Thief's Odyssey

by John L. Monk

  Chapter 9

  In the morning, I returned to the apartment and found Anna awake and ready to drop me off. She seemed less sad than the night before, but I still worried about her.

  “I hate to ask,” I said, “but can you do me another favor?”

  Anna laughed. “I live but to serve, oh master.”

  I handed her a key and asked her to clean out Ted’s mail every few days. One of my only nightmares was where I’d forgotten to check his mail for several months and it all got sent to his parents.

  With the chores assigned, I gave her a kiss on the cheek and promised to call her when I landed.

  “Have a blast,” Anna said. “Bring me back something tropical.”

  I promised I would, shut the door, and watched her drive away.

  Security didn’t give me any trouble. Why would they? Beauregard Mosley was an upstanding citizen who’d never done anything wrong. Well, other than leaving a friend he hadn’t seen in years alone in a house with a bunch of cash, and her an addict with no support system or close family. But otherwise … yeah, I felt guilty. The entire ride to Concourse Z had me reaching for my phone to call her, but that’d only serve to make me more of a creep.

  Hi, it’s me again. So how are you? Yeah, you sound fine. Okay, then—thanks again for the ride.

  As a diversion, I spent my time at Z Gate trying to guess who around me might be Danny Fleer. I imagined a skinny balding guy with a perpetual frown, wearing a blue and white leisure suit and snapping his fingers for a drink. In other words, Fredo from The Godfather, and don’t ask me why. Glancing around, nobody looked remotely weak and stupid enough to fit that description. I did latch onto a likely candidate sitting alone near the doors in Z-7. Balding, yes. Old enough to own a dealership, yet young enough to have three mistresses. Well fed without being fat, and reading a magazine because he couldn’t spare the time sink of a good book. An automotive magazine.

  I sat down across from him, not saying anything. I so rarely got to see the people I robbed up close. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it, and I wondered what that said about me. That I could sit next to someone who, days from now, would wake up thousands of dollars lighter, his sense of security shattered. Would he take it out on the receptionist or some salesman at the dealership? Or would he decide true wealth resides in the heart, filled daily from a loved-one’s hugs and kisses?

  “You got a staring problem, son?” the man said loudly, his face stony.

  “What? Oh, no—I do that sometimes when I’m thinking about stuff. Even worse when I’m eating.”

  “Uh huh,” he said, turning back to his magazine.

  An hour out from departure, I found an open Wi-Fi and sent an email to Mrs. Swanson with my Bo account. I gave her Ted’s address and told her Anna was fine. Then I emailed Lucas Villa using my work account and told him I’d be gone a few weeks due to a family emergency. I didn’t know if he’d be fine with that or fire me, and I surprised myself when I realized I didn’t care. The truth was, reading people’s email and hitting their houses felt a little like shooting fish in a barrel, and it had for a long time now. If I wanted a sure thing I could sit in traffic every day and hang around normal people, maybe get married and have great kids and visit my in-laws every other year. I wouldn’t have minded the married part. But I hated daytime traffic, and having to pretend I was interested in my job to get promoted seemed like young death to me, and…

  Oops.

  Sighing loudly, the man snapped his magazine shut, then grabbed his bag and found another seat.

  That was fine. After I got on the plane, I learned he wasn’t my guy at all. The real Danny Fleer was a squat, pocked-faced, forty-something white man with a thin mustache. He had frizzy brown hair combed up to make him appear taller.

  “You a window guy or an aisle guy?” he said after stowing his bag in the overhead compartment.

  “Uh … doesn’t much matter to me. I’ve never seen Nassau from the air before, but I’m fine either way.”

  Best to act like I hadn’t come straight from the farm.

  “Nah, take it,” he said. “I had too much coffee and I’m gonna need to get up a lot.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and scooted into the seat next to the window.

  “Business or pleasure?” he said.

  “Just a vacation,” I said. “Taking a break.”

  “Oh yeah? Life’s a beach, huh? Am I right? Name’s Danny.”

  He held out his hand.

  “Bo,” I said, shaking it. Two pumps—firm, not crushing. “How about you? Business or pleasure?”

  Danny smirked. “The only thing they got there is hotels and sandcastles, and my hotel days are over.”

