Rumours & Lies
Page 9
about a hundred thousand dollars. The necklace that Brit gave me wasn’t the imitation, it was the real thing, and the hundred thousand was the lion’s share of what I’d get for it.
You see, I’m a thief; not a burglar—what an awkward word. Not a prowler; my knees and hips are incapable of prowling at this point. But a thief . . . who engages in thievery. I steal other people’s things for a living. During the previous night when lovers were loving and beer garden sitters were sitting and shops were closing in the lovely town of Gledenten, I went to work. Marlow and Brit’s place was easy to get into; I approached from the water side, just after dark and easily picked the lock on their back door. The security alarm was easily compromised because it wasn’t installed properly which happens more times than you might think. I had reset the timing mechanism so that I had an hour which was more than enough time. There were no live—in staff, and so I was alone.
Originally I had planned on just getting into the safe which was, uncreatively, in the bedroom closet, and stealing the damn thing straight up. I’d brought a few small tools and a lifetime of experience with me and didn’t have any trouble getting into that archaic thing.
Actually, originally, I had planned on stealing the necklace from Harrison’s. I’d scoped it out over the previous couple of weeks; both from the window of the apartment I was renting for the month, and from a few reconnaissance browsing missions, the third of which resulted in my watching Brit put my necklace around her lovely long neck.
But standing in Brit’s and Marlow’s bedroom, the real necklace in my hand in all its sparkling rubiness, and the fake one on Brit’s night table, it dawned on me that I could remove just about all the risk from this little endeavour and save myself the possibility of involuntary incarceration. The more I thought about it, the more I loved the idea. There were no guarantees it would pan out but this had the makings of a legendary idea. This one could go down as one of the great ones.
The fake necklace was a decent fake. An untrained eye couldn’t tell the difference, and I was sure that Brit and Marlow were as untrained as you could get. So I put the fake one in the vault and shut it up and then I put the real one on the night table and then I got out of there quick as a mouse. I’d broken into a house that probably had close to three million dollars’ worth of easily stealable, easily transportable stuff, and taken nothing. And I won’t for a moment suggest that it was easy, but the chance to pull of an illegality of such artistic merit had its allure.
So where is the risk? I was sure that I could paint a picture for Marlow and more importantly for Brit of a well—meaning son who couldn’t afford to buy his poor mother the necklace she loved. It’s amazing what handing someone two thousand dollars of their own money can do to people. There was no guarantee that they’d give me the necklace, but I painted the picture for them and hoped for the best. If I’d failed to fire up their generosity, I was prepared to pay them for the fake—I had five hundred bucks in my back pocket, and would have offered it up as a means for making poor old mom happy. But Brit had come through, and Marlow saw an easy way to get me out of his house, so my five hundred stayed with me.
If the day ever came when either of them realized that the necklace they had was the fake, what would happen? They’d realize that they gave me the wrong one, and unfortunately Brit would get blamed for this. They’d try and contact me, but wouldn’t have much luck; I’d be long gone. I’d only planned on being in Gledenten till I got the necklace out of Harrison’s anyway. I’d paid cash for everything I’d purchased anywhere near the town. My name isn’t Robert King, and my mom died ages ago. There’s no crime in not being able to be contacted.
What if someone had seen me? What if I’d left a fingerprint (these are formally tied to me because of a youthful indiscretion—before I got good at it all) somewhere in the house? Well, nothing would come of it. Nothing was missing. There was no reason to believe a crime was committed. Was it feasible to believe that someone had broken into a large home full of valuable things just to do a little rearranging? No chance.
The kid would get most of the money, because it just seemed a just thing to do, and to be honest, I’d done this one more for the sport of it—the artistic beauty of the whole thing.
Packing my things up in the apartment on Saturday afternoon, I took my ego out for a run and contemplated that I’d committed the perfect crime. “No, it’s not goddam perfection you idiot,” I imagined Marlow saying, as Brit looked on slightly embarrassed. “Maybe not,” I thought, “but I’ve got your necklace Marlow.”
