No Such Creature

“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.