Never Going Back

by Sam Wiebe

  Lisa.

  She had already betrayed me once. There was no guarantee she wouldn’t do it again if she got the chance. If I did this job for her, I’d be placing myself in a position where I’d have to trust her.

  Inviting the wolf back in for a second time. What big feet you have, Grandma.

  “I really don’t know,” I told my brother. “It will be tough. If I can’t pull it off, I’ll have to think of something else.”

  As the taxi pulled onto our street, I saw movement. A truck was parked across the street from Kidd’s. Someone was sitting in the front seat, watching the restaurant.

  It was a bad sign. Another one. We went inside quickly and locked the door behind us.

  In the morning I walked to the library, bought myself a coffee from the vending machine and began doing research on Ty Collins.

  He lived in the West End, in a penthouse suite with a view of the harbor. He’d played in the NHL for eleven years, from age nineteen to thirty, on six different teams. He was engaged to a model named Becky Sylvester. They donated money to several local charities and were featured in the Society section of the newspaper almost every week.

  Collins’s mother had been a photographer. He’d become interested because of her. “Paintings are rare,” he said in an interview. “There’s only one original. But with a photograph, everyone can have the same one.” That was why he would be donating the Jane Brick pictures the following year.

  I looked at Collins’s website. His next personal appearance was at a charity dinner in two weeks. He was receiving an award for his donations. Ty Collins seemed liked a decent guy. Robbing him wouldn’t be much fun.

  There was a number on the website for his publicity agent. I phoned it from the hallway of the library. A voice that sounded stuffed up said, “Who may I ask is calling?”

  “My name is Lisa Ajax,” I said, speaking the first two words that came to mind. “I write for a photography magazine in New York. I’m in town briefly, and I’d like to talk to Mr. Collins about his discovery.”

  “Which magazine is that?” the agent asked.

  “It’s just called Photography.”

  “Of course,” he said. I didn’t know if he was pretending to know it or if the magazine actually existed. “Would one o’clock today work?”

  “Uh, sure,” I said.

  “He’ll show you the photos. No questions about hockey, okay? Only the pictures.”

  “That’s all I care about,” I said.

  “Good. Here’s the address.”

  I had just enough time to get back to Dean’s apartment. I dressed in an old checked shirt of his, tied my hair back and put on a pair of old red-framed glasses. They’d belonged to Aunt Jessie. Dean kept them on the mantel.

  “Can you even see through those?” Dean asked.

  The lenses were grimy, and they distorted things. Dean looked nine feet wide. I pushed them down my nose and looked over the top of them.

  “Do you have a voice recorder?” I asked.

  “Only on my phone.”

  “Then how about a pad and pen?”

  My brother had a box of pads, the kind the wait staff used to take down orders. He found me an old pencil in a kitchen drawer.

  Ten minutes later I was on my way to Collins’s apartment.

  SEVEN

  THE BUILDING IN which Collins lived was thirty stories tall. The outside was smooth mirrored glass. Nothing to hold on to and no way to climb.

  At the front door I buzzed apartment 3001. A voice on the intercom said, “Hello?”

  Above the speaker was a small monitor and camera. Collins could see me, and I could see him.

  “I’m here to look at the photos,” I said.

  “Miss Ajax, right? I’ll let you in. Take the elevator on the left.”

  I heard a buzz and click as the door unlocked. Inside was a long, bright foyer with a high ceiling and a marble floor. Paintings of horses and castles hung on the walls.

  The leftmost elevator was open and waiting. I stepped inside. The buttons only went up to floor twenty-five. To get to the top floors, you needed a key or someone to buzz you up. Another camera stared at me from above the panel. The doors closed once I was inside, and the elevator started moving. We were on floor thirty in less than fifteen seconds.

  As I stepped out of the elevator, I looked for a staircase or fire escape. To the right was a door marked EMERGENCY EXIT. It was locked.

