The Professional

by Laine Stockton

  “Alex,” he started slowly, “look around you and tell me what you see.”

  I did as he asked. The bar was small, long but narrow. The wooden bar took up most of the room with a scattering of booths against the opposite wall. Dim light flickered in through the thick glass on the windows and clearly showed the dust swirling in the air. Saul’s Bar didn’t serve food, only drinks, and he was the only employee. As a result, the place didn’t get cleaned enough as it should. The grime combined with the slow service was part of the reason the place only had one star on Yelp. That was fine by both of us though. It meant the place was almost always empty.

  “I see a bar,” I said, feeling a bit dumb. “Your bar.” He looked at me harder, prompting me to continue. “Um… it’s a mess and you should hire a service?”

  Saul shook his head, disappointed. “No, boy. Really look at this place. What is it to me? I’ll tell you before you answer wrong again. It’s everything I got in this world.” He waved a dismissive hand at me. “I know, I know. I’ve got some cool shit I picked up over the years back at the apartment. And I got the memories of a career that I loved. It’s a hell of a lot better than most of us end up. When I try to count on my hands how many of the old boys are still around… well I can’t name a single one. All dead or in prison or just disappeared off the face of the Earth. Hopefully relaxing by a pool on an island somewhere, but just as likely floating dead on some current in the Atlantic.

  “You’re still young. Not even thirty yet. You’ve had a good career. But you need to start thinking about your future. Do you really want to end up like my old friends? Now I don’t think you will because you’re smart and one of the best goddamn thieves I’ve ever met. So I guess the better question is, do you want to end up like me? Alone in the world with only a pocketful of treasures, a dusty bar, and nostalgia for the old times to keep you company?”

  “Hey,” I said. “You’re not alone. You’ve got me.”

  “Oh, piss off with that sappy bullshit and listen to me. You need to find yourself a partner, either in crime or in life. Preferably both. Before it’s too late and you’re as set in your ways as I am.”

  “I’m already set in my ways,” I said. That wasn’t true though. If I was, than why had I tried to bring Jordan in on the team? And why had I just spent a month in San Juan? There was something missing in my life, but I wasn’t sure that it was companionship. Saul was often (always) right, but he didn’t know everything about me. Just because he regretted solitude didn’t mean I would too when I was his age.

  “No, you’re not,” Saul repeated my thoughts. “But I guess that’s for you to figure out on your own. I’ve said my piece.” He drained the rest of his whiskey and heaved himself off his stool. “Now, there’s some business for you.”

  That peaked my interest. I had only casually thought about my next job. The chance that Saul might have some prize to serve me on a silver platter vanished all memories of white sand beaches and fruity cocktails.

  “What’s the score?” I asked.

  He shuffled behind the bar and rummaged around out of eye shot. “Not a job. A call.” He slapped a scrap of paper on the bar with a phone number scrawled on it. “Speaking of Midas,” he said, “your story explains some things.

  “He left a number for me?” I asked, grabbing the paper off the bar and staring at it in wonder. “Did he come in here?”

  “Who, Midas?” Saul looked disappointed that I’d even ask such a stupid question. “Of course he didn’t come in here. He called looking for you about a month ago. I told him you were out of the country working.”

  I thought about the month I’d spent getting drunk and tan in San Juan. Not exactly how “the best” would act.

  “And what did he say?” I asked.

  “He left the number. Told me to give it to you and for you to call him at the earliest convenience.”

  I stared at the paper again like I could gather some meaning behind Saul’s scratchy handwriting. Midas had appeared on the scene about three years ago and our first and only other meeting had gone a lot like the one on Harris’s rooftop. I was on top of an art gallery on Fifty-second Street where a priceless Monet was being displayed for a limited time only. He was across the rooftop from me, exiting the building with my prize rolled up in his bag. We’d stared each other down, both dark shapes lit only by the glow of skyscrapers, sizing each other up. If this had been an action movie, we would have had a showdown, complete with roundhouse kicks and karate chops, the rolled up painting switching hands every moment as we fought for the title of Best in the World. But it wasn’t a movie and I’d already lost. After a long moment, Midas had turned and dropped over the side of the building. I’d raced to look over the edge, but he’d already been gone. That was when the security alarms sounded and I had to get the hell out of there before I took the blame for a crime I hadn’t even gotten to commit.

  Even though he’d never touched this scrap of paper, I could feel his presence in it. We were closer than we’d ever been before. And soon I’d be speaking with him.

  Before I got too in my head about it, I turned to Saul. “Can I use the phone?” I asked.

  He jerked his head towards the back where the antique pay phone sat. I dug some quarters out of my pocket and fed them one by one into the machine, my normally rock-steady hands vibrating with an uncharacteristic tremor. I dialed the number slowly, making sure that each one was correct, and then listened as the phone began to ring.

  He picked up on the fourth ring.

  “Hello Alex.”

  I immediately cursed myself. His voice was garbled by a computer. I felt like an amateur.

  “Midas,” I said. “Are you going to tell me your real name?”

  “Midas is as real as Alex is,” he replied.

  Fair enough. “You called?” I asked, wanting to get to the point right away.

