The Perfect Crime

Chapter 18: LOYALTY

Nothing is more noble, nothing more venerable than loyalty. ~Cicero
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Thelma Louise darted through a back alley. She leaped over fallen trash cans and hastily discarded planks of wood gracefully. Thank God for dance training. It was a good thing she was still in shape. Otherwise, she wouldn't have gotten this far; especially with a heavy overnight bag slung over her shoulder and a bleeding leg. Fucking window pin.

Thelma ducked into a crowded subway entrance tunnel. She was immediately hit by a wave of heat and a plethora of body odours. Cheap perfume, antiseptic, sweat, urine, fried chicken. You name it. If you wanted to find the scum of the earth, you just had to go to the subway at one in the morning and voila.

Thelma hid behind a vending machine that had been declared OUT OF SERVICE. Thelma doubted that the vending machine would ever be in service again. She surreptitiously checked her surroundings for the cop who had been chasing after her. No cop in sight. Perfect.

The cop had been stupid to think that Thelma was stupid. Thelma couldn't blame him, though. It was the Boston Police Department's fault. It should have invested more money in disguises for their plain clothes officers. How was a big wig and a messy fake moustache supposed to fool someone who worked in the entertainment industry?

The thing with disguises is that you had to do it just right. Not too drastic and not too mild. Not too flamboyant and not too bland. Most people made the mistake of using flamboyant disguises. They thought that if they dyed their hair an awful color like purple, it worked as a disguise. It didn't. That only helped in painting a target on your head. Disguises should help you blend in not draw attention to you. Take a chameleon for example. It changes colour to fit it's surroundings. This was why it was named the master of camouflage.

Speaking of disguises, Thelma would need one if she was going to leave this country. She would go some place with no extradition treaty with the United States. Some place like China. Nope, too crowded. United Arab Emirates was the best option as of now. Thelma knew that she could rock a hijab. Maybe she would even meet one of those cute Moslem hunks on Instagram.

Thelma entered the women's restroom. She checked all the stalls. Empty. Perfect. She jammed the lock with her shoe and hopped towards the filthy mirror. No way she was stepping on the floor with her bare feet. It looked......alive.

First, she had to figure out what to do with her hair. Her beautiful black hair. Thelma gulped and took out a pair of scissors from her overnight bag. She hacked off her hair mercilessly. She knew if she stopped, she wouldn't be able to finish the task. When she was done, she collected all her hair and stuffed it in her overnight bag. She couldn't leave her DNA lying around. A criminal couldn't take chances. She stared at her reflection in the mirror and her eyes stung. Her hair was gone. Now, she looked like the product of a threesome comprising a tomboy, a prostitute and a clown. Atleast no one would recognize her.

Next, was the makeup. Thelma fished out her makeup kit and liberally applied eye shadow and lipstick to her eyes and lips respectively. She made sure to add concealer over the contusion on the side of her head; courtesy of Lindsay. Thelma couldn't have people stopping to inquire about her injured head, then recognizing her face from the news.

Thelma gazed at her reflection in the mirror. Perfect. Atleast now, she only looked like your everyday prostitute. With too much make-up and too little self respect.

Someone tried to push open the door and then figured out it was jammed and began to curse loudly. The intruder was slurring their words. Great. A fucking drunk. Thelma slipped on a hoodie, yanked her shoe from the door handle and was immediately pushed to the floor by the drunk. Thelma's ass connected with the semi wet floor. Shit. This night was going fan-fucking-tastically.