Prologue
Montreal and the night were made for each other. As garish daylight gave way to the wintry cover of evening, the ancient buildings looked more comfortable, at home in the anonymity. Mont Royal looked over the metropolis like a watchful guard, and those lucky enough to be standing at the Kondiaronk Belvedere as the sun went down caught a view of downtown that would almost make the Lord jealous.
Located in that mass of towering skyscrapers and four centuries of history is the Montreal Forum, former home of the NHL Canadiens. Though it had been a decade since the last crowd cheered for their beloved Habs, the newly christened Pepsi Forum was the spotlight of the city again, if only for one night. The upper crust of the city slipped into their ten thousand dollar tuxedos and jewel-bedecked, décolleté-exposing dresses, ready to sell their image as readily as the auctioneers were to pawn off the latest in available art treasures.
Behind the fake smiles and plastic handshakes was the underlying current of competition. Sure, there would be Fabrege eggs to be auctioned, and iron sculptures galore. Clocks from the era of the Sun King might set back the persistent buyer a grand or two, but everyone knew about the main course of the evening.
The buzz was already on about Maurice Galbraith Cullen’s The Sunken Road, Hangard, a work that depicted the crumbling townhalls of war-torn France in World War I. One of the forefathers of Canadian impressionism, his snowscapes were major hits at Heffel’s, Waddington’s, and other agencies. The fact that it would rake in over a million Canadian was textbook; the question was how high the bids would run.
As the night progressed, the rumblings got louder, the looks meaner.
And Edmund Bontecou couldn’t be happier.
He watched from the curtains behind the main stage. Most auctioneers would rather have his paintings guarded at all times, but Bontecou was not about ready to let some hired hands place themselves over the goods. He kept a close on them himself, with the help of private eyes, watching from the distance. He put his meaty fingers on the frame, careful not to spill a drop of sweat on the canvas.
“Are you ready to make Papa some money, mon beau cygne?” he said to the painting, which stood in the center of the backstage right area. He then looked to his two guards, dressed in identical blue tuxedos.
“Leave us,” he said. The flattopped muscle nodded in unison, then walked out the stage door, closing it behind them.
No sooner did the latch click than a sudden drift hit Bontecou on the shoulders from above. He looked up. One of the sunlights had swung open.
“Who could be stupid enough to leave a window open in February, in this weather?”
As he finished his thought, he heard the footsteps behind him. Instinctively, he jumped in front of painting, shielding it with outstretched arms and legs.
“Stop right…” he began. He never got around to saying “there.”
She stole the breath from his lungs. Soft, long, luxurious brunette tresses framing intense green eyes. An elegant, patrician nose and sparkling lips that looked dangerous to diabetics. A Hepburnesque neck. All signs of classic beauty, which would’ve been more than enough to get Bontecou’s full attention.
But any semblance of self-control was blown away by her golden catsuit, which was modest enough not to be scandalous, and mysterious enough not to give away all of the body’s secrets, but which certainly left enough clues to put the bad thoughts in a man’s head. The glimmers from the scarlet threads that ran across the fabric of the costume went off like camera flashes. The auctioneer’s eyes went over the gentle, athletic curves of this stranger, mind racing so fast that any sane, simple questions that should’ve been running through his cerebrum were roadblocked.
“Forget the painting,” said Bontecou. “How much do you think the fine gentlemen of Montreal would be willing to pay for a night with you, my lady?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “But I’m not even in their price range.”
“Of course. I doubt the Mint would be enough.” Bontecou took a step forward. His eyes glistened like a wolf’s, and he licked his lips, brushing the edge of his Brillo-like moustache.
“No,” said the brunette. “Just like Monsieur Cullen’s work. Only look. Never touch.”
“I think you are a bit sturdier than canvases and oils,” he said. He gripped the stranger by her slender shoulders, shoving her back against the wall of the backstage, letting out a little gasp as his hands touched the fabric. He pressed against her, wanting to feel her warmth against him. With one hand, he grabbed a handful of her silken hair, pinning her head against the concrete. He reached to the wall, trying to slide his hand to her back, trying to find the zipper to her catsuit.
“You should be more considerate,” she said, and her eyes began to cloud over into a foggy orange hue.
By the time Bontecou looked up to see her face, she blew an identically-colored mist into his face. He let out a cough before his eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he collapsed, sound asleep.
