Artistic License

by Julie Hyzy

  “You sure you want me spend time on this, Gare? It’s gonna take a few minutes.”

  Gary stared at him. The moonlight spilled in, coloring half his face blue with cool light, leaving the other half in shadow, but caught the glitter of anger in his eyes. “I could of done this myself if all I wanted was the picture. The only reason you’re in on this is for that lock, so quit talking and get moving.”

  Pete set to work without arguing again. Breaking and entering carried hefty prison time for guys like himself with convictions on their records, but Gary had said he’d make this heist worthwhile. The sharp edges scratching against his upper thighs reminded him that he’d already made this night profitable. He just hoped the rest of this worked out like they thought. Gary might be good at coming up with plans, but he stunk at the really important stuff, details like remembering to bring gloves, or how to find a buyer for some ugly but priceless drawing. The guy mighta been book smart in school, but he had no street smarts. And he couldn’t pick a lock to save his skin.

  It would have gone a lot faster if Pete didn’t have to keep worrying about leaving prints. He wished for the latex gloves again as he wiped the side of the cabinet with his sleeve. Gary hissed in the background, telling him not to worry, reminding him that these guys wouldn’t be able report a burglary on an item they themselves had stolen. Pete swore under his breath. He figured that folks who lived in places like this were probably real well-connected. If he left even one print, they’d be screwed. He knew it.

  Actors made it look so easy in the movies, Pete thought. He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his right arm, his left hand holding the two metallic picks steady. Licking his lips, he shut his eyes and turned his left ear toward the lock. A combination of sound and feel usually let him know when he was close. He whispered, “Don’t they got air-conditioning in this place?”

  Gary stood at the room’s window, shifting from side to side, alternating views up and down the street. “It’s not that hot in here. It’s your just nerves. Shut up and keep working.”

  Easy for him to say, standing there with his arms wrapped around the black case like a lover. His part was over. Sweat dripped into Pete’s eyes, the saltiness stung. He shook his head like a wet dog, causing the tools to slip from his hands.

  “Shit!”

  “What’s taking you so long? I thought you said it’d be a piece of cake.”

  “Yeah well, I was wrong, okay? So sue me. This guy got himself some heavy duty lock here. I need a coupla more minutes.”

  Gary rubbed his eyes, took a deep breath and returned to staring out the window.

  Pete repositioned his tools, moving closer in, feeling his way more than seeing it. A little pressure, a couple of clicks. His breathing came faster as he sensed being almost there. He pressed his hip against the side of the cabinet and twisted his left hand ever so slightly.

  With a metallic twang, the lock popped.

  “Ta da!” Pete said, stepping back, with an expansive lift of his arms.

  Gary rushed over, pulling at the top drawer.

  “Watch it, you’re gonna leave prints.”

  “Screw that,” he said. “This is paper, they’re not gonna get much off of this.”

  Pete stepped back, shaking his head. This guy didn’t know anything. Paper was like one of the best surfaces to get a print from.

  “Do you think it’s under her maiden name, or under Randall?” Gary asked, talking to himself.

  “I dunno,” Pete said, moving back toward the wall of shelves, looking for a trinket, small, expensive, to pick up.

  “Ho! Would you look at this?”

  Pete turned.

  “He’s got a whole file on the crazy drawing here. Look,” Gary flipped open a manila file folder and scanned the pages. “Man! Are we in business or what?”

  “Hurry up, Gare, I’m startin’ to get nervous.”

  “Yeah,” he said, stuffing the file into the portfolio before digging back through the drawer. When he slammed it shut, Pete headed for the door. “Not so fast,” he said. “Haven’t found what I’m looking for, yet.” Gary pulled out the second drawer, tilting his head to the side to read the file folder titles. “These are all according to date, like from the past coupla years.” He pulled one out. “Nothing recent.”

  “Gare, he probly keeps that stuff at his office at work, dontcha think? I’m thinkin’ that this is just his like, hobby or something.”