  “I did. I was curious if you would be interested in a friendly competition.”

  A competition. Well, I’d wanted a new prize after all, and it’d help to know that Midas was going for it too rather than finding out night of.

  “What’s the score?” I asked.

  “The Queen of Athea is coming to New York on a state visit next month. It hasn’t hit the papers yet, but I have it on good authority that she will bring the Crown with her.”

  My breath caught in my throat. The Crown of Athea was legendary in the world of antiquities. It was centuries old, made of gold and gems mined directly from the mountains of Athea. Because of the countries natural defenses, the kingdom had never fallen, despite numerous invasions. The Crown itself had never been taken, despite dozens of attempts by thieves to claim it.

  “Why are you telling me this?” I asked. “Why not just go after it yourself?”

  “You seem to find a way to be involved in my most important heists. I thought I’d invite you myself this time.”

  He was right. Once the news hit the papers, the Crown would definitely have been in my line of fire.

  Even now I could feel the anticipation tickling at my nerves, the closest thing I’d felt to excitement over a job in a long time. I had to get my hands on that crown. If there was ever any doubt in my mind that I was the best, the successful capture of this coveted piece would secure my place in history.

  But what if it was a trap? I could see it now: I infiltrate the Queen’s mansion and snatch the Crown, only to be caught red-handed by hidden police operating on a mysterious tip off that someone was going for the Crown. He obviously knew that I was a friend of Saul’s. Now he knew my voice as well. It wouldn’t be a stretch to imagine that he already knew exactly who I was. What an easy way to take out a competitor.

  So I asked him. “How do I know this isn’t a set-up?”

  The voice chuckled, coming over the distortion as a twisty, jumbled growl. “I suppose you don’t know, do you? I don’t believe my word carries much weight to you, but I’m not the type of thief to fear a competitor, let alone deliberately attempt t
o do away with one. But it doesn’t matter to me if you decline. In fact, it will just make my job easier. So what is your decision?”

  I thought carefully for a long moment. Then I said, “I’m sorry, Midas, but I’m going to have to decline.”

  Midas paused on the other end of the line. That hadn’t been his expectation. “Very well, Alex. You have a good day. I’ll see you on the rooftops.”

  The line went dead and I listened to it beep for several seconds before placing the receiver back in its holster.

  “Are you going to make me wait all day?” Saul barked from behind the bar. “What did you just say no to?”

  I returned to my whiskey before answering. “A competition. Steal the Crown of Athea while the Queen visits New York this summer. May the best man win.”

  Excitement flashed over the old man’s face. For a moment, he looked young again, full of passion and daring and anticipation at the thrill of the hunt. I looked past his face at my own in the mirror behind the rows of dusty liquor bottles. I saw none of those emotions in my eyes, only a quiet, calm determination. It would have to do.

  “You’re doing it, right?” Saul asked.

  “Yes,” I said, still focused on the green eyes in the mirror. “But not on his terms.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Cora

  Mother let the phone ring.

  It was nine o’clock in Athea, and I could picture her sitting at her dressing table, shellacking her face with a paste of exotic leaves guaranteed to make those stress lines disappear in thirty days or less. In my mind’s eye, she looked at her buzzing phone, saw it was me, let it ring. Waiting is good for children. It didn’t matter that I had turned twenty-one a month ago and my childhood was solidly in the past. She liked to ignore the fact that I was aging simply because it was inconvenient to her. Children are easier to control.

  In my imagined version of her, she dabbed a bit more paste onto a missed spot on her forehead and then counted backward from five.

  Almost on cue, the line connected and her drawling voice filled my ear. “Cora, darling! How are you?” Except she said it like Corrrra. R’s rolled like heads and words were dragged out until even they were tired by the time they’d left my mother’s mouth.

  Another difference between us. Mother leaned into the Athean accent while I tried very hard to erase it from my English. Always opposites.

  “How could you not tell me you’re bringing the Crown to New York?” I demanded, getting right to the point. I’d be home in two blocks and I didn’t want to drag Mother’s voice into my house prematurely.

  “Oh, the Crown?” She sounded distant, like she was concentrating on something else. “You didn’t know about that?” The deflection had all the authenticity of a press release.

  “Of course I didn’t know about it,” I snapped. Patience, Cora. She’s not even here yet. I tried to soften my voice. “I just found out from the Times. How is this going to change the visit?”

  I could practically hear her wave a dismissive hand. “It won’t. Hardly.”

  I stayed silent, waiting for her to elaborate to fill the void.

  “I mean, of course there will be some extra security, a bit more press.”

  “How much more?”

  A hint of annoyance entered her voice. “So little you’ll hardly even notice.” Her tone brightened sharply. “Besides! The Crown is going to give us an excuse to hold the most wonderful party!”

  “A what now?”

  “A party!” She laughed, a practiced twinkle. If I thought hard, I could remember her real laugh, the rolling honk my dad was always able to pull out of her. “It’ll be just grand. A turn-of-the-century costume party to show off the Crown and raise money. Like we used to have when you were young.”

  Great. That’ll be a perfect way to spend an evening. Dancing with fat New York billionaires stuffed into old-fashioned tuxedos and reeking of whiskey. A problem for later though.

