"Not so loud,” I cautioned. “No, not plumbing. Something else."
I stood on the sidewalk of the darkened, quiet street and sized up the Something Else—a metal monstrosity squatting on the front lawn of Prohibney, Barr and Joiner.
The law firm, known in legal circles, and illegal circles as PB and J, was among the modern buildings that littered the street two blocks from the county courthouse.
The neighborhood was a hybrid of historic and contemporary, brick and vinyl siding, wrought iron and stainless steel. Some law firms had availed themselves of tax credits and restored dilapidated, two-story structures to their former grandeur; others simply had demolished the old to make way for the new.
No traffic passed and no activity occurred, not unusual at two a.m.
I scrutinized the massive creation for a few more moments, then approached and removed from my gym bag a pipe cutter, hacksaw, and bolt cutter.
* * * *
I don't tell Simon about every caper.
Don't get me wrong; he's a good guy, but he can be kind of a blabbermouth.
We were seated across from each other at our customary table in the Sav-Mor alcove, sharing our morning break, which largely consisted of Simon reading stories from the morning newspaper, followed by his own mundane observations.
"You're gonna love this one,” he said, a bold prediction, since I hadn't loved anything he'd read so far. “Someone stole that enormous sculpture from in front of that law office on Cherry Street."
"Let me see that."
He ignored my request and continued, “Says here it's an original sculpture by an artist named Flambe."
"That's a dessert,” I said.
"Well, that's what it says: F-l-a-m-b-e-a-u."
"That's Flambeau," I corrected. “Must be French."
"Flambeau, Flambe.” He shrugged. “But here's the part you're gonna love. The sculpture was a wedding gift to one of the firm's lawyers, Ann Lowell-Brady, from her father, Judge Arthur Franklin Lowell III."
"Let me see that!” I demanded.
"Just goes to show ya,” Simon said, ignoring my outstretched hand. “What comes around, goes around. Judge Lowell ridicules you in court, now somebody steals his wedding present to his daughter."
"Gimme that.” I snatched the paper and began reading.
"Jeez,” Simon complained.
"Says here the thing is valued at thirty-five thousand dollars."
"I was just gettin’ to that,” Simon groused.
"For that?"
"It's art,” Simon replied. “You were always good at that creative stuff in school. Hey, how come you never made anything worth thirty-five grand?"
I leaned across the Formica tabletop and whispered, “I took it."
"You?"
"Shush, not so loud."
"You took the judge's wedding present to his daughter?"
"I didn't know what it was,” I explained. “I took it to sell the metal for scrap."
"That was your caper—stealin’ the sculpture for scrap."
I nodded.
"Well, you gotta do somethin'. Didn't Lowell say he'd throw in you in prison if you got caught in another caper?"
I nodded again.
"You gotta do somethin',” Simon repeated. “Maybe you should just put it back."
"I can't."
"What do you mean you can't?"
"I can't. I cut it up."
"You cut it up?"
"Shush, not so loud."
"Why'd you cut it up?"
"It was too big to move."
Simon sat back in his seat. “Man, I am so glad I'm not you right now."
* * * *
Maybe the judge was right.
Heaven knows I've been on an unlucky streak lately.
I stared at the cut-up conglomeration of metal I had stored in an unused barn on my late parents’ farm and contemplated simply leaving it there.
I'm mostly a small-time thief, and I certainly have no appetite for prison, which was looming as a distinct possibility.
But I knew if I abandoned the caper without the payoff, I would be admitting yet another failure.
I decided to attempt to salvage the effort.
If I cut apart the remaining pieces and reassembled the metal in such a way to disguise the original, maybe I could still succeed in selling it for scrap.
I unloaded the cutting torch and welder from the bed of my pickup truck and began subdividing the piles of metal.
As I worked, I began to sense a pattern. I extinguished the torch, lifted my mask, and studied the assortment of shapes, textures, and colors of the pieces I had stacked.
A concept began to emerge.
* * * *
What's that?” asked Gus, the scrap metal dealer, as he pointed to the metal creation in the back of my truck.
