy warehouse, the one on Dufferin. Dylan wants one.”

“Oh yeah, looks like a Colt, a .38. It’s a water pistol?”

“You take out the squirter, it looks just like the barrel of a gun. Especially in the dark, in the back of a Dodge Caravan in a strip club parking lot.”

“Your pants down, some chick shoving it in your face.”

“Guy handed her the wallet, she actually took the cash out, handed it back and said, okay, get going and shoved him out. I opened the door, hopped in and drove away.”

“How much the guy have?”

“Six hundred bucks.”

“You see,” Randy said. “Strip clubs are such a rip off, guy would have spent six hundred bucks on watered down booze and lap dances, probably jerk himself off on the way home.”

“So, we’re doing three or four a week, some massage parlours, too, instead of talking about Oprah’s books.”

Randy said, shit, that’s something. “Well,” he looked around the basement and then at Rachel and said, “I guess we can finish this place good, get that beer fridge, and the xbox for Dylan.”