  Somehow he’d wrapped a riddle inside a platitude and thought he’d answered the question. I didn’t know what the hell he meant. Then again, he did sell cars for a living.

  “Look at this one,” he whispered.

  I glanced up to see what he was talking about. Down the aisle came a red-faced, huffing and puffing overweight lady struggling with her carry-on.

  Danny snickered and said, “Shh, here she comes.” When the lady passed, he added, “Bet her friends tell her she has a pretty face. Am I right?”

  “Uh, sure,” I said.

  What I wanted to do was point out how fat he was and say his acne scars made him look like a troll, but then it’d be weird and uncomfortable the whole way down. Suddenly, my clever idea to fly down with a mark didn’t seem so clever.

  Danny wasn’t done. When our flight attendant came by—a cute brunette—he made a show of craning his neck this way and that to see her. Like he wanted me to notice how virile he was. I wanted to show him what violent nausea looked like but didn’t because I had good manners.

  To distract him I said, “You afraid of airplanes, Danny?”

  I’d never been on an airplane before and I was nervous. Part of me hoped he’d say something to calm me down.

  “What for? We gotta die sometime. May as well be on the hottest roller coaster ride ever. Am I right?”

  “Yeah,” I said, and wondered how many times he’d ask me how right he was.

  Before the flight attendant told us to put our electronics away, Danny started pecking out an email on his phone. It was fun knowing I could get my laptop down and read whatever he typed back to him. Of course that’d ruin everything and get me sent to jail.

  Twenty minutes later, we were flying. Barely scary at all, because the engines weren’t on fire and the wing I’d designated myself to watch was still there when I checked for the hundredth time.

  To take my mind off the overstressed wing, I said, “So, you have any kids?”

  “Nope,” Danny said. “Wife’s like a desert down there—sandy, barren, and dry.”

  “Well … uh, there’s always adoption.”

  “We talked about it,” he said. “She wants a little boy. But between you and me, I’m thinking a seventeen-year-old Filipino girl might be just the thing—tell me I’m right.”

  He laughed like he was joking.

  The whole flight, Danny Fleer ogled our flight attendant as she came and went, often calling for little bottles of booze and not drinking them so he could have a reason to flirt. I also noticed he didn’t use the First Class bathrooms—he’d go back behind the curtain to the cheaper seats.

  When I asked him about it, he said, “You never know what a stroll through coach might turn up. Poor women like guys who fly first class. See for yourself.”

  I said I had a girl I was meeting on the island, then immediately regretted it.

  “Hah, I knew it! Bet she’s wild. Young guys like us need two things,” he said. “A pack of rubbers and a good alibi. Tell me I’m right.”

  By the time we landed I must have told him he was right about twenty times. I grew worried he’d want to meet up on the island for drinks or something. But as soon as the door opened it was like he’d never met me. He grabbed his bag and shoved forward, eager to get off the plane.


  “Bye, Danny,” I called after him, but he didn’t look back—probably off to buy rubbers or something. Tell me I’m right.

  Flying down with Danny Fleer may have been a letdown, but landing in a different country was really exciting. This was the first time I’d ever been out of the States, so I was looking forward to doing a little exploring.

  Lynden Pindling International was bigger than I’d expected for an island nation, and a third world one at that, though nowhere near the size of Dulles. At customs, I had to fill out a Declaration of Value form for my laptop. The friendly lady who gave me the form called me “Mr. Moss-ley” and made a point of telling me where the taxi stand was. She seemed nice, so I asked if there was a good place in the airport to eat.

  “Everyone loves the Subway,” she said, “and we have Dunkin’ Donuts.”

  She had a light islands accent, pleasing like a comfortable song. A little like a Jamaican accent but softer, more rounded.

  After picking up my suitcase, I got a sandwich and smiled when my change came back in beautifully colored Bahamian money. I’d have to bring some back for the kids at the mansion.

  There were plenty of taxis available, and I hailed the first one I saw—a squat white van with a sheer front and a boxy appearance. The driver had on a colorful tie and appeared professional, so I felt safe getting inside.