"One of my early works,” I replied. “It's actually three separate parts. You'll see when we get it unloaded.” I had used nearly all of the original sculpture for my creation. A few pieces didn't seem to fit with my vision, so I tossed them into a corner. They mostly were scraps of sheet metal that, together, barely would amount to a pound.
"You're an artist?” Gus asked.
"Yeah."
"What's your name?” he asked, as we began moving the pieces.
I hadn't anticipated the question. I had expected to remain an anonymous seller of scrap metal. “Why?” I replied, hoping to mask my anxiety.
"Just wondered if I'd ever heard of you."
"Not likely,” I said, wondering how I'd managed to find a scrap dealer who also was an art connoisseur. “I haven't sold much."
"Too bad,” Gus consoled. “There's money to be made in that racket. I saw in the paper just the other day they were offering a reward for some stolen sculpture. Said it was worth thirty-five thousand."
"What's this one called?” Gus asked, after we had set the last piece on the ground.
I hadn't anticipated that question either. I waited about a beat too long before answering, “Untitled,” then another beat before adding, “Number 3."
He studied the sculpture, his contemplation apparent. “Three,” he repeated. “Yeah, I can see that. It looks like three big triangles, or maybe three giant shark fins.” He pondered a moment. “You should name it ‘Trident’ or something like that."
"That's a chewing gum,” I observed.
"Oh yeah."
"Well,” I said, “I didn't sell it so it doesn't need a name."
"So you're selling it for scrap,” he observed. He paused, then offered a bemused smile. “Lucky me. I get to buy art by the pound."
* * * *
I placed my bologna sandwich and chips on the tabletop and sat across from Simon, joining him for our customary lunch.
"Man, did you see what's on the front lawn of PB and J now?"
"No,” I answered, taking a bite of my sandwich and chewing.
"I drove by there this morning. There's this new sculpture. Looks like three big metal sails, or pyramids, or..."
I dropped the bologna sandwich on the Formica tabletop and was out the door.
I drove hastily to Prohibney, Barr and Joiner, Attorneys at Law, where my suspicions were confirmed and my hopes dashed. Featured prominently on the lawn was Untitled: Number 3.
I continued driving hastily to the scrap-metal yard, where I confronted Gus.
"My sculpture is on the lawn of Prohibney, Barr and Joiner,” I said.
"Yeah,” he affirmed, a hint of pride in his tone.
"How'd it get there?"
"I sold it to ‘em."
"How could you sell it?” I asked, my voice tinged with a combination of disbelief and anger.
"Excuse me,” Gus challenged. “I bought it. Remember?"
"For scrap."
"One man's scrap . . .” Gus countered, leaving the remainder unspoken. “Don't blame me if I sold it as art and you couldn't."
"But, how?"
"I read about the sculpture that was taken from that f
irm—remember, I told you that?—so I called them. They referred me to this judge who bought it as a gift and he came out to take a look. He liked it, so we made a deal."
"I'll bet you made a tidy profit."
He shrugged again. “That's between me and the buyer.” He paused. “By the way, what's your name?"
"Why?"
"He said he wants to meet the artist."
"The judge?"
"Of course, the judge. Who else would I be talkin’ about?"
* * * *
I knocked on the massive oak front door.
Judge Arthur Franklin Lowell III opened it. “Ah, Mr. Dingel, so good of you to come."
"I didn't think it would be wise to refuse."
"Please, follow me,” he invited, ignoring my observation. He escorted me through a large, grandly furnished lobby to a similarly large, grandly furnished study. He offered me refreshments, which I declined, and a chair, which I accepted. After we were seated in matching armchairs facing each other, he said: “I need you to understand that I did not invite you here in my capacity as a judge."
I nodded.
"Nor are you here as someone I sentenced to probation. In this matter, I am simply a homeowner and you are my guest. Understood?"
I nodded again, then asked: “How did you find me?"
"Mr. Stanton, the scrap-metal dealer, wrote down your license plate number and was kind enough to pass it on to me."
