The Heist

The pale-yellow light of the porch lamp echoed over the sharp edges of the middle-aged man; his sunken eyes more telling than a book which has been scuffed and curled under the weight of ownership and the heat of time. His heart beat louder than the crickets hidden within the bushes. “And what if we are discovered? I cannot risk that of my son.”

“If we are discovered, old friend, then I admit, the death of your son may be the least of the miseries to befall us,” said an old man with a smile, sitting next to him.

“Is that supposed to comfort me? Have you no condolences or words of apology?”

“When you live as long as I have – though I know you hate to hear it – you understand what little pertinence worry has when compared to death. But I suppose it cannot be helped. I do have cause to help. I recommend that you send your boy away, that way he not only will not be able to reach him should things go wrong, but he won’t even know of his existence. I have utter faith in the plan, Johnson. But more so, I have faith in you, that you’ll pull through. You have succeeded diligently thus far, have you not? What trials you’ve faced, what terrible, worrisome, terrible troubles . . .”

“Yes, yes.” The man looked up to the moon with a plea.

Before noon the next day, he strapped his boots and spoke to his son. “You will be staying with your aunt for a while. It will be a little vacation, okay?”

The boy ran up to his father and clasped his arms around his neck. “Have I done something wrong?” He whispered into his father’s shoulder, damp with tears.

“It was I. But don’t worry. I will return to you, I swear it.”

The boy nodded with reluctance.

“You remember your aunt, yes?”

“She smells weird.”

“Yes, yes she does. But do not tell her that, she will get mad at you and grab you by the ear!” The father said, tickling the child.

As Johnson road away on his sturdy black horse, he looked behind him at his young child, wiping the tears from his eye as he waved his father to leave, his aunt gripping his shoulder next to him.

He cried far more as a man then he did as a boy, this he admitted to himself with a frightful indignation as he sped into the west.

Meeting him several blocks away under a white street lamp that night was a young man of twenty-three, an established thief (among other thieves;) a man who boasted of his skill being tantamount to a strategist in war, a lawyer in court. His greasy black hair came out in strands beneath his beanie and rested above his brow. Crooked teeth . . . “And what if he wants to speak to you in his office?” The thief asked him.

“I won’t allow it, and if he insists, I will stall in order to allow you the time we planned, which is?”

“I will be out by a quarter till, do not worry! I’ve done far more with far less time.”

“You understand if you’re caught, he will cut off your hands?”

“What a threat, yes. Where is Andy? Is he supposed to meet us here or am I mistaken?”

“I told him to, yes, but we’ve already gone over the plan so there is no real need, however . . .”

Just then, a man in a black cap and a cleft lip waltzed up in a long coat.

“And what part have you to play here, Andy?”

Andy smiled with a look of a boy caught killing bugs and opened his coat, showing several loaded firearms. The three men looked at each other and nodded in agreement.

Johnson and Andy approached a large mansion with a front garden filled with Greek style statues and waterfalls made of marble. Walking up the long pathway to the front door, two armed men were visible on the porch.

Like two robotic dogs, the armed guards stepped in the way of the front door. The guard on the left had blond hair that’d be buzzed and was clean shaven, while the guard on the right had slicked back brown hair which had an almost black luster in the cloudy night. His teeth were short nubs that bore witness as he said, “Code.”

“Seventeen-Twelve, sir,” replied Johnson.

The guard on the right smiled halfway as a man who is undercover does to one who asks his identity. Upon opening the large burgundy doors, a red rug glistened under the chandelier light with a cold sheen, leading to a large staircase, which, standing at the top was Rendon Holstein wearing a silk robe the same color as the front doors, a dark red like heavy wine.

“We’ve important matters to attend to, no? No time like wartime. Come in,” he said as he descended the steps. “Oh, and you’ve brought a friend in a nice coat! It’s warm in here, take it off, we are all friends here.”

Andy smiled and removed his black coat, slinging it over his arm; several odd points could be seen sticking out where the barrel of a gun trespassed its hiding, making the coat look like a live animal on his arm. Rendon, a man of five-foot five with a slim but bushy mustache and a well-oiled hairline squinted at the eyes of Andy. “Why do you think I would not know what you have? Truly, were I you, I too would come protected, alas! What better treasure than your life, no? Though you must leave your arms behind. You understand why, I am sure. You’re safe here, sir, place it on the coat rack . . .”

Andy scowled and did as he was told.

Johnson intervened, saying, “Mr. Holstein, I’m rather parched. May I have some water?”

“You’re my guest! I’ll give you my finest wine, come, sit! I’ve just refurbished my guest lounge.”

The three men, accompanied by the two security which had held the doors open walked into what Johnson presumed to be the ‘guest room’ with its layout of two soft black couches facing each other and a brown coffee table laced with gold stripes sitting between them; whiskey and several small cups placed in the center.

Mr. Holstein sat facing the two other men while the two security guards stood behind them. He picked up one of the glasses and chugged what was in it and chuckled, saying, “There’s something fine, Mr. Johnson, about taking what isn’t yours, if in all outcomes, your use of it is uninhibited, no?”

“I appreciate your way of speech, truly, but we are not of such a high class. We’re here for business, and for good business, an understanding must be met.”