  So Ty Collins’s building was unclimbable. To get to his apartment he’d have to see me at the door and in the elevator. He had total control over who came to his floor.

  I didn’t have to knock on Collins’s door. A tall Asian woman with a blond streak in her hair opened it. This must be Becky Sylvester. She smiled and said, “Ty is in the study.”

  I’d never been in a home with a study before. (Well, that wasn’t really true. I mean I’d never been invited into one.) The ceilings were high, and the furniture was dark, rich wood. The entire far wall was glass, looking out over beach and water.

  The study had one shelf of books, another of trophies. A TV was mounted over the fireplace. Ty Collins was sitting in a brown leather chair. A silver tea set sat on a glass table.

  Becky sat down in a chair next to Ty. “We were just having tea,” she said. “Want some?”

  I accepted a cup. As Becky poured, I asked Ty Collins about the photos.

  “They’re amazing,” he said. “My mom was a great fan of Jane Brick.”

  “How did you know the photos were real?”

  “It was a bit of a gamble,” he said. “I was 90 percent sure. When the pawnshop lady raised the price, I became 99 percent sure. But I liked the pictures a lot. If they hadn’t turned out to be Jane Brick originals, I’d still be happy to display them.”

  “They must be very valuable,” I said.

  “Of course.”

  “Has anyone offered to buy them?”

  “A company wanted to pay me $300,000 for the set,” he said. “Another company offered $150,000 for one of them.”

  “But you won’t sell?”

  “They don’t belong to me,” Collins said. “They belong to everybody. I was just lucky to find them.”

  “You have a beautiful home, Mr. Collins.”

  “We like it very much, thank you.”

  “Tell us about yourself,” Becky said. “How long have you been a journalist?”

  I had thought about the life of Lisa Ajax on the ride over. The question wasn’t a surprise. “Seven years,” I said. “I started in college. I’ve only been working for the magazine for a little while.”

  We made small talk for a few minutes, until Becky stood up. “I have to go pick up my dress for tomorrow,” she said. “Nice meeting you, Ms. Ajax.”

  “You too,” I said.

  Once she had left I asked Ty, “What’s happening tomorrow?”

  “Oh, just a little ceremony. Becky and I are getting an award for fundraising.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks. It’s a little embarrassing. Getting an award for giving.” He seemed uncomfortable. “Let’s look at those photos, shall we?”

  He led me across the apartment to a small room with a locked door. Attached to the handle was a keypad.

  “Would you please look away for a sec?” he said.

  I stared at the glass wall, trying to catch a reflection. Collins was careful. He cupped his left hand around the keypad as his right hand punched in the code.

  The lock hissed and spun. The door opened.

  The room was smaller than the study but still larger than Dean’s whole apartment. It had no windows. The walls were painted white. There were two comfortable chairs inside. No other furniture.

  The Jane Brick photos took up one wall. They showed a street corner, small houses and 1960s cars, with snowy mountains in the background. The light was different in each picture. Some glowed a bright summer yellow. Others a stormy gray. Still others were a warm peach color or a soft rose.
<
br />   “Jane would photograph the same place at different times,” Ty said. “She could make an ordinary street look like paradise. Or the opposite. Or anything in between.”

  “They’re amazing,” I said. And I meant it. The photos were beautiful. Even the creases and fade marks added to their beauty.

  Ty explained how he’d had the photos matted and framed to make sure they were protected from direct sunlight, acid, water and human hands. He had spent several thousand dollars to protect them. “The art gallery will make sure they’re preserved,” he said. “They’ll scan the photos and make copies and digitally restore them. But for now these are one of a kind.”

  “You really don’t want to just keep them all to yourself?” I asked. “Even one?”

  He shook his head. “I grew up poor. My mother and I could only go to the art gallery on Tuesdays, when admission was half price. There are a lot of great artists whose work we never got to see. I want to make sure folks like my mom can enjoy these photos too.”