She walked to her open leather bag, stowed away behind the props table of the backstage. She took out the digital disc-recorder, stowed away in the corner, red dot on, propped up by the tripod standing out. She checked the disc in the pullout monitor. It caught everything.
“Looks like we finally caught you in action, Mr. Bontecou,” she said, dropping the disc on the unconscious man’s chest. “Maybe next time, when you see a lady on the street, you will think with your other head.”
She sidled up to the painting when she heard the latch open. The identical buzz-cutted bodyguards, muscles straining their tuxes, looked at her with stone-faced determination.
“What?” she asked. “Can’t a girl steal in peace?”
The guards charged her at once. She landed a perfect placekicker’s punt into the gut of the faster guard, but couldn’t react in time for the other man. He grabbed her by the arms and locked her into a full-nelson, pushing down on her neck with his rock-hard hands. The wounded guard caught his wind and swaggered to the thief, fist cocked for a knockout blow.
But his eyes widened in surprise as she lifted her legs in the air, her left almost leaving an imprint in his groin, her right catching him under the chin, and then she flipped herself out of the full-nelson, landing directly behind the fresh guard. Before he could turn, she kicked out his knees from underneath, sending him downward. As he gritted his teeth in pain, the burglar jumped, bringing her boot down on the back of his head, using him as a steppingstone toward a perfectly placed bicycle kick upside the second goon’s face.
She landed with the grace of a ballerina, looking away as the two guards fell to the floor simultaneously. With a wry little smile, she looked to the Cullen painting.
“Now,” she said, “where were we?”
“And finally, the one we have waited for,” said the announcer. “Number 664. The Sunken Road, Hangard, by Monsieur Cullen. Gentlemen, I give you…”
The stage curtains parted. The initial gasps of the audience turned silent for an instant. And then came the boos.
Before the throngs of Montreal’s elite, stood a tripod, carrying an empty frame, save for the slumped figure of Edmund Bontecou hanging over it, video disc almost slipping out of his kerchief pocket.
From the back row, a tall, gaunt man, dressed in the uniform of the city’s finest, stood up from his table, veins almost popping out from the skin in his neck.
“What happened?” asked the elderly heiress who sat next to him.
The policeman composed himself, then sat back into his chair, shaking his head. “Coquelicot happened, Mademoiselle.”
Coquelicot
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superpics4les
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The Great Dutch Ninja
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Back again
Hello again. Been a while. Been busy (wrote my first miniature book of poetry, entered the National Poetry Slam in TX, et al.), but finally got this latest chapter down. Hope you enjoy.
****
Genevieve Comeaux didn’t have to wait long. She sat at the window table of L’Express, one of the finest bistros in the Plateau district. Amidst the aromas of fresh cappuccino and baked goods, she tried to stay alert. But it was difficult to get sleep the night after a heist. Even if you tried to get some shuteye, you wanted to keep both eyes open, just in case the shrill shriek of sirens pierced the morning air.
She never ordered anything. The black Lincoln Town Car always made it at 8 in the morning, on the dot. Putting her sunglasses on, she stood up and exited the café, a single poster tube in her hand.
She opened the back passenger door of the Town Car. Even though the air was brisk and cool, the sudden chill she felt rushing down her back wasn’t due to the weather. She hadn’t received any bad feelings about her jobs. Even when the Blue Angels laid in wait for her at the bank, she felt no danger, sensed no urgency. But although the job was done, she couldn’t shake the layer of dread that overwhelmed her.
“Well, don’t let the warm air out,” said the voice inside. “Come in and take your shoes off.”
She saw the usual smiling face in the backseat. Christian LaFollette leaned back, legs lazily crossed over each other, a folded copy of the Montreal Gazette laying in the middle seat. His shaggy blonde hair, double-breasted blue blazer, and red necktie suggested a style frozen 30 years in the past, yet radiated a sense of retro coolness, an unaffected sincerity that didn’t care about the eyes of the world.
“You should give the front page a read. It appears you’ve become quite film director,” he said. As Genevieve closed the door behind her, Christian knocked on the glass that separated the passengers from the driver, and the chauffer nodded. The Town Car pulled into the quiet morning traffic.
“You took quite a risk filming yourself,” he said. “And for what? To show that Monsieur Bontecou was a horny little bastard?”