  Honestly, I was out of my element. Everything around me was new and different. Even the weather surprised me. I’d expected it to be boiling, so close to the equator, but there was a fresh steady breeze. It had been much hotter in Virginia.

  “Where you going to?” the cabbie said, his manner comfortable and friendly.

  “Do you know where the Comfort Suites is?”

  “Oh yes,” he said. “Paradise Island will be $32, sir.”

  He wasn’t asking me to pay immediately. He just wanted me to know.

  “That’ll be fine,” I said, and got in.

  Scooters and small cars whizzed past from parts unknown, and every bus stop had people waiting at it. The landscape was beautiful, with palms everywhere and giant decorative ferns and beautiful orange-flowered trees the driver told me were Poinciana trees. The houses along the way were colorful—anywhere from yellow to blue to conch-shell pink and emerald green.

  Soon, I noticed not everything was strange or exotic: we passed a Texaco station and a Kentucky Fried Chicken.

  The driver took me through downtown Nassau. Happily, there was plenty of island flare here—along with a lot of commercialism, sure, but I had to live in the real world, same as them. I laughed when I saw a shop advertising Cuban cigars, which I knew were illegal in the U.S.

  Before we got to Paradise Island—a small, connected island given over almost exclusively to hotels and beach resorts—he took me past the Straw Market.

  “You want to come here if you like good deals,” he said.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “But don’t buy the bootlegged DVDs, okay?” He laughed. “They check for them at the airport. Everything is bootlegged, but if you buy a bag or a watch they don’t care as much.”

  From my window, I saw a lot of hats and sunglasses and bags for sale. I wondered whether Anna would appreciate a genuine five-dollar Gucci handbag.

  We left Nassau behind and crossed over to Paradise Island in search of my hotel. From the high, connecting bridge, I noticed several huge hotels dominating the landscape. I asked what the enormous arched monstrosity was, straight ahead.

  The driver said, “Oh that is the Poseidon, sir. They have a room that costs $25,000 a night. Yeah? They call it the Michael Jackson Suite.”

  “Really?” I said, wondering what kind of person would rent a room for so much. “Is it worth it?”

  “Hah! You would have to ask him, sir. For me, I won’t sleep so high up.”

  Before we got to the hotel, I asked him where I could rent a scooter.

  “Very easy,” he said, and took me to an enclosed kiosk close to the Poseidon.

  There were about twenty scooters lined up in every color of the rainbow.

  “You mind stopping here?” I said.

  “No problem, sir,” he said happily.

  I paid my driver and tipped him a little extra, then picked a dark blue scooter for $75 a day and a $300 cash deposit. I used the hook under the seat for my laptop and tightened the straps on my backpack. Then, after being told firmly “we drive on the left side” by the no-nonsense clerk who took my paperwork, I pulled onto the road on my first scooter ride ever.

  I experimented on the side of the road until I figured out how to make it stop, taking it around the block a few times while I still had daylight. Easy enough if I paid attention—which was hard when the trending fashion among young vacationers was suntan oil and tan lines and tramp stamps and very little else.

  Twenty minutes later, I found a spot under a tree at my hotel and parked. Then I followed the signs to the entrance.

  The Comfort Suites Hotel was a lot smaller than the Poseidon mega-resort, but it still looked nice. Everything was pink on the outside and festive and bright on the inside. Until this trip, the fanciest architecture I’d seen was from the inside of someone’s McMansion or the outside of one of the huge houses in Great Falls—houses built to display power and prestige.

  The Bo Mosley Suite might not have cost $25,000 a night, but it was still great, with exotic archways and wall paintings in bold, striking colors. Even the bed was pretty—a luxurious king-sized affair with a thick satin comforter. The view from the window showed a pool with a floating bar and sunbathers in skimpy bikinis, and for a moment I considered ditching my plan to rob Danny Fleer and just enjoy myself, but only for a moment.

  After all, stealing was too much fun.

  Tired from the trip, I closed the heavy, colorful curtains and dialed down the AC to seventy. Then I took a nap that lasted until the early evening. Afterward, feeling groggier than when I’d first arrived, I hopped in the shower and put on a fresh pair of shorts and a clean shirt, then packed my backpack with a few useful things.