  Gary’s shoulders slumped. He swore. “I didn’t think about that. I just thought . . .” He made a noise of frustration. Slamming the second drawer shut, he reached for the third.

  “Gary. We got the picture, right? Let’s get outta here.”

  “Two more drawers. I’ll make it quick.”

  “It ain’t here. You know it.”

  “Watch the window. I’ll be done in a minute.”

  Pete moved to the window but didn’t look out. He watched Gary flip through the files, examining each one quickly, but thoroughly, throwing a couple into the portfolio as something caught his interest. This didn’t feel good. They’d had it easy so far and Pete just knew they were pushing their luck. Gary didn’t have good instincts for these kind of jobs.

  Gary stood up, kicked the last drawer shut. He scowled at Pete. “Let’s go.”

  With a sigh of relief, Pete left his window post and they walked down the stairs, less quietly than they’d come up, their shoes making solid pounds on the carpeted steps as they ran down, eager to leave.

  “Hang on to this a minute,” Gary said, handing the portfolio to Pete. He moved to the alarm panel and began to input the code when they heard the hum of the garage door, opening.

  “Gare!”

  “Hold on,” Gary said, gritting his teeth, moving his fingers to hit the proper code. “Shit.”

  “I ain’t waitin’” Pete reached for the door handle.

  “Don’t touch it.” Gary hissed. Pete’s fingers made contact with the ornate metallic knob. Gary hit “clear,” then began again. The garage door noise had stopped. They heard the faint slam of a car door.

  Gary blinked a couple of times, touched his forehead, then moved to input the code. As if in slow motion, he hit one pad, paused, then bit his lip, his hands shaking. In that instant Pete knew that Gary had forgotten the sequence.

  The garage door motor sounded again. Closing. A door opened nearby. Very nearby.

  Pete heard a monosyllabic grunt, followed by “Hey!”

  The enormous shadow moved like lightning, but even as Pete took in the man’s massiveness, frozen with fear being caught here, realization dawned. In the darkness, with only a sliver of light shooting through the nearby window, the big guy couldn’t see him. But he obviously saw Gary.

  Pete shrunk further back toward the wall, keeping as close to the door as possible. The nearby window illuminated Gary, standing stone-like, caught with his fingers poised over the keypad, staring at the approaching giant.

  The big guy raced forward. In a split-second, Pete knew he would be seen. He’d have to move quick. Even as he thought this, he saw the guy reach to his right side and pull out a gun, moving to block Gary’s path. But it gave Pete his chance.

  He wrapped his fingers around the doorknob and pulled.

  “No!”

  Gary’s whispered scream almost stopped him, but he tore out of the house at a flat run.

  A second later he heard the shot. But he didn’t stop running.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Richard DeChristopher leaned back, reaching to place his arm around the curved wooden frame of his wife’s banquet chair. He watched as tuxedoed waiters cleared the table, taking the half-finished desserts away, refilling coffee cups, never making eye contact with the diners. When they pulled out the small metallic wands and scraped away crumbs from the white linen tablecloth, Richard smiled. Their round table, placed front and center near the stage, the deference of the wait staff, and even that of his fellow diners, pleased him.

  Gina chatted wit
h the woman to her left, Kamila Stewart, the wife of the master of ceremonies. Though his own wife’s clothes were expensive, and Richard knew just how expensive they were, she never managed to look put together like so many of the other women did. It had to be the extra weight she carried. Since having the boys, Gina’s figure went from lissome to paunchy. The gold dress she wore today, made of some kind of sparkly stretchy fabric, would have looked much better on a woman three sizes smaller.

  That painter, Anne Callaghan, now she had a nice little shape. Curvy but slim, petite all around. Richard’s eyes roved Gina’s body as he pictured Anne next to him instead. The dress color was wrong. Anne would look better in blue. Royal blue, backless. Gina caught him looking, smiled up at him, and winked. He squeezed her shoulder in return. Unfortunately, Anne was a client and Richard made it a point never to get involved with his clients. Still, she was a sweet thing. And even better, the girl had class.