Genevieve looked out the window. “He’s forced himself onto others. It was worth it. He’ll get his.”
Christian flashed a wry grin. “Just so you remember that justice isn’t our trade. May I?” Without waiting for approval, he took the poster tube and opened it. He removed the painting and took in a quick eyeful of the masterpiece. “But a job well done, nonetheless.”
“And my finder’s fee?” asked Genevieve.
“Of course.” The fence reached inside his blazer and removed a thick white envelope. Genevieve knew better than to count it in the Town Car; manners must be kept. Besides, what Christian lacked in respect for the law he made up for in honesty.
“Two hundred thousand, as we agreed. With as little as we have, honesty is the best currency.”
“As little as we have,” said Genevieve. “Coming from the man with the chauffer and the Town Car.”
“With a thief’s life comes a certain inflation. You know that as well as anyone. You have made what, almost three million dollars with us? And you still wear the same tired yellow blouse, the same black skirt, the same loafers. Just where does all that hard earned cash go?”
Genevieve looked back at Christian, and for a split second she wanted to tell him everything. He was the closest thing she had to a confidant in the last eighteen months, and when you keep to yourself long enough, even the promise of a friend is almost enough to make you spill every drop of your secrets. But she shook her head, and looked back toward the passing streets.
“Fair enough,” said Christian. “But it is a shame to see such beauty covered in rags. Little bird, you would be a work of art well worth stealing.”
Genevieve laughed. “I bet that line works real well with the girls in the club.”
The fence shrugged. “Sometimes. The house and car, on the other hand, have much louder, sweeter things to say.” As he rolled the painting back into the tube, he said, “Now, on a completely unrelated matter, are you ready for your next assignment?”
“Not for the next few weeks,” she said.
“It’ll be worth your while.” Christian turned the pages of the Gazette to the back. “One million. Maybe more.”
Genevieve looked to him, careful not to give away her eagerness. “You were saying?”
The Gazette’s front page, splashed with photos of Coquelicot’s manhandling of Edmund Bontecou, rested on bare oak. Unfolded and flat against the desktop, the paper stood in flawless condition, until the plastic cup came slamming down. Waves of milk came crashing down on the paper, soaking into the main column. Then came the discarded aluminum package of a single Pepcid capsule.
Detective Francis Dinappoli swallowed down the antacid with a swig of two percent. He sat back into his rolling chair, arms resting on the sides, head tilted back, eyes closed.
How dare she. How dare she steal the Cullen painting, with him less than a hundred feet away? He knew he was the laughingstock in the department. It was one strike that he was a born Yankee, trying to instill order in a foreign land. It was another strike that this cat burglar had stolen one of the most prized works of art in Canada under his nose. He tried to calm his breathing, knowing that whatever happens next may determine his reputation in Montreal.
He pulled himself forward as the chief of detectives knocked on his door. He knew that Fourcade would let himself in without invitation, so he downed the rest of his glass with his last few seconds of freedom.
“Dinappoli, what in the hell happened out there?” asked Fourcade without breaking his stride. “When people see police, they expect safety, assurance, and security. Now, I want you to tell me what happens when a multimillion dollar painting is stolen in the presence of said police.”
“I don’t know,” said Dinappoli. “Maybe if you hadn’t caved in to Monsieur Bontecou’s insistence that he provide his own security, you wouldn’t have this problem. Just my way of looking at it.”
Fourcade swiped the newspaper off the desk. His tall, almost emaciated figure towered over the portly officer. “The 3 million people I call our bosses expect to see results. And only one result will do in this case; handicuffs around this harlot’s wrists. I am going to give you a generous amount of time to apprehend our poppy princess. How does 72 hours sound, Dinappoli?”
“A time limit? This isn’t class, sir. This isn’t an exam.”
“Oh, but it is,” said Fourcade, pointing a finger almost through the detective’s chest. “It is a simple grade. Pass or fail. You bring her in, you pass. You don’t, you fail. Who knows? Perhaps your former colleagues in Buffalo have forgotten all about that shootout.” Fourcade walked back to the door. He looked back just long enough to say, “But I doubt it,” before slamming the knob hard enough to rattle the framework.
