No Such Creature

by Giles Blunt

  “Any questions before we make our entrance?” Max said.

  “This is scary, Max. We need at least two guys in the room where they’re eating, and we don’t even have Roscoe. It’s too easy for someone to make a break for it-and then we’re in big trouble.”

  “We have the cellphone jammer, do we not?”

  “It’s not enough, Max.”

  “Here’s what we do: you enter the far end of the house-couldn’t be easier with this Swedish modern monstrosity-you liberate the goodies and come back out.”

  “Good. We skip the dining room altogether.”

  “We do no such thing.”

  “Max, we almost always get more from the bedrooms than from the guests.”

  “But Cassandra Blake is a jewellery horse. Her friends will try to outdo her.”

  “How do we cover kitchen staff and the dining room at the same time?”

  “After you come out, we go in through the kitchen and bring them into the dining room with us.”

  “Max, last week this was a four-man job. This morning it was a three-man job. We’re making a mistake here.”

  “Cowards die many times before their death, my son.”

  “It’s not cowardice, it’s common sense. You’re not thinking clearly.”

  “Improv, boy. Improv. You’re an elderly little sod, in your way. I am supple-brained and creative, while you, my infant, are becoming more hidebound by the minute.”

  “Max, I really don’t like this.”

  “Fine. I’ll do it myself. You wait here. Back in a trice.” Max grabbed the door handle.

  “You’ll get yourself killed.” Owen reached out and caught his arm. “And I can’t stand the thought of you dying in that bald head.”

  Max cut the phone wire, a largely theoretical manoeuvre since the real threat would be from cellphones and the jammer would take care of those. He was careful not to cut the burglar alarm wire, which would have set the thing off. In any case, with the house full of guests, it was certain to be switched off.

  Architectural Digest had told them which room was which. They used glazier’s tools to remove a windowpane from the master bedroom, and Owen climbed in. Max stood guard in a clump of trees nearby, bald head gleaming in the moonlight.

  Once inside, Owen went straight to the door and checked the corridor, which was so long it seemed to taper to a dot. There wasn’t a sound from the dinner party; it was too far away and the house was too well built.

  Chokers, necklaces, earrings and bracelets were strewn in magnificent disarray across a mahogany dresser. Owen checked his disguise in the mirror, dark wig and goatee nicely in place, which was good, given the tiny security camera above the door.

  With a sweep of his arm he cleared the top of the dresser of three necklaces and several bracelets, all glittering with diamonds. Then he upended a jewellery box into his sack. In a top drawer, a row of TAGs and Breitlings and Rolexes sparkled on a roll of blue velvet. Into the sack with the rest.

  He was out the window in less than five minutes. The sack went into the trunk of the car, then it was round to the back door and into the kitchen. It was important not to hesitate here. The Asian couple in the kitchen silently raised their hands at the sight of Max’s revolver.

  “Don’t be alarmed.” Max put a finger to his lips. “We have reason to believe there are burglars in this house. Into the dining room, please.”

  The couple went in through the swinging door, closely followed by Max and Owen. The guests had not yet sat down to dinner, so they had to continue through the dining room into the living room. Upon stepping onto this new stage, Max became instantly Australian.

  “Good evening everybody, my name is Bruce Whittaker of the Australian National Wealth Reallocation Service. Now, pay attention.” He pronounced it attintion. “The gun is loaded, and for your own safety I must ask you to deposit all valuables in my assistant’s bag: rings, watches, jewellery of all sorts. Heroics of any kind will have repercussions of the most catastrophic order.” Ketastrophic.

  “Who the hell do you think you are,” Bradford Blake said, rising from a leather chair. “You get the hell out of here.”

  “Sit, mate, sit.” Max brandished his pistol, a new one Owen had never seen. “We don’t want this little thing to go off. Now behave yourself and there’ll be no worries.”

  “What do you want?” It was Cassandra Blake who spoke. She was seated on an elegant suede couch between two guests.

  “The good life, my dear-comfortable shoes, a fine single malt and a hot tub-same as everyone.” Then, to the group: “Cellphones into the sack, if you please.”