  “That’s very generous.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe I just don’t want the responsibility. They’re nice to have, but I don’t want to spend the rest of my life being worried.”

  “About what?”

  “About whether or not the photos will be stolen.”

  Collins smiled.

  “They’re safe for now,” he said. “But I’d rather let somebody else worry about them.”

  EIGHT

  BACK AT KIDD’S I sat in Dean’s office and thought about how best to pull off the job. Ty Collins and Becky Sylvester would be out of the apartment the next night. That was as good a time as any.

  I wrote out a list of the tools I’d need.

  1 janitor’s uniform

  1 pair of work gloves

  1 dust mask

  1 black felt-tip marker

  1 white felt-tip marker

  2 panes of glass, 24 inches by 24 inches

  glass cutters

  hair dye, silver

  photo paper from the 1960s

  portable printer and scanner

  The last two items were Lisa Wan’s concern. My business was getting in and out with the photos and not getting caught.

  Speed would be important. How quickly could I get the photos out of their frames, scan them, replace them and put the frames together again? If each photo took six minutes, that was a total of one hour. Far too long to stay in the apartment. But if I took them out of the building, scanned them somewhere else and then returned the copies, I’d have to break in twice. That was once too many. There was no easy solution. I would have to take the scanner with me and hope I was fast enough.

  Dean was busy getting the restaurant ready to open for dinner. I could tell he was nervous, making sure everything would be perfect. But he was also happy. He was doing what he was born to do, what he loved to do.

  In a way that was how I felt. Planning a job like this, figuring out the details, was what I enjoyed most. It was a gift.

  I told myself that was wrong. I didn’t have to be something I didn’t want to be. It was my choice.

  Or was it?

  I had to fix things with Lisa so she’d leave Dean and me alone. That meant one last job. Just because I enjoyed it a little didn’t mean I wasn’t going to quit. I was done after this. For good.

  I bought the hair dye at a pharmacy, and the rest of the materials from a hardware store. The glass was heavy, but I carried it home on the bus.

  The restaurant was busy. I stayed in the office, working on my plan. I could hear people yelling and dishes breaking on the floor. It sounded like Dean was having a tough night.

  I cleaned off Dean’s desk and carefully laid the glass on top.

  The uniform was light brown. On the back, in black letters with a white outline, I wrote:

  JOHN’S GLASS REPAIR & INSTALLATION CLEARLY THE BEST AROUND!

  I washed the uniform in the bathroom sink, then hung it up to dry. It had to look like it had been worn a few times. While it dried, I dyed my hair.

  I don’t like disguises. They feel unnatural to me. Less is more, as far as I’m concerned. But Ty Collins had seen my face, and I needed to look as different as I could. Most people don’t look too carefully, especially at blue-collar workers.

  When I looked in the mirror, my hair was a shiny silver. I looked older, but somehow happier. More at peace. I imagined my older self, my hair turned silver naturally. Still working in the restaurant, safe and in no danger of going back to prison. It was a good future.

  When I came out of the washroom, Lisa Wan was waiting in the office.

  “I like the hair,” she said. “It’s a nice touch. Looks like you’re all set.”

  “What do you want, Lisa?”

  “It’s not what I want. It’s what you need.”

  Lisa had a nylon case with her. She put it on the desk, on top of the glass, and opened it. Inside was a small dark gray box, smaller than a laptop. It had a narrow tray on top and a long slit on its side.

  “It’s already loaded with the right kind of paper,” Lisa said. “All you have to do is plug it in, load the photos into the tray and take the copies once they print.”

  “How long does it take?”

  “Not long. Maybe two minutes per photo.”

  “And the quality is good enough?”

  “It’s the very best,” Lisa said. “It’ll fool anyone who doesn’t have a microscope.”

  “Good,” I said, sitting behind the desk.

  “Speaking of fools, Ali, you better not try anything foolish with me.”

