Christmas Every Day

Margaret Fenton

The rack in front of her shined with glossy covers featuring decadent holiday foods, and she faked interest in one of them while keeping an eye on the dark-haired woman in line just ahead of her. Reaching, she picked up one of the magazines. Our Best Christmas Recipes Ever, said the cover. She pretended to study one for fruitcake. The teenaged clerk scanned can after can from the black conveyor and whistled “Jingle Bell Rock” softly along with the piped-in music. Then, finally, “One hundred and sixty one oh seven. Ma’am,” he added as an afterthought.

This was it. The timing was crucial. The woman opened her wallet, took out her debit card and swiped it through the scanner. She watched carefully as the woman typed in the four numbers. 5797. Now.

She moved to replace the magazine, her elbow knocking over the plastic jug of grape juice whose lid she’d surreptitiously loosened minutes earlier. It fell off the belt, hit the floor, and bounced, splashing purple liquid all over both the women’s shoes and everything else within a three foot radius.

“Oh, hell,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

The woman shot her a look. “It’s okay.”

“No really, I’m so sorry.”

The teenager reached below the counter and came up with a roll of paper towels. He jogged around to their side and in the sticky chaos as they mopped up their legs and feet and the floor, no one noticed her hand slipping into the woman’s open purse and sliding the wallet into her jacket pocket.

It was just that easy.

In her car, blocks away, she opened the wallet. Who am I today? she thought, reading the driver’s license. Ah, I’m Susan Ambrose. Five feet seven, black hair, brown eyes. Easy enough. She pulled over onto a quiet residential street, quickly trading the blond wig for a black one. The juice-stained heels she traded for flats. The dark glasses would hide her eyes, and the fur-lined hood of her coat would take care of the rest. She checked the mirror on the back of the sun flap and sped to the nearest bank.

She knew a hundred ways of getting other people’s money. She’d dabbled in phishing, getting personal information by sending out realistic-looking emails as if they’d come from a bank. Too many people were on to that scam now. Fake shopping websites were lucrative, but with a catch. Too easy to track. Raiding mailboxes for pre-approved credit card upgrade letters was a good one, especially this time of year when it seemed everyone went into debt for the holidays. All you had to do was scribble a signature on the application form and watch the box for the card. Then a little caller ID spoofing, and presto, a new line of credit.

Of course, getting debit or credit cards by stealing them directly was the best way, but the riskiest. She only had a limited amount of time before the real Susan Ambrose would notice her wallet was gone, traipse back to the store, find she hadn’t left it there, and start calling the bank. Any transactions had to be done immediately. First she’d get the cash, withdrawing the limit from the ATM. Then, shopping.