5-The Same Mistake

5

The Same Mistake.

Creegan stared at her as she moved across the waiting room towards him.  He could already remember her scent.  This led his brain into a premature fantasy.  He saw himself moving across the lobby and meeting Maggie halfway, his one arm slipping around her waist and pulling her tight.  His other gently moving through her hair.  He would stare into her wide, deep, brown eyes, and then kiss her deep and full until…

…Creegan suddenly shook his head as he remembered.

He remembered how she had deserted him in high school after his career ending injury.  He remembered the RTA incident, and how she had dragged him into that insanity and almost gotten him killed before, again, abandoning him in his time of need.

These memories led Creegan into a different fantasy.  He saw himself moving across the lobby and meeting Maggie halfway, his right arm slipping around her neck tightly, quickly followed by the left.  He would stare into her deep brown eyes and throttle the life out of her lying…

Creegan shook his head again as Maggie came to stop three feet away.  Her eyes pleading, she opened her mouth to speak but he got there first.

“No.”  With the one word, Creegan brushed past and started for the door.

Maggie frowned, “No? I haven’t even asked yet!”

“I’m cutting out the middle man.”  Creegan answered as he continued to the door without turning.

Maggie huffed and ran after him, passing him and standing between in his way of the door.

“Now hold on a damned second,” Maggie began.  Creegan stopped and she stared angrily at him.  “I just bailed you out of jail!  Isn’t that worth something?”

He took a deep breath and considered her question.  He then looked at her, “You’re right.   It is.”

Maggie smiled and nodded.  “That’s more like it.”

Creegan then took her hand and shook it, “I sincerely thank you for bailing me out of jail.”

He then shoved her out of the way and walked out the door.

Creegan’s resolve was a wall.  One made of brick.   He had to keep it up and focus on the fact that every time he got involved with Maggie, he got burned.  He had to try not to think of her full lips, the way she begged for a kiss to be deeper without using any words, the way that when she was on top of you she would….

He shook his head again.

Maggie stepped out the door and onto the sidewalk behind him, “TWENTY-THOUSAND DOLLARS!”

Maggie yelled the amount and Creegan suddenly found it impossible to keep walking. Something about the number made it physically impossible for him to move forward. Maggie stormed down the sidewalk and moved, yet again, in front of Creegan.

“Twenty thousand dollars.  I will pay you twenty thousand dollars.  Five grand now, fifteen when the job is done.”  She said this while staring at him in the eyes.

She looked sincere but, then again, she always had.  Every time she had promised Jim something.  Every time she had left him twisting in the wind.

“What do I have to do?”  Creegan asked, resenting himself as he did.

“Just keep me alive until the deal is done.”  She replied, hope rising in her voice.

When Creegan didn’t answer, Maggie pleaded.  “I know I have screwed you over in the past Jim, but I’m in some real trouble this time.  I need you Jim.”

Jim took a deep breath and grimaced, “When don’t you Mag’s?  When aren’t you in real trouble?”

Maggie smiled.  “Never seemed to bother you that much before…”  Her voice took on a sultry tone and she stepped into him, as if to kiss.

Creegan put his arms on her shoulders and shoved her back.  “No!  None of that shit. Keep your hands and mouth to yourself.”

Maggie frowned.  “Alright, fine.”  She pulled herself out of Creegan’s grip.  “So are you in, then?”

It’s a funny thing about people, they love to make the same mistake over again rather than find new ones to make.  “The five grand up front?”

Maggie smirked and nodded toward the station.  “How do you think I got you out?”

Jim nodded.  “Figures.  Alright.  You have a car?”

Maggie nodded.  “Yeah, I’m parked over here.  We’ll head to my place.  I have an apartment not too far away from here.”

Maggie turned and began to walk in the direction of the car and Creegan’s gaze helplessly dropped to her butt, the way it shifted within her tight jeans conjured up feelings…

“No!”  Creegan said it out loud as he shook his head and followed.

 ****

The Cook was always happier when he got a house to himself.  It made things so much easier.  When the mark was home, you were always taking a risk getting in and cooking.  So that it didn’t wake them up meant a level of quiet which The Cook felt hindered his abilities… at least his culinary abilities.

Today however he had gotten lucky that Margaret Oats had not been in her second floor mid-town apartment.  With a quick popping of the lock, he had entered and gone about his business of preparing Margaret’s favorite dish, a rather complicated salad, at least as far as salads go.

He had taken his time preparing the fresh lettuce and the organic vegetables to put into the dish before then taking out his premium cheese and beginning the process of turning the ingredients into, what would be, Margaret’s last dish.

It hadn’t been hard to find Margaret.  After The Cook had located that rather sad “Dear John” letter, he had cross-checked the unfortunate Hank’s expenses with the name Maggie.  Lo and behold, he had found this apartment which had been cosigned by the late Hank with a Miss Margaret Oats. The rest is history.

He smiled at the salad in front of him.  He had only but to add the final touch, an Italian dressing that he made from scratch at home before making the trip.  The Cook slowly drizzled the dressing onto the salad then sat back on one of the stools surrounding Margaret’s breakfast bar.

He pulled out his gun, a 93-r machine pistol, and placed it in front of himself on the counter.

His wait was short.  He heard the key hit the lock and some mumbling as she made pleasantries with a neighbor, then she entered and the door shut behind her.  For a split second, The Cook’s trained hearing seemed to pick up a second set of footsteps.  He discarded this thought it as nothing.

The Cook heard her walk toward the kitchen and he smiled, mentally preparing his speech.

The light flipped on and he raised the gun.  Maggie stopped dead in her tracks and stared at the evil looking pistol, her vision moving quickly from the small smiling man behind the gun to the gun itself.

“Hello, Ms. Oats.  May I call you Margaret?”  He asked with his usual pep.

Maggie raised an eyebrow, “Well, you have the gun.  I guess you can call me whatever you want.”

The Cook considered this, then responded in his heavy British accent.  “I’m going to take that as a yes, now please have a seat.”

Maggie slowly sat down, noticing the bowl in front of her. She became confused.  “Is that a salad?”

The stranger’s face lit up.  “Why, yes it is!  Your favorite type of salad, I believe.  Please have a taste.”

Maggie’s mouth dropped and her eyes widened.  “You made me a salad?”

 The man nodded

“What kind of weird ass, mother fucker makes someone a salad before they kill them?” Maggie asked with disgust on her face.

The cook was taken aback.  This reaction was new and he didn’t know where to begin.

Maggie, however, didn’t know where to stop.  “So, you break into my apartment with that giant ass gun to kill me, but before that you have to make me a salad?  Is that how you get off or something?  Oh shit, you aren’t going to… like… touch yourself while I eat it, are you?”

The Cook was officially offended.  His face contorted into anger.  “I will have you know, Madam, I AM NOT limited to salads! I can-“

The toilet flushed.

Why did the toilet flush?

 The Cook scooped up his gun and had a moment of panic.  The second set of footsteps, he remembered.  Someone else was in the apartment.  “Don’t move.”

With his words to Maggie, The Cook stood, gun out in front of him, and moved into the living room.  Across the small room, on the other side of the couch, a door opened and out walked a man drying his hands with a towel.

Bloody hell.

The large man’s eyes came up and he froze as he caught his sight on the gun and then the man behind it.

“I do say chap,” The Cook began, “I do hope you like salad.”