Dinappoli leaned back, wheezing as he picked up the sections of the Gazette. “The windup, and the pitch,” he said to himself, silently praying he had enough gumption to swing away.
Coquelicot did not believe in guns. Often.
She remembered taking one in Boston, if only because she trusted Carter Roberds and his pet monster as much as she did the Blue Angels. Ninety percent of the time, she considered her natural talents to be sufficient. But this was the first time she had been assigned to a group project. As much as she insisted to Christian that she worked alone, his considerable charm kept her from closing the door. And now, she found herself in front of the abandoned Stelco building on the southwest side of the city. Twenty years of silence weighed heavily on the plant, and a pall hung over St-Ambroise Street.
With one gloved hand on the gun, she knocked on the front door. Almost immediately, a pug faced man, an oversized painter’s cap slid almost over his eyes, looked to either side of her. “Anyone follow you, honey?”
She shook her head. With a nod, the pug welcomed her in.
The gutted expanse of the warehouse made everything else inside seem small, insignificant. But the enormous amount of room also left the impression of things hidden and dangerous.
“Nice get-up,” said the pug as he gave Coquelicot the once over. “I don’t know what it is with you kids and these costumes. When I was your age, I stole things with a crowbar, a white T-shirt, and jeans. Got things done just the same, thank you very much.”
Before Coquelicot could answer, a voice in the shadows said, “I see Vincent is giving you the same spiel that he gave me. I don’t think he cares much for dramatics.”
The young woman stepped out of the dark, and Coquelicot understood. Straight, silken dirty blonde hair flowed down the sides of her head, gliding along her shoulders. A forest green latex bodystocking flattered her tall, thin figure, and identically colored boots covered her from the knees down. Her right hand was gloved in green satin. The other hand was bare.
“I still say subtlety is king,” said Vincent. “Something you kids will learn if you live long enough. Some people can’t help it. I mean, look at Therien over there. He don’t know subtlety because God didn’t bother.”
Genevieve looked to the opposite corner, where she laid eyes on a Frankenstein monster in flesh tones. With a blue buttoned shirt, black suspenders, and black slacks, he looked ready for church. However, with his seven-foot height, broad shoulders, and mountain range of muscles, he looked ready to compete for the title of deity.
“But you two can blend in. And you don’t. It’s gonna get you killed one of these days.”
The girl in green chuckled. “And he isn’t much one for introductions, either. So I’ll help him along. The big lug in the back is Therien Allard. You may have heard of him as Nucleus.”
“That’s Nucleus?” asked Coquelicot. “I always imagined him being smaller.”
“When you have his gifts, size is the last thing you think about. A demonstration, if you please,” said the girl.
The giant grinned, and held out a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt. At first, Coquelicot couldn’t see anything. Then she saw a wave of air spin into a globe in his grasp. The air turned yellow, then red, then white.
“The ability to manipulate the atom,” said Vincent. “Maybe we don’t need to do this robbery at all. Maybe we can just have him turn nitrogen into gold.”
“Not there yet,” said Therien in a voice that could make unbelievers tremble.
“And who are you?” asked Coquelicot to the girl.
“Phoebe Deschenes,” she said, smiling. “But you can call me Phobia.” Before Coquelicot could react, the girl in green gripped her face with the uncovered hand. For a few seconds, the world seemed drained of color, shaking as though Montreal was experienced the quake to end them all. And then, a sudden return to normal.
Coquelicot shook her head. “What did you do to me?”
Phoebe’s smile disappeared. “You don’t seem to fear much, do you?”
“Just the same as everyone else. High taxes, nuclear proliferation, and Barry Manilow concerts.”
Vincent threw down his painter’s cap, revealing a grey crewcut. “Shut up, all of you. Time to get down to brass tacks. Now, time for a history lesson. How many of you know about the Eagle Diamond?”
The three mutants looked to each other, puzzled stares all around.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, crooks don’t know their history,” said Vincent. “The Eagle Diamond was found in the nineteenth century in some sleepy little burg in Wisconsin. The poor schmuck who found it sold it for a dollar, not knowing he had stumbled upon a 16 carat wonder. Now it’s not the worth of the diamond itself that’s important. There are a dozen gems out there that eclipse it on paper. But the Eagle Diamond has been missing since 1964, when Murph the Surph lynched it out of the American Museum of History. Forty-two years of absence makes the heart millions of dollars worth of fonder, if you get what I’m saying.”