  “Why would I?” I asked.

  “I expect you to deliver these photos to me. All ten of them. No tricks.”

  “That’s the plan, isn’t it?”

  Lisa smiled. “I’m making a small change to the plan. Max will be having dinner here tomorrow night. When I get the photos, I’ll tell him to leave. If I don’t get them, do you know what will happen?”

  “I can guess,” I said. “He won’t leave a tip?”

  Lisa leaned over the desk so that our faces were close together. Her hands rested on the glass. Her eyes burned.

  “If you want your brother to stay healthy, you’ll finish this job. No mistakes. No accidents. It has to go off perfectly.”

  I stared back at her. “It will.”

  “After you have the photos, bring them to me at the pawnshop. When I get them, I’ll phone Max. For your brother’s sake, you better deliver.”

  She left without saying anything else. I stared at the door as it closed. Once she was gone, I got back to work.

  NINE

  TY COLLINS AND Becky Sylvester would probably take a limousine to their charity event. I phoned the top limo company in the city, pretending to be Becky double-checking her reservation. “You tell me the time so I know you remembered my instructions,” I said.

  “Six forty on the dot, out front,” the limo dispatcher said. “We’ll be there, ma’am. Guaranteed.”

  That night, at 6:35, the spot in front of the building was blocked by a black work van. The van’s side door was open. The limo driver parked one space down.

  Ty and Becky walked out of their apartment building at 6:51. Ty was dressed in a white tuxedo with a white shirt and tie. Becky wore a long gold dress that shimmered as she walked. A long fur coat hung over her arm.

  As they approached the limo, an old woman closed the door of the van. She carried a black nylon case and held a small pane of glass by its edge. Her hair was silver. As she turned around, she didn’t see Becky and stumbled right into her.

  “So sorry,” the old woman said. She had a slight accent, maybe Russian or Polish. She bent and picked up Becky’s coat and purse. “My fault, miss. You are not too badly hurt?”

  “It’s all right,” Becky said. “I’m okay.” More important, her dress was okay. She got in the limo and didn’t think twice about what had happened. Not until they got to the awards ceremony.

  “I want a picture of us on
the red carpet, Ty.” She asked the driver, “Would you take one for us?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Becky opened her purse. Her phone wasn’t there.

  “Must’ve dropped it,” she said.

  “Dropped what?”

  “My phone. My keys too.”

  “You probably left them in the apartment,” Ty said.

  “I’d never leave my phone.”

  “Well, that’s true,” Ty said. “Guess maybe we should go back and look.”

  “I’ll go. Give me your keys. You go get us our table.”

  Ty stepped out of the limousine. Flashbulbs went off. Becky waved at the cameras before she shut the door.

  At 7:03 the limo returned to the apartment building. Becky looked in the street and in the gutter. No phone and no keys. The work van was still parked out front.

  Becky approached the door of the apartment. She had Ty’s keys, but she didn’t need them. The old woman was standing in the lobby near the elevators. She opened the door for Becky.

  “Thanks,” Becky said.

  The old woman looked a little familiar. Her hair was silver and cut short. A dust mask covered her mouth.

  “Did you happen to see my phone?” Becky asked her.

  “Sorry?”

  “My phone. I lost my—never mind.”

  The elevator doors opened. They both stepped inside. Becky punched in the code for the thirtieth floor.

  As the doors began to close, she noticed something. Her hand moved out to keep the doors open. On the table by the mailboxes sat her phone and her set of keys.

  “I should hold?” the old woman asked. Her foot blocked the doors from closing.

  Becky grinned in relief. She waved her hand. “No, I found what I needed. Thanks.”

  She returned to the limo. It was 7:07. She would still be on time. Everything would work out perfectly.

  I stepped out of the elevator and unlocked the door to Collins’s apartment. The next time Becky Sylvester tried to use her door key, she would find it didn’t work. Hopefully that would be long after I was gone.