"You traced my license number—why?"
"I wanted to meet the creator of Untitled: Number 3. I confess I was surprised when I learned you were the artist."
I had no ready reply, so I said nothing.
"Tell me,” the judge continued. “What were you trying to convey when you created Untitled: Number 3?"
"Me?"
"Yes, you,” the judge affirmed. “As an artist."
I shrugged. “I don't know. There's a lot of number threes, famous threes —the Three Stooges, Three Musketeers, three Wise Men—"
"The Holy Trinity: the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit,” the judge chimed in. “The Caravel, the Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria. There's even three harpooners in Moby-Dick—Queequeg, Tashtego, and Daggoo."
"Okay,” I agreed.
"So the three triangle shapes—three threes, if you will—embody that concept?"
I pondered a moment, then repeated: “Okay."
"You know,” the judge began, leaning forward, “there's something about Untitled that reminds me of Flambeau's work."
I stiffened. “There is?"
"Oh yes.” He paused. “No doubt, you're aware that a Flambeau sculpture was stolen from the Prohibney, Barr and Joiner law firm on Cherry Street."
"I heard about that."
"I purchased that as a wedding gift to my daughter."
My heart began to beat more quickly and my palms began to sweat. “Really?"
"Yes, really,” the judge affirmed. “And your piece possesses a distinct similarity to the Flambeau. Don't you see it?"
"You know, I've got a buddy who calls him Flambe, like the dessert."
"I'm having your piece appraised,” the judge said, his conversational tone suddenly becoming serious.
"Appraised? It's really not worth..."
"Not for value,” the judge interrupted. “For originality."
"Originality,” I repeated, realizing not only that my part of the conversation lacked originality, but that I inadvertently had blundered my way right into the proverbial spider's web.
"Did you know Flambeau signs all his works?"
I didn't, nor had I looked for a signature among the pieces I had cut up and reassembled.
"I'm confident,” the judge continued, leaning back in his chair, “a trained art appraiser will be able to detect an original signature."
I felt the web tighten, constricting my chest and converting my breathing to short, shallow gasps. I swallowed and arose from my seat. I claimed I wasn't feeling well, which was true. I needed air. I excused myself, walked quickly to the front door, and let myself out.
"You could steal it again,” Simon ventured as we herded stray grocery carts in the expansive Sav-Mor lot.
"Somehow, I'm not sure committing another crime to cover up a crime is my best move."
"Yeah,” Simon agreed. “Besides, he's probably got it staked out anyway."
"You're probably right. Then I'd be trying to explain why I was stealing something I'd already sold."
"That would look pretty dumb."
"He already thinks I'm dumb,” I confessed.
"That's probably why he's probably got it staked out."
"So what do I do?” I whined. “Hold tight until they find Flambeau's signature?"
"Do you even know what it looks like?"
"I looked it up online. It's like some kind of stylized F."
"Do you remember seeing it?"
"Not really,” I replied, then repeated, “so what do I do?"
Simon shrugged and we returned to the business of gathering carts while we pondered my predicament.
"You know,” I ventured, breaking our silence, “I really thought this caper would work. That's all I've ever wanted—one caper where I didn't foul everything up."
* * * *
"Ah, Mr. Dingel."
The familiarity of the tone and greeting startled me. I looked up from the table where Simon and I were on morning break, drinking coffee. “Judge Lowell,” I blurted.
"Your boss suggested I might find you here,” the judge said. “May I sit?"
I hesitated, then stammered something affirmative.
The judge sat in the plastic seat beside Simon and diagonally across from me. He looked entirely alien scrunched into the uncomfortable seat at the Formica dining table.
Simon sensed my alarm. “Coffee?” he asked the judge, hoping to buy me some time to regain my composure.
"Thank you, no,” the judge replied. He faced me. “I wanted to update you on my findings regarding the sculpture."
I squinted my eyes closed briefly, looked at Simon, then at the judge. “Okay."