“And you know where the ice is?” asked Phobia.
“Just so happens I do. Murph left it in the care of an old friend of mine. Unfortunately for him, I’m not that good of a friend. He’s placed it in a security deposit box at CitiBusiness Bank. I hear you’re familiar with the place, Nappy Breath.”
Coquelicot looked up. “Yes. It’s where I ran into the feds from America.”
“Well, you got the three of us looking after you. I don’t think a repeat performance is going to happen.”
“Wow. I feel comforted.” Coquelicot shook her head. “We need months of planning.”
“If you were all normal, I’d agree,” said Vincent. “But you… you three are special. I’ll leave the three of you to formulate a plan. I’m sure your prior experience with the place will provide us with an adequate blueprint. Be sure to run it by me by the time you’re done. By the time we get back here tomorrow night, I want that diamond in my hand. Now, make me rich.” Vincent picked up the briefcase by his side and left the warehouse.
Therien walked up to the two women, his footsteps making audible thuds. “What do we do?”
“Well, looks like stealth isn’t your thing, no offense,” said Genevieve.
“None taken,” said Nucleus.
“Something that utilizes all of our abilities,” said Phobia, pulling the satin glove taut.
“I couldn’t agree more.” Coquelicot smiled. “I think we can arrange something. Just give me a few minutes.”
Vincent Hebert stepped into his corn-colored AMC Pacer. Taking a razor phone out of his vest pocket, he hit a single digit on his speed dial.
“Just wanted to let you know it’s all set, sir. You’ll get your revenge soon enough. I appreciate your trust.” He pressed the red button on the phone, then dialed in three digits.
“Hello, police? Get me Detective Dinappoli.”
****
Genevieve Comeaux didn’t have to wait long. She sat at the window table of L’Express, one of the finest bistros in the Plateau district. Amidst the aromas of fresh cappuccino and baked goods, she tried to stay alert. But it was difficult to get sleep the night after a heist. Even if you tried to get some shuteye, you wanted to keep both eyes open, just in case the shrill shriek of sirens pierced the morning air.
She never ordered anything. The black Lincoln Town Car always made it at 8 in the morning, on the dot. Putting her sunglasses on, she stood up and exited the café, a single poster tube in her hand.
She opened the back passenger door of the Town Car. Even though the air was brisk and cool, the sudden chill she felt rushing down her back wasn’t due to the weather. She hadn’t received any bad feelings about her jobs. Even when the Blue Angels laid in wait for her at the bank, she felt no danger, sensed no urgency. But although the job was done, she couldn’t shake the layer of dread that overwhelmed her.
“Well, don’t let the warm air out,” said the voice inside. “Come in and take your shoes off.”
She saw the usual smiling face in the backseat. Christian LaFollette leaned back, legs lazily crossed over each other, a folded copy of the Montreal Gazette laying in the middle seat. His shaggy blonde hair, double-breasted blue blazer, and red necktie suggested a style frozen 30 years in the past, yet radiated a sense of retro coolness, an unaffected sincerity that didn’t care about the eyes of the world.
“You should give the front page a read. It appears you’ve become quite film director,” he said. As Genevieve closed the door behind her, Christian knocked on the glass that separated the passengers from the driver, and the chauffer nodded. The Town Car pulled into the quiet morning traffic.
“You took quite a risk filming yourself,” he said. “And for what? To show that Monsieur Bontecou was a horny little bastard?”
Genevieve looked out the window. “He’s forced himself onto others. It was worth it. He’ll get his.”
Christian flashed a wry grin. “Just so you remember that justice isn’t our trade. May I?” Without waiting for approval, he took the poster tube and opened it. He removed the painting and took in a quick eyeful of the masterpiece. “But a job well done, nonetheless.”
“And my finder’s fee?” asked Genevieve.
“Of course.” The fence reached inside his blazer and removed a thick white envelope. Genevieve knew better than to count it in the Town Car; manners must be kept. Besides, what Christian lacked in respect for the law he made up for in honesty.
“Two hundred thousand, as we agreed. With as little as we have, honesty is the best currency.”
“As little as we have,” said Genevieve. “Coming from the man with the chauffer and the Town Car.”