  “What else are you doing with it?” I asked. They wouldn’t be bringing the Crown all the way here just to throw a party for it.

  She paused. “It will be displayed in the house for the public at certain times over the week.”

  “You’re letting them in?” I asked, aghast.

  “They’re not lepers, dear,” she said. “They won’t harm the manor. I thought you hated that place anyway.”

  I did, but that didn’t mean I wanted troops of tourists riffling through my stuff and rubbernecking at my home. I decided to let her comment go; it wasn’t worth it. Because really, I didn’t have a choice what my mother did while she visited the city. The manor wasn’t really my home, it was hers and if she wanted to lead tours through my bedroom, she was allowed to.

  “What’s the security going to look like?” I asked.

  “Nothing more than what we’d be bringing normally,” she said. “Just the Crown’s handler. You remember Micah.”

  I didn’t, but didn’t say. “The house security is going, right?” I asked. “Because you’re bringing in the Athean guard.”

  Mother sighed. This was not a new argument between us. “I don’t know what you have against those men,” she said, “but yes, they will be relieved for our visit. Except Scott.”

  “What? Why Scott? Why not Astor?” At least he’d been working there since I moved in.

  “Scott may be new, but he’s got the most experience. He’ll be assisting the Royal Guard in understanding the layout of the house and security risks,” she said. She was starting to sound annoyed by my questions and cracks were forming in the pleasantries. “Cora, don’t worry yourself about any of this. None of it concerns you.”

  “I just want to know what’s going on,” I said. “So I can prepare myself.”

  “Great!” she said a little too aggressively. “As it just so happens, my event planner and organizer is going to be at the house today. She’s going to fill you in on everything that you need to know.” Her emphasis on the word “you” made my jaw tighten, but I didn’t rise to it. “Ask her anything you want. Now I’m sorry to run dear, but…”

  My mother hadn’t run in twenty years. I fought the urge to ask her when she planned on telling me that I was going to have people over at the manor today, but decided to take the opportunity to exit.

  “OK, I guess I’ll see you next week then,” I said.

  “Don’t sound so excited, darling,” Mother said and hung up. I pictured her sitting back in her plush chair and examining her mask, practicing her smile before it dried to a crust across her face. The king-sized bed sat empty behind her.

  So I’d have a visitor today. I wondered if Scott knew or if Mother had forgotten to tell him just like she’d “forgotten” to tell me. That meant I’d have to talk to him. This day just kept getting better and better.

  I sent a quick text to Diana.

  Can I come by later? Need to remember I like some people in the world lol

  She immediately responded.

  Course, babe. I’m here all day.

  Hopefully Mother’s person would be quick. I hurried down the street until the full shape of the manor blossomed into existence.

  Where do I even begin when describing the Harmont family residence in New York? The Harmont Manor was an extravagance passed down from a more gilded era. My great-grandparents, fleeing the devastating bombing campaigns of World War II, bought the Midtown mansion from some turn of the century robber baron’s widow. Instead of selling it when they moved back to Athea, they decided to keep it as a family residence for when they visited New York. While the other extravagant mansions of Fifth Avenue’s millionaire’s row were torn down to make way for a growing district of retail and financial buildings, the Harmont Manor lived on.

  Squat beside its towering neighbors, the manor was four stories of excess surrounded by an iron fence through which tourists gathered and gawked at its turrets, gables, and intricate brickwork. They marveled at the liberal use of driveway in the back, a curved path that once allowed carriages to drop
off guests right at the door, now a stunning extravagance in the age of modern New York rent prices. On the other side, pictures were snapped of the main doors, grand and imposing, that led into the bowels of luxury and wealth.

  I hated it. Hated it with passion and disgust for every brick and delicate gold plating. For every priceless painting on its walls and every marble step in its grand, spiraling staircase. I hated the skylights over the two-story dining room and the hate grew twicefold for the ballroom, also two stories, also with a skylight. But mostly I hated the cost of keeping the house. The taxes on half a city block. The electricity bill. The security, both their presence and their personalities.

  When I’d moved to New York, my mother had protested, but eventually caved. Her one condition was that I live in the manor, possibly because she knew how much it would bother me, but mostly so that she could keep an eye on me. Her flying monkeys took the form of a team of security guards I seriously think she found on Craigslist. I got along with none of them as they were highly invasive on the bequest of my mother. They reported my every move and somehow made dating even more of a pain in the ass than it already was.

  I’d only ever brought one guy home. His name was Andrew, and he was in one of my political science classes back in my first year at Columbia. Once he figured out who my parents were, he had begged to be allowed to see the inside of the manor. Then, once he was inside, he asked less nicely to see the inside of my pants. He’d quickly been asked to leave, but the shortness of the visit didn’t stop my mother from calling me the next day to ask about Andrew, his parents, his fortune, and his intentions. Never again. Since that less than desirable visit, the only person I’d really had over was Diana. (I got a call from Mother about her too, hoping New York’s liberal ways weren’t changing any aspect about my sexuality. Not that she cared at all, darrrling, but a mother would like to know. Yeah, so a mother could figure out how to swing it to the press.)