"But first,” the judge said, “I want to give you one final opportunity to clear your conscience if there's anything you'd like to tell me."
I hesitated, probably too long, before replying, “I don't think so."
The judge leaned closer to me. “Did you steal the Flambeau I gave to my daughter as a wedding present?"
I hesitated, longer this time, as consequences careened and collided inside my brain. Did he find the signature? Should I confess and hope for leniency? Did he not find the signature? Was he trying to bluff me into a confession? I couldn't answer. I felt paralyzed. I made no reply.
The judge waited impatiently, “All right, Mr. Dingel.” He leaned back. “For the record, I think you stole my Flambeau and converted it into the artless pile of scrap you call Untitled: Number 3.” He arose slowly and stood beside the table. “But, I can't prove it."
"You can't?” I replied, probably too quickly.
"No, Mr. Dingel, I can't,” he conceded. “The materials certainly are similar, but we found no signature."
"No signature,” I repeated, probably with too much relief in my tone.
* * * *
I asked for an early lunch and drove to my late parents’ farm.
Except for the cheerful chirping of birds and sporadic barking of dogs, the place was quiet and serene.
I walked into the barn and approached the scraps of sheet metal I had tossed into a dusty corner. I stooped, then picked up and inspected each piece in succession. The third one revealed a stylized, etched F.
Finally, I thought, a caper not without artistry.
Copyright © 2010 Richard F. McGonegal
[Back to Table of Contents]
Department: THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER by Willie Rose
Each letter consistently represents another. The quotation is from a short mystery story. Arranging the answer letters in alphabetical order gives a clue to the title of the story.
P OVGN UPCCNT CXUNDOPWM, IFD P'U TVUWNT PA P EVW YFD UK APWMNB XW PD. DONBN'C CXUNDOPWM XFD XA AXEFC, IFD P EVW'D SXER XW DX PD.
—A. Q. RNSSK
cipher: A [ ] B [ ] C [ ] D [ ] E [ ] F [ ] G [ ] H [ ] I [ ] J [ ] K [ ] L [ ] M [ ] N [ ] N [ ] O [ ] P [ ] Q [ ] R [ ] S [ ] T [ ] U [ ] V [ ] W [ ] X [ ] Y [ ] Z [ ]
[Back to Table of Contents]
Fiction: DRIVE-THRU by David Dietrich
* * * *
Art by Kelly Denato
* * * *
"This is a robbery."
The man's voice that came through my headset was unfamiliar, scratchy and more than a little distant, like maybe he was yelling all the way from Georgia. The one in Europe, I mean. In other words, he sounded just like every other voice I heard through that piece of junk headset.
Such was life at Atlas Burger, conveniently located off I-35, just north of Waco. I was two and a half hours into the midnight-to-six shift in the drive-thru window. There were usually at least two people working the overnight, but Luther had called in sick and no other willing takers could be found, so I was flying solo.
"That's funny,” I replied, knowing from my own trips through the drive-thru just how tinny my voice sounded on the other end. “What can I get for you tonight?"
"All of the money in the register, for a start. Like I said, this is a robbery."
"Would you like to try our new strawberry-mango-papaya-peanut butter smoothie?"
He sighed heavily. The speaker system couldn't clearly replicate a voice, but somehow it managed to pick up the subtleties of the customers’ breathing, so we could hear every sigh, gasp, and frustration exhalation.
"I don't want a smoothie. I want the money."
"So you're really serious about that robbery thing?"
"Yes."
"You know how we don't serve walk-up clients at the drive-thru window? The same policy applies to robberies. You'll have to go inside the restaurant if you want to rob it. The dining room will reopen at six, so if you wouldn't mind coming back then..."
"I don't have the time. I need the money now. Can you open the safe?"
"Sorry,” I said. “It's time-release. So you should really come back later, after the dining room opens. Maximize your haul that way."
"It's very thoughtful of you to suggest that,” he said, “but I'm going to have to take a pass. Just load everything you've got into a bag and I'll be on my way."
AHMM, May 2010 Page 9