“With a thief’s life comes a certain inflation. You know that as well as anyone. You have made what, almost three million dollars with us? And you still wear the same tired yellow blouse, the same black skirt, the same loafers. Just where does all that hard earned cash go?”
Genevieve looked back at Christian, and for a split second she wanted to tell him everything. He was the closest thing she had to a confidant in the last eighteen months, and when you keep to yourself long enough, even the promise of a friend is almost enough to make you spill every drop of your secrets. But she shook her head, and looked back toward the passing streets.
“Fair enough,” said Christian. “But it is a shame to see such beauty covered in rags. Little bird, you would be a work of art well worth stealing.”
Genevieve laughed. “I bet that line works real well with the girls in the club.”
The fence shrugged. “Sometimes. The house and car, on the other hand, have much louder, sweeter things to say.” As he rolled the painting back into the tube, he said, “Now, on a completely unrelated matter, are you ready for your next assignment?”
“Not for the next few weeks,” she said.
“It’ll be worth your while.” Christian turned the pages of the Gazette to the back. “One million. Maybe more.”
Genevieve looked to him, careful not to give away her eagerness. “You were saying?”
The Gazette’s front page, splashed with photos of Coquelicot’s manhandling of Edmund Bontecou, rested on bare oak. Unfolded and flat against the desktop, the paper stood in flawless condition, until the plastic cup came slamming down. Waves of milk came crashing down on the paper, soaking into the main column. Then came the discarded aluminum package of a single Pepcid capsule.
Detective Francis Dinappoli swallowed down the antacid with a swig of two percent. He sat back into his rolling chair, arms resting on the sides, head tilted back, eyes closed.
How dare she. How dare she steal the Cullen painting, with him less than a hundred feet away? He knew he was the laughingstock in the department. It was one strike that he was a born Yankee, trying to instill order in a foreign land. It was another strike that this cat burglar had stolen one of the most prized works of art in Canada under his nose. He tried to calm his breathing, knowing that whatever happens next may determine his reputation in Montreal.
He pulled himself forward as the chief of detectives knocked on his door. He knew that Fourcade would let himself in without invitation, so he downed the rest of his glass with his last few seconds of freedom.
“Dinappoli, what in the hell happened out there?” asked Fourcade without breaking his stride. “When people see police, they expect safety, assurance, and security. Now, I want you to tell me what happens when a multimillion dollar painting is stolen in the presence of said police.”
“I don’t know,” said Dinappoli. “Maybe if you hadn’t caved in to Monsieur Bontecou’s insistence that he provide his own security, you wouldn’t have this problem. Just my way of looking at it.”
Fourcade swiped the newspaper off the desk. His tall, almost emaciated figure towered over the portly officer. “The 3 million people I call our bosses expect to see results. And only one result will do in this case; handicuffs around this harlot’s wrists. I am going to give you a generous amount of time to apprehend our poppy princess. How does 72 hours sound, Dinappoli?”
“A time limit? This isn’t class, sir. This isn’t an exam.”
“Oh, but it is,” said Fourcade, pointing a finger almost through the detective’s chest. “It is a simple grade. Pass or fail. You bring her in, you pass. You don’t, you fail. Who knows? Perhaps your former colleagues in Buffalo have forgotten all about that shootout.” Fourcade walked back to the door. He looked back just long enough to say, “But I doubt it,” before slamming the knob hard enough to rattle the framework.
Dinappoli leaned back, wheezing as he picked up the sections of the Gazette. “The windup, and the pitch,” he said to himself, silently praying he had enough gumption to swing away.
Coquelicot did not believe in guns. Often.
She remembered taking one in Boston, if only because she trusted Carter Roberds and his pet monster as much as she did the Blue Angels. Ninety percent of the time, she considered her natural talents to be sufficient. But this was the first time she had been assigned to a group project. As much as she insisted to Christian that she worked alone, his considerable charm kept her from closing the door. And now, she found herself in front of the abandoned Stelco building on the southwest side of the city. Twenty years of silence weighed heavily on the plant, and a pall hung over St-Ambroise Street.
With one gloved hand on the gun, she knocked on the front door. Almost immediately, a pug faced man, an oversized painter’s cap slid almost over his eyes, looked to either side of her. “Anyone follow you, honey?”
She shook her head. With a nod, the pug welcomed her in.
