Thief

From the Bus Stop Collection.

My cousin, Danny, is a thief.

I know that is not a nice thing to say about a relative, especially a close relative like my Aunt Vivien’s only son. I am Italian and we just don’t say bad things about family. Unfortunately, the truth is, my cousin Danny Mariano was a thief.

I don’t mean, an occasional thief, one who steals ever so often. Nor do I mean an opportunistic thief, one who steals when a chance situation presents itself. No, I mean a perpetual, life-long, unrepentant thief, one who steals from everyone, all the time.

The first time I knew about his crooked tendencies was when Danny stole a carton of cigarettes from our grandfather. My grandfather had been a drill sergeant in the Army, and he was one tough guy. When he noticed that the new carton of cigarettes had been stolen, he immediately knew it had to one of us kids, either Danny, his sister Brenda, me, or my younger brother Paul. No one else had had access to his house after he had purchased the carton, and no one else would know where he stashed his stuff.

My grandfather sat us all down in a row, forbade any conversation, and began to give us the boot camp drill. He compelled us to do physical exercises until our bodies ached. He yelled at us as sergeants do. However, none of us cracked. We’re Italian and we don’t rat on each other.

Besides, none of the rest of us knew that Danny had done it. He could be very sneaky.

Finally, after an intense hour of grilling us, my grandfather let us go with a warning. “I’m watching you kids. If any thing else goes missing, I know where to look.”

A couple days later, Danny showed me a wad of money. He was in a bragging mood. “You know that carton of cigarettes our grandfather got so bent up about? Well, I sold it to a kid at school. A dumb kid. He paid me $15 for it; twice what it cost to originally buy. Nice profit. Dumb kid.”

What I did not know until many years later was that Danny had also stolen $35 that our grandfather was saving to buy our grandmother a present. My grandparents were not rich people. They lived in a small mobile home on some land just east of Renton, Washington. All they had for income was his Army pension.

It did not bother Danny that he had stolen from people who dearly loved him, and who would have probably given him both the carton of cigarettes and the $35 if he had needed them.

All he cared about was that the “easy” theft had netted him a “quick” $50.