  He wished Gina had a bit more class. When he’d suggested she take some college courses, thinking that expanding her horizons, she’d evolve somehow, she’d laughed in his face, reminding him that she’d barely made it through high school. There were times he cringed, knowing that his wife would accompany him to dinners and occasions such as this. Served him right for marrying so young. But she’d been a tempting little thing back then, with strict parents. And he’d been foolish enough to pop the question before he’d had a chance to test the merchandise.

  Not that it mattered anymore. For reasons that baffled him, Gina always managed to hold her own at these doings. People gravitated to her; they liked her earthy, friendly personality. He remained grateful for that. Gina kept him entertained when he stayed home, and he couldn’t complain about her performance in the bedroom. Always willing to try things he suggested, she never once asked where the ideas came from. Good girl.

  Tonight turned out as perfectly as he’d planned. Immediately following his acceptance speech for the Bar Association Citizenship Award, the ceremonies would be complete and the attendees free to mill about. After pressing the flesh with all the saps who’d nominated him for this award, he’d be able to make his way over to see the real reason he was in such a good mood.

  It hadn’t been difficult to wrangle an invitation, even on such short notice, for Charles Bernard. Wealthy, handsome, famous, he’d made the cover of Newsweek once, People, twice. Not only a self-made man, his personality loomed bigger than his bank account. The type of fellow who whisked supermodels and entertainers to his yacht, his chalet, his penthouse, he found ways to talk about it without being obvious. His name opened doors, inspired hushed conversations. When Richard called to see if table space could be made available, the folks in charge bent over backward to assure him that everything would be perfect.

  Richard magnanimously suggested seating Bernard at a different table than his own. That too, was perfect. Had they been placed together, they’d be limited to chat about unimportant drivel at the dinner table, conscious of eager ears. And when the time came to visit, to mingle, they’d be expected to move about the room, to interact with those who’d paid for the opportunity to hobnob with the upper class. Noblesse oblige.

  Now, after dinner, after the required speeches, it would be only natural for Richard and Charles to seek each other out, to be seen talking, privately, even for an extended period of time. Then the deal could be finalized.

  Charles Bernard came in shortly before dinner began, moving into the ballroom, shaking hands, smiling. Rugged and handsome, the man in his late fifties commanded attention. Richard watched him work his magic. A middle-aged woman gazed up in awe as Charles bent forward to listen to whatever it was she said. His eyes never left her face as she spoke, and even from this distance Richard could see the red blush creeping up from her neck. A dark curl from his full head of hair spilled forward, just as he smiled at her, laughing in a self-deprecating way at a flattering remark, no doubt. The blend of rakishness and sincerity he exuded, coupled with his warmth—he took the woman’s hands in both of his and leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek, still smiling—gave credit to every juicy word written about the man.

  Richard caught his eye and he’d nodded, taking his attention away, ever so briefly from another woman, waiting her turn to share a moment in his presence.

  All through dinner, Richard replayed their earlier phone conversation in his mind. Charles appeared agreeable to the five-million-dollar price. For one drawing. Setting his coffee cup down with a clink, he grinned. Once the particulars were arranged, all he’d have to do was collect. Maybe even tonight. Richard could just about taste it. How sweet. How wonderfully ironic. Not a soul in this place suspected, even for a moment, that he, Richard DeChristopher, model citizen, champion of justice, had masterminded the scheme that had been front page news for the past two weeks.

  Gina said something.

  “What, dear?” Richard leaned forward, his face impassive.

  “I asked if you were nervous. They’re gonna be introducing you soon.”

  He patted his wife’s shoulder, leaning back as Wayne Stewart, the master of ceremonies, left their table to take the podium. “No,” he smiled at her, then at the rest of the table, listening in. Their eyes were on him, the rapt attention giving him a feeling of power. The men’s faces wore a mixture of respect and envy while their women glanced between him and Gina as if to gauge their relationship by their interplay. He broadened his grin. “Should I be?”