The gutted expanse of the warehouse made everything else inside seem small, insignificant. But the enormous amount of room also left the impression of things hidden and dangerous.
“Nice get-up,” said the pug as he gave Coquelicot the once over. “I don’t know what it is with you kids and these costumes. When I was your age, I stole things with a crowbar, a white T-shirt, and jeans. Got things done just the same, thank you very much.”
Before Coquelicot could answer, a voice in the shadows said, “I see Vincent is giving you the same spiel that he gave me. I don’t think he cares much for dramatics.”
The young woman stepped out of the dark, and Coquelicot understood. Straight, silken dirty blonde hair flowed down the sides of her head, gliding along her shoulders. A forest green latex bodystocking flattered her tall, thin figure, and identically colored boots covered her from the knees down. Her right hand was gloved in green satin. The other hand was bare.
“I still say subtlety is king,” said Vincent. “Something you kids will learn if you live long enough. Some people can’t help it. I mean, look at Therien over there. He don’t know subtlety because God didn’t bother.”
Genevieve looked to the opposite corner, where she laid eyes on a Frankenstein monster in flesh tones. With a blue buttoned shirt, black suspenders, and black slacks, he looked ready for church. However, with his seven-foot height, broad shoulders, and mountain range of muscles, he looked ready to compete for the title of deity.
“But you two can blend in. And you don’t. It’s gonna get you killed one of these days.”
The girl in green chuckled. “And he isn’t much one for introductions, either. So I’ll help him along. The big lug in the back is Therien Allard. You may have heard of him as Nucleus.”
“That’s Nucleus?” asked Coquelicot. “I always imagined him being smaller.”
“When you have his gifts, size is the last thing you think about. A demonstration, if you please,” said the girl.
The giant grinned, and held out a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt. At first, Coquelicot couldn’t see anything. Then she saw a wave of air spin into a globe in his grasp. The air turned yellow, then red, then white.
“The ability to manipulate the atom,” said Vincent. “Maybe we don’t need to do this robbery at all. Maybe we can just have him turn nitrogen into gold.”
“Not there yet,” said Therien in a voice that could make unbelievers tremble.
“And who are you?” asked Coquelicot to the girl.
“Phoebe Deschenes,” she said, smiling. “But you can call me Phobia.” Before Coquelicot could react, the girl in green gripped her face with the uncovered hand. For a few seconds, the world seemed drained of color, shaking as though Montreal was experienced the quake to end them all. And then, a sudden return to normal.
Coquelicot shook her head. “What did you do to me?”
Phoebe’s smile disappeared. “You don’t seem to fear much, do you?”
“Just the same as everyone else. High taxes, nuclear proliferation, and Barry Manilow concerts.”
Vincent threw down his painter’s cap, revealing a grey crewcut. “Shut up, all of you. Time to get down to brass tacks. Now, time for a history lesson. How many of you know about the Eagle Diamond?”
The three mutants looked to each other, puzzled stares all around.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, crooks don’t know their history,” said Vincent. “The Eagle Diamond was found in the nineteenth century in some sleepy little burg in Wisconsin. The poor schmuck who found it sold it for a dollar, not knowing he had stumbled upon a 16 carat wonder. Now it’s not the worth of the diamond itself that’s important. There are a dozen gems out there that eclipse it on paper. But the Eagle Diamond has been missing since 1964, when Murph the Surph lynched it out of the American Museum of History. Forty-two years of absence makes the heart millions of dollars worth of fonder, if you get what I’m saying.”
“And you know where the ice is?” asked Phobia.
“Just so happens I do. Murph left it in the care of an old friend of mine. Unfortunately for him, I’m not that good of a friend. He’s placed it in a security deposit box at CitiBusiness Bank. I hear you’re familiar with the place, Nappy Breath.”
Coquelicot looked up. “Yes. It’s where I ran into the feds from America.”
“Well, you got the three of us looking after you. I don’t think a repeat performance is going to happen.”
“Wow. I feel comforted.” Coquelicot shook her head. “We need months of planning.”
“If you were all normal, I’d agree,” said Vincent. “But you… you three are special. I’ll leave the three of you to formulate a plan. I’m sure your prior experience with the place will provide us with an adequate blueprint. Be sure to run it by me by the time you’re done. By the time we get back here tomorrow night, I want that diamond in my hand. Now, make me rich.” Vincent picked up the briefcase by his side and left the warehouse.