  They were robbing one of the most beautiful rooms Owen had ever been in. There was a fire roaring in a shoulder-high fireplace and a huge painting of a picnic scene that looked like something you’d see in a museum. He went from each person to the next, sack extended like a trick-or-treater’s, acutely aware of how undignified a pursuit robbery is.

  Aside from the two cooks and a maid in uniform, Owen counted seven people around the room. He was pretty sure he had seen eight place settings on the dining table.

  “Aren’t you a little old to be doing this?” Cassandra Blake said to Max.

  “Siventy,” he pointed out, “is the new fifty. Though I gotta say, doll-o, that necklace looks so fetching on you I’ve half a mind to leave without it.”

  “If you had any conscience, you would. My husband gave me this.”

  “Into the bag, if you please. Enjoyed your piece on gayism, Mrs. Blake. Canny coinage, ‘gayism.’ I imagine Mrs. Wood found it amusing too.”

  He nodded toward Victoria Wood, a fortyish blonde seated on the couch beside her film producer husband. More than one gossip column had hinted that Cassandra Blake and she had enjoyed a torrid lesbian affair the previous summer while their husbands were embarked on a hairy-chested sailing venture in the Pacific, far beyond the reach of tabloids.

  “I don’t understand,” Bradford Blake said. “Why would Victoria find it amusing?”

  “That looks an exy timepiece, sir,” Max said. “Into the bag, if you please.”

  The maid stepped forward with a thin silver and jade bracelet.

  “Not necessary, my dear,” Max said.

  “Why not?” she said. “I am with them.”

  “But not of them. Now, if you’ll just be seated …”

  Owen had collected five cellphones, half a dozen watches and bracelets, and the pearl necklace. He held up the sack.

  “All righty, then, time for us to say cheerio. Please remain seated until the robbery has come to a complete and final stop. Do not attempt to call the police and do not attempt to follow-or you’ll be hearing from my associate.” He gestured with the gun. “Thank you for your co-operation.”

  They were halfway to the front door when a man sprang from a closet and tackled Owen, bringing him down on the hardwood floor.

  “Son of a bitch,” he was yelling. “You filthy son of a bitch.”

  His breath smelled of Scotch. He yanked the bag out of Owen’s hand, and Owen reached for his pistol. One loud bang was usually enough to settle people down.

  Before he could fire, there was a loud crack-crack.

  Then the air was full of screams. The man staggered and fell backward into an armchair. Just above his belt, two dark stains were spreading across his shirt.

  Owen stood frozen between the bleeding man and the door to escape.

  “Move,” Max said. “We haven’t got all night.”

  Owen grabbed the sack and blundered out the door, Max following.

  They ran to the car, Max wedging himself behind the wheel and starting it. Through long training he resisted the urge to floor it, and they cruised out of the tranquil neighbourhood in a slow agony.

  Owen switched off the jammer and fumbled in the sack for one of the cellphones. He dialed 911 and asked for an ambulance to be sent to the Blakes’ address.

  “I need your name, sir.”

  “No, you don’t.�
� Owen dropped the phone back into the sack. “You shot the guy, Max. I don’t believe it, you actually shot the guy.”

  “I don’t know how it happened!”

  “You loaded real bullets is how it happened. We never use real bullets. Or so you’ve always said. Are you going to tell me that all this time you’ve been using real bullets?”

  “Of course not! I always use blanks! It was a new gun. Spider Weems was hard up for cash. Sold it to me for a hundred.”

  “Fully loaded.”

  “Yes, I must have forgot that bit.”

  “Max, that was a stop sign!”

  Max swerved to avoid a smart car, which had a surprisingly loud horn, and headed for the expressway.

  “You’ve probably turned us into murderers. We’re both going to end up in the goddamn electric chair, and some poor innocent guy is going to end up dead. Jesus, Max, what if he has kids?”

  “For God’s sake, it was an accident!”

  “Yeah, great. Remind me to try that one on the judge.”