The Illusion of Probability
Maximilian Myers was a poor magician; financially, he and his wife achieved an adequate existence, but Maxie as his friends called him, wasn’t very good at performing magic tricks. He and Larisa travelled from town to town, performing in bars, school gymnasiums, churches and any place that would have them. Maxie would do a little sleight of hand at the beginning of each show, and then Larisa would join him and they’d walk through all the tired old standards; he’d saw her in half, make her disappear and end the show by seemingly sticking a sword through her stomach. It had all been done before and the subdued applause that usually accompanied their leaving the stage confirmed just how uninspiring it all was.
They’d get paid; usually in cash, and usually a small amount. They’d check out of the cheapest motel in that town, fill their van up with gas, and drive to the next town. It was a life; nothing more and nothing less. They were still in love after twenty two years of marriage, they had no kids, and so they pressed on.
It was in the middle of the night, driving from Beacon Downs to Harrisville, that Maxie got the idea for the trick. Larisa was asleep in the back, and a steady rain beating against the windshield had created a soothing cadence that freed his mind to piece together the idea. He pulled over at the first truck stop diner, woke Larisa, and told her about the trick that was going to change their lives.
The Harrisville show was a matinee, in a small abandon movie theatre. Maxie and Larisa walked through their normal routine for the fifty or sixty locals in attendance. It went as well as it usually did; mediocre at worst, mediocre at best. Larisa, after revealing to the audience that she had survived being pierced by a large steel sword, and after receiving and acknowledging the smattering of polite applause that was their trademark, rushed backstage, grabbed their video recorder and covertly made her way to the back of the crowd. Maxie ducked backstage, grabbed an inflated beach ball, and approached the microphone.
“We have one more trick for you. We’re still working out the kinks, but we’d like to try it for you,” Maxie said smiling and proud.
There was no reaction from the audience, who sat as silently as they had all afternoon.
“A beach ball when thrown has a certain lack of predictability. It could go any number of directions,” Maxie said, at least encouraged that nobody had left. “This is because it’s a light object with a relatively large surface area.”
Blank faces stared back at him. He threw the beach ball into the audience. It swiftly rose, took a sharp right and then settled into the hands of a middle age gentleman, who looked more embarrassed than pleased.
“Your name sir?” Maxie asked.
The gentleman looked around, and then paused. “Hubert,” he said finally.
“Wonderful, Hubert would you please throw the beach ball so it lands in the audience, and then join me on stage.”
Hubert looked less than thrilled at the prospect of doing what Maxie had suggested, but finally he threw the beach ball hard to his right. Again it swiftly rose, this time taking a sharp left and landed in the hands of an attractive young woman, who at least looked pleased to be participating. Hubert slowly made his way onto the stage.
“And your name is?” Maxie said.
“Anne,” the woman said quickly with a wide smile that suggested she was keen to be involved.
“Wonderful. Just hold the ball for a moment,” Maxie said and turned to Hubert who was standing beside
him now. He took a small white envelope out of his pocket and handed it to Hubert.
“Should I throw the ball,” Anne shouted. A few people giggled at her impatience.
Maxie was looking at Hubert. “Hubert hold this envelope above your head so everyone can see it.”
Hubert smiled and raised his hand with the envelope above his head.
“Alright Anne, let it fly, but first pick either red or black,” Maxie shouted.
“What?” Anne shouted back, unsure of what she was supposed to do.
“Red or black. Choose one.”
“Red,” she shouted, to more giggles from the other audience members.
“Perfect, now throw the beach ball.”
She did, and it rose like a rocket and then landed like a butterfly in an older gentleman’s hands behind her.
“Name please,” Maxie shouted loudly, ensuring that he accommodated any hearing issues.
“Bryce Paulson,” the man shouted back.
“Choose a red suite; either hearts or diamonds please sir.”
“Diamonds,” he shouted quickly.
“Now, please throw the ball so it lands in the audience.”
Bryce threw the ball hard to his left. It swooped and then fluttered and landed in the hands of a young girl.”
“Hello darling, can you choose one of the diamond cards please. Ace through