  Gina flipped her hands up in mock exasperation, looking around at the table, too. “He’s not nervous. Can ya believe it? I’d be shakin’ in my boots if I hadta make a speech in fronna all these people.”

  Polite chuckles, then all eyes turned to Wayne, who’d cleared his throat into the microphone, causing a ripple of silence to drift over the ballroom. Richard tilted his head and stretched his chin in an effort to loosen the bow tie’s grasp around his neck. His many philanthropic efforts were being listed, and he nodded acknowledgment as those around him leaned forward to touch his arm or whisper congratulations. Across the room, Charles looked over, with what could have been a smirk on his face.

  Wayne Stewart drew out his words as he neared the end of his introduction. “And so without any further delay, let us extend a welcome to our Guest of Honor tonight, Our Bar Association Citizen of the Year . . . Richard DeChristopher.”

  Having perfected over the years a self-effacing air, Richard moved toward the podium affecting a shy smile. Every person stood, applauding as he grasped either side of the podium with his large hands. The guests, a sea of colored gowns and black tuxedos, sent him high-voltage smiles as they clapped so enthusiastically that he could see the water in a nearby glass tremble. He blinked and nodded slowly, to his left, then his right, then center, waiting for the din to die down.

  “Thank you,” he began, lowering his head to the microphone’s height. Straightening, he adjusted it upward, to his level. “Thank you,” he said again, “for that warm welcome.”

  He waited as the guests slowly took their seats, almost in a wave, starting from the very front and dropping backward. This moment epitomized the life he’d created. As the group quieted, his heart beat faster. Honored, respected, revered. And still able to create lucrative business arrangements that kept his family comfortable and his passion for collecting alive. Keeping his eyes on the crowd, his fingers reached into his inner pocket, pulling prepared notecards out in a fluid movement. Tapping the stack to straighten the edges, he laid them down, centered, against the tiny ledge, and gripped the edges of the stand again. The warmth of the lights above didn’t make him feel uncomfortable; rather they reminded him that he stood center stage, that every awe-struck or envious eye was upon him. An almost out-of-body feeling came over him. He could see himself poised, assured, ready to accept this honor with grace. He took a deep breath when the crowd quieted.

  “When I was informed of my nomination for this prestigious . . .”

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  The pager’s chi
rp echoed through the room, its high-pitched alarm deafening in the silence.

  His right hand flew to his side, silencing the device as he stopped mid-sentence. In that split second all possible scenarios ran through his mind as he cursed himself for forgetting to switch it to vibrate instead of chime. The kids were at his mother-in-law’s. She had Gina’s pager number, not his. Everyone from his place of business was here. Charles Bernard was here. No one else should be calling him, unless . . . Momentarily rattled, he smiled at the audience and said, “Excuse me,” while his fingers made deft motions at his side to bring up the number on the screen. Turning as though to shut it off, he took the opportunity to glance down at the number. Timothy’s cell phone.

  The interruption lasted barely two seconds, yet felt like an eternity under the steady gaze of the spectators. Returning to his speech, he held out his hands in a helpless gesture. “Technology today,” he said with a chuckle, “can’t get away from it, can we?”

  He waited for the murmurs of understanding to quiet before reaching to caress the tall crystal prism-shaped award next to him

  “And yet technology has been a boon, hasn’t it? Helping us in so many ways to do good for our fellow man.” Giving the trophy an affectionate tap, he continued, “In my experience . . .”

  * * * * *

  They were on their feet again, clapping, cheering.

  His speech finished, Richard forced himself to smile, his left hand already gripped around the cell phone in his jacket pocket. Timothy knew better than to page him for something frivolous. It took all his willpower to stand on the dais, to receive the accolades rather than rush into the vestibule and make the call.

  Wayne Stewart wore a puzzled look as he applauded. They’d discussed Richard’s acceptance speech at length. Worked together to prepare the notecards for a fifteen-minute speech. Richard had spoken less than ten.

  “What happened?” Wayne asked in a low voice, the first to move forward, clasping both Richard’s hands in his.