  They left the car in the parking lot and entered the mall separately as a bald man and a goateed youth, emerging fifteen minutes later as innocent tourists. They left the stolen car in the lot and drove the Taurus back through town toward the trailer camp, Owen at the wheel.

  “Bright side,” Max said, “that shot probably saved us from a lengthy semester at Oxford.”

  “What about the guy’s life, Max?”

  “I value yours more. This is our fifth adventure together. I don’t see why it should be a surprise that sometimes things can go wrong.”

  “Max, you didn’t used to shoot people. We have to abort the rest of the trip and head home. And you have to retire for good.”

  “Never, lad. Banish Max and banish all the world.”

  “This is no time for Shakespeare! This is real life! Those were real bullets! We’ve caused real pain!”

  “You’ve missed the turn.”

  Owen made a U-turn at the next intersection. They parked in the shadow of the Rocket and went inside.

  “What did you think of the accent?” Ek-cent. “Bruce Whittaker, strite outta Queensland, at yer service.”

  Max embarked on a recitation of Portia’s speech on mercy, translated into Australian. In other circumstances it might have been funny, but now it was unbearable. Owen turned on the kitchen light and peered into the sack. He was trying mightily to behave as if this had been a normal show, no disasters.

  “We should sort out the cellphones first. We can dump them in a mailbox tomorrow. Look at this necklace I found upstairs. It was right in front of the mirror. She must have been trying it on just before the guests arrived.”

  “Let’s just stash it for now, laddie.”

  Owen loosened a couple of screws and pulled back the dishwasher, and Max handed him the sack. He was tucking it into their hidden hutch when Max said, “Good God. What the hell are you doing here?”

  Owen whipped around to see who he was talking to.

  Sabrina was lying on the bottom bunk, just now raising herself on one elbow.

  THIRTEEN

  “You’re back,” she said, her voice fogged with sleep.

  “The girl’s gone deaf,” Max said, moving closer to the bunk. “I asked what you were doing here.”

  “Bill turned up at the hotel. He was waiting in the lobby. Luckily, I saw him before he saw me.”

  “How did he know you were in Tucson,” Owen said, “let alone which hotel?”

  “Well, he does work in hotel security.”

  “She called him,” Max said. “Didn’t you? You called him and told him where you were.”

  “I didn’t. I swear.”

  “If you didn’t call him,” Max said, “the only way he could find you would be to follow us-which he could not possibly do, because when we drove out of Las Vegas he was still in the hospital.”

  “All right, I did call him. I mean, I dialed him-he wasn’t there. I just left a message saying I hoped he wasn’t hurt too bad and that I was sorry for how things worked out. But I didn’t speak to him or tell him where I was.”

  “If he has connections to the cops,” Owen said, “or maybe the phone company, they can pinpoint the location of a cellphone to the nearest tower.”

  Max’s brow furrowed into Shar-Pei-like folds. “I begin to suspect, young lady, that you haven’t told us everything there is to know about Preacher Bill.”

  “I guess I should have mentioned …” Sabrina winced, and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I just-I didn’t want to scare you away, that’s all.”

  “What are you talking about?” Owen said. He was surreptitiously nudging the dishwasher back into place.

  Max wheeled to face him. “Our damsel in distress here-our sweet, innocent, saintly young lady-failed to mention that her mentor, her man, also happens to be an officer of the law.” Then, turning back to Sabrina: “Isn’t that right?”

  “You gotta be kidding,” Owen said. “He’s a cop?”

  Sabrina nodded miserably. “Not is a cop. Was a cop. He quit years ago. I guess I should have told you.”

  “Why didn’t you?” Owen said.

  “Because the devil child knew that if we’d had the slightest idea she was consorting with a copper, we’d have nothing to do with her.”

  Owen sat down at the kitchen table. He looked at Max. “Still, I don’t see how it’s that big a deal. What difference does it make?”

  Max went into lecture mode, hands on hips. “The difference, my son, is that he’s connected to an organization that is very good at tracking people down. He has access to networks, faxes, radios. By now he’s probably got her picture on every bloody cop computer in the country.”