Mr. Holstein’s face darkened. “If you want, understanding, and you want business, then why behave otherwise? Why does your friend here carry a pistol in his boot? What business would entail such things?”

Andy grimaced and pulled a six shooter from his brown boot and placed it on the table, barrel facing Rendon. Johnson cleared his throat and said, “Mr. Holstein, Andy here is to ensure a fair fight, should this turn sour. Now, you need a smuggler. I know this city like no other, likely even more than you. You may know the strings that tie business together here, but I know the heart of the men which dwell here, and where their eyes linger each passing moment. I know how to avert their gaze. I care little for what it is I am smuggling, only its size, shape, and visibility.”

“Yes, yes, forgive me, Johnson, but I have a sort of protocol in order to ensure safety and trust with those who I do business with, as do you. I want you to smuggle something for me, as a trial for my services.”

“I do not work without pay.”

“You’ll be paid in full.”

Johnson leaned back and swiped at his hair with his palm. All that could be heard was the ticking of an old Italian grandfather clock that looked over them.

Rendon Holstein reached into his robe and pulled out a dark iron six shooter. The smell of cold metal brushed under Johnson’s nose with a bitter aroma. Holstein reversed the pistol and showed its handle to him, prompting him to grab it. He took it, the steel was still warm from the body heat of Holstein’s chest.

“You’ll take that to my office. There’s no tricks. Simply bring it to my office and set it on my desk.”

“Why?”

“Mr. Johnson, you boasted earlier that you operate with confidence. Do as you are told.”

Johnson took a deep breath and nodded his head. He walked to the door and turned around, saying, “I do not know which way your office is.”

Holstein’s face lit up. “Ah! Of course, yes. I’ll lead you there.” He approached Johnson and let out his hand towards the staircase. A bead of sweat trickled from Johnson’s brow to the point of his nose.

The staircase had laden on it a silk carpet with jagged edges of yellow strips engrained in its pattern. The faint whisper of a saxophone could be heard from another room. With each step Johnson took, he remembered the cries and giggles of his little boy, his face skipping before him. The edge of his mouth fought to frown, but with what little control he had left in his old age, he wrestled with his countenance.

They reached the top of the stairs and Holstein pointed to a door on the right at the end of the hall. The lights were dim and quiet like an audience holding its breath in anticipation. Johnson approached and tried the door handle, but it was locked.

Rendon laughed and slapped his palm to his head, saying, “Right! Right, I asked to have it locked. But I don’t have a key . . .”

Johnson spun around and looked down his nose at Holstein. “Do not play games with me. I would sooner leave than be a player in your poor show.”

“So quick to assume the worst of me. Very disappointing. But still, stay – here, I’ll knock, perhaps it will open.”

Andy, who’d been following closely behind them, rubbed at the knife hidden in his belt as he watched them. Holstein put his hand on Johnson’s shoulder, and moving him aside, he placed five knocks on the dark door. Johnson’s long mustache trembled with anticipation as a commotion shuddered on the other side of the door. The doorknob turned with a tick and –

Johnson’s robber, his prized thief had opened the door. Blood was leaking from his forehead and mouth. A bang erupted from behind Johnson and as he turned around, glistening red drops danced upon his ear and hair. Andy’s brains had been splattered on the wall and roof by a sawed-off shotgun brandished by the clean-shaven guard who’d previously stood at the door.

Johnson’s breathless murmur grew into a frightened shout which intensified when his prize thief’s body slumped onto him from behind. All the while, Holstein was bent over in joy and laughter, cackling like a mad dog. Before long, his face once again grew stern and he nodded at his armed guard, who then picked up Johnson by the waist and hauled him into the office. Blood was splattered in an eclectic fashion on the desk and walls of the office, and even on the tiger skin which was sprawled across the east wall.

Johnson trembled, his eyes wide with fear. He pointed the pistol he held at Holstein and clicked it at him, only turning the barrel. The room smelt of raw meat and sweat and was filled with the sound of Rendon’s laughter from the hall. The moonlight dripped through the window at the top of the room, and a pitiful, insignificant heat caressed Johnson’s arm where the light laid.

Holstein entered the room and locked the door behind him. “You try to cross me? Me? Have you not heard of any of things that they say about me? Have you not heard of what I’ve done to others for less? Did you not think that this would happen to you? No, it never happens to you, yes? Say something!” Holstein approached Johnson’s shaking body and stood behind him. “I would have more fun with you if you were younger. But look at you, old man, your hair is gray with age, and –” He wiped at his mouth, “Pardon me, I’ve some of your body guard on me.”

Johnson looked down at the desk. Memories of his little boy danced before him; his short white teeth and pink gums from a smile shining under the morning sun with glee as he ran beneath the apple trees in his front yard. And how he’d giggle, almost like a puppy with hiccups. The years to come – the years he’d miss . . . The thought was unbearable, and still his abdomen bled profusely from shards of what could have been either bullets or bone – he lunged for the metal ballpoint pen which was sitting in a cup on the top left of the table and lunged it into Holstein’s artery in his throat. The sawed-off shotgun went off, and though Johnson could no longer feel or see anything, he felt a greater force of pressure near his right kidney, or where it used to be. And like being submerged in an infinite ocean, the pressure laid over him, and all that he could hear was his slowing heartbeat, and the laugher of his little boy.