  For dinner, I ate at the hotel restaurant. My waiter convinced me to order the locally caught conch, served with a special kind of banana they fried, and which he assured me was found only in the Caribbean. Good service and great advice—everything was delicious.

  Before leaving, a friendly bellhop tried to give me a map. I already had one, printed back at my apartment, with directions to 12 Blue Sky Place, New Providence. Danny’s house was way out on the western tip of the main island. I smiled and took the map anyway, like any tourist would.

  It was still light out as I traced my way back toward the airport along the same route taken by my taxi driver. The light was fading, so I took it slow.

  Riding the scooter was a blast. The day had gotten more humid, but even the muggiest weather feels great when it’s whipping through your hair and cooling you down.

  After leaving the city, I checked the fuel gauge and noticed the needle hovering close to empty. I was in luck: the Texaco I’d passed earlier was still open, so I filled it right up. I didn’t know what I would have done if I’d gotten to Danny’s only to have my ride die on me.

  Twenty minutes later, I finally saw in person the house from the blurry satellite photo: Danny Fleer’s Caribbean sandcastle.

  Chapter 10

  By now the island was dark. Danny’s white split-level had a decorative stone drive that circled a dry, concrete fountain. I pulled into the empty drive for a closer look. If Danny came out, I’d zoom away before he got a good look at me. He didn’t have a garage and the lights were off, giving the place a deserted appearance.

  I thought for a minute, then got back on the scooter and biked a short way up the road to a little pull-off, then parked and jogged back. There were no neighbors visible through the trees surrounding the house or across the road, and I hadn’t seen another car or scooter for a while now. Pushing down that nervous resistance that always struck me before committing to something illegal, I entered the b
ackyard through the rusty gate of a chain-link fence.

  Security lights came on from two different locations, momentarily blinding me. When my vision cleared, I had a look at the stone patio: weeds sprouting in stubborn tufts, rusted gas grill, gray teak lawn furniture. All this and the plastic cover on the pool with the dirty puddle in the middle had me thinking Danny didn’t come back here much.

  Hoping I was right, I stood a chair beneath one of the lights and climbed onto it. I unscrewed the bulb just enough so it turned off, yet still stayed in place, then I did the other light the same way.

  A quick peek around to the front of the house showed the driveway still empty. I pulled out my smartphone and scrolled to the email from Danny to Alvita from a year ago, giving her the code to the alarm so she could stay there during yet another fight with her parents. With luck, it hadn’t been changed.

  On the way to the front of the house, I almost had a heart attack when a furry creature that might have been a rabbit shot past me and into the night. Then I was at the door and punching in the code. From inside the house, a friendly beeping told me the code was still good.

  Quickly, I returned to the backyard, lest Danny suddenly arrive home and surprise me.

  A glass-paned door prevented unauthorized entry from the patio, only marginally safer than a sliding glass door or French doors. With nobody home, I suppose I could have kicked it in or smashed the glass or something. But any house I had to kick my way into was one I didn’t deserve to take. Only amateurs felt the need to trash people’s windows and doors like that. It’s that kind of behavior that gives thieves a bad name. The way I worked, if the locks and other protection were enough to keep me out without resorting to a lot of messy vandalism, the owner won.

  Unfortunately for Danny, I was determined to win this one.

  After quitting college and hooking up with Scott Horton, I’d apprenticed with a locksmith name Greg. He was a nice old guy who needed help around his small shop in Vienna. My only problem was Virginia law required anyone working for a locksmith to get registered after ninety days. I liked Greg, and the work was interesting, but I didn’t want the state knowing who I was or what I could do. So when my ninety days were up and I didn’t register, I left—but not before learning ten times more and in far less time than if I’d gone with a larger shop. With Greg’s help, I got my first set of hardened HPC lock picks and about twenty safe manuals from SAVTA—the ones with all the drill points and diagrams of the internals. I wouldn’t steal from Greg, so I paid for them myself and authorized it with his membership number, gleaned from a trade mailing. Sure, I could find cheap lock picks on eBay if I didn’t care about quality, but those books were damned hard to get without being a member of SAVTA or another accredited association. Knowing I could be arrested one day, or even robbed, I made sure to scan and upload them all to a free online storage site.