  “You’re right,” Sabrina said. She grabbed her coat from the top bunk. “I’ll go.”

  “How did you get in here, anyway?” Max said.

  “Oh, come on, Max. My dad taught me a few things.”

  She brushed by Owen. He grabbed her arm. “Wait,” he said. “You don’t have to go anywhere.”

  “Yes, I do. Max just said I do.”

  “No, I didn’t,” Max said. “Though at this moment it is an extremely attractive thought.”

  “Max, even if somebody should recognize her, we’re not going to get into any trouble. We’re just on holiday and Sabrina’s along for the ride.”

  “I don’t like surprises,” Max said. “This was not the way the Pontiff brought you up, I’m sure.”

  “Oh, please. My father is no bloody hero.”

  “John-Paul would never teach you to mislead friends who try to help you.”

  “Okay, Max. I’m sorry. I should have told you right away.”

  “Right,” Owen said. “And what-we would have left her there in the parking lot with that Bible-thumping nutcase? Let him beat her half to death?”

  “Never. I have a few faults, but cruelty to the fair sex is not among them. I would have done everything the same.”

  “So, fine. In other words we’d be exactly where we are at this moment.”

  “Not so. For one, I would have confiscated Her Highness’s cellphone and mailed it to Ouagadougou before she could alert the entire bloody country as to her whereabouts. Hand it over, hell spawn.”

  She pulled out her cellphone, but instead of handing it over she began to dial.

  “I’m calling a cab.”

  “You don’t need a cab,” Owen said. “You can stay with us. Max, you promised your friend you’d look out for her.”

  “I know. But that was before I realized she was being followed by an insane policeman.”

  “He’s not insane,” Sabrina said.

  “Yes, he is,” Max and Owen said together.

  Bill Bullard entered the hotel room and switched on the light. Getting access had been no problem: Baxter Secure Solutions provided the security for half the hotels in the Southwest, and this one happened to be among them. If he wanted to park himself in their lobby keeping an eye on traffic for a few hours, hotel mana
gement had no problem with it.

  Tracking down Sabrina’s cellphone hadn’t been too hard either. He had help from a friend at Nevada Nextel-well, not a friend, exactly. Bullard had once caught the guy with an underage hooker, and had held it over him ever since.

  The hardest part was getting time off work. Lance Baxter was not a congenial person, and about as far from a Christian as it was possible to be without being an outright Satanist. Bill could have just phoned in sick-he still had bandage on his head, even if it was now reduced to a small square of gauze-but sometimes he was too honest for his own good. He told Lance he needed time off for compassionate reasons, he had to help a friend who was in an emotional crisis. Really, he should have known better.

  “Oh, God,” Baxter had said.

  Right off, this was a response guaranteed to upset Bill. “Lance, how many times have I begged you not to take the Lord’s name in vain?”

  Baxter couldn’t have cared less about Bill’s religious sensibilities. “This is about that girl,” he said. “I knew it, the minute I saw you with her. She’s too young for you, Bill. What the hell are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking of her welfare, Lance. I’ll allow that sometimes I can be selfish, but this is different. My motives are entirely altruistic. Sabrina is a confused person in need of help.”

  “Helping a nubile young waitress?” Baxter said. “We all know what that means.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “You’ve got a daughter her age, for God’s sake.”

  “There you go again.”

  “She’s the same age as your daughter, Bill. Admit it.”

  “Peggy-Ann is eighteen. Sabrina is a young woman of twenty. Anyway, I don’t see why you got to pitch a conniption about it. All you gotta do is switch a couple of shifts around.”

  Baxter spoke in a tone he had almost certainly picked up at a management training seminar. “Believe it or not, Bill, the rest of us at Baxter Secure Solutions get tired of covering for your spiritual retreats and your prayer breakfasts and your emotional crises.” Baxter swept an arm at the bank of monitors on his office wall, as if all the cameras in his arsenal were sick of Bill’s problems too. “Why should we always be making accommodations? I thought God was supposed to be looking after you.”