Therien walked up to the two women, his footsteps making audible thuds. “What do we do?”
“Well, looks like stealth isn’t your thing, no offense,” said Genevieve.
“None taken,” said Nucleus.
“Something that utilizes all of our abilities,” said Phobia, pulling the satin glove taut.
“I couldn’t agree more.” Coquelicot smiled. “I think we can arrange something. Just give me a few minutes.”
Vincent Hebert stepped into his corn-colored AMC Pacer. Taking a razor phone out of his vest pocket, he hit a single digit on his speed dial.
“Just wanted to let you know it’s all set, sir. You’ll get your revenge soon enough. I appreciate your trust.” He pressed the red button on the phone, then dialed in three digits.
“Hello, police? Get me Detective Dinappoli.”
-
superpics4les
- Elder Member
- Posts: 493
- Joined: 21 years ago
- Location: Indiana USA
Good to see you back, Ninja! I wish you success with your poetry book! I'm enjoying the story immensely! Your characters, as always, are most engaging and the story line is marvelous! I sense a serious double cross in the works! Coquelicot had better watch her back! Looking forward to more of this one! 8)
-
The Great Dutch Ninja
- Henchman
- Posts: 53
- Joined: 22 years ago
- Location: Medford, MA
Sorry it's been so long. Might be a bit rusty, but hope to get better with the subsequent chapters. Been digging the new stories on the forum. Will try to get this one done in the upcoming weeks.
Liam
****
Genevieve drove down the freshly paved, almost antiseptic streets of Outremont, one of Montreal’s poshest neighborhoods. Though businesses had changed and houses built and demolished, it still looked like the same Shangri-La that had tempted her since grade school. Half of her class had come from Outremont, and when she looked at the hip fashions, stylish cars, and self-assurance, and compared it to her threadbare grey wool jacket, the first lesson of class structure had been swiftly learned.
Even after her years as a burglar, Genevieve Comeaux did not live in Outremont. Why ruin a good fantasy with a disappointing reality? However, that didn’t mean her family had been for want.
She parked in front of the large brick colonial-style house that dominated McDougall Street. Even before she locked down her gold Honda Accord, the front door to the Comeaux residence opened.
“Is it that time of year already?” asked Sophia Comeaux as she greeted her daughter with open arms.
The Comeaux residence was a study in excess, not surprising when the budget was involuntarily supplied by the many banks of Montreal. Plush couches, various artworks (Bosch was a favorite of Maximilian Comeaux), sculptures, and vases dotted much of the empty space. The living room was dominated by a grand piano, where Genevieve’s father currently sat, penciling in new notes on his perpetually unfinished symphony. His silver hair was slicked back, and his beard had gone weeks without trimming, giving him an almost Biblical look.
“Hi, Dad!” Genevieve shouted, and she quickly winced as he lost his already tenuous control of the pencil, leaving a gash mark along the sheet music. He looked up with a familiar look of contempt before ripping the sheet in half.
“Never when I am writing, child. Ever.”
Genevieve looked down to her shoes. For a moment, she thought she noticed the torn laces and dirt-stained materials of her old Converse shoes, well before she learned of her talents. One blink later, and she was back in her red Gucci heels.
“So,” said Sophia. “What’s the special occasion? It’s not Christmas or Easter. It’s neither of our birthdays. And I still see a bare ring finger.”
Genevieve blushed slightly. “Mother, I just wanted to let you know that I’m going to be coming into another bonus soon. The merger has done wonders for Telecorp, and the highers-up wanted to show the proper gratitude. They asked me to stay on board, but I just want to enjoy life. This was my last job.”
“Retirement at 28,” said Maximilian, his bird of prey eyes searching for any hint of a lie. “Not even the really good business folk can say they pulled that off.”
“I’m not really good,” said Genevieve. “I hit an expanding market at the right time. Intuition can trump talent.”
“As evidenced in these very walls,” said Maximilian. “It’s taken fourteen years to write this symphony. And the moment it is finished, we will do very well without the intuition.”
“Max, please.” Sophia walked to her husband, gripping his shoulders.
“No! Enough!” Max gently put his wife to the side. “I will not be catered to any more. I will not rely on my child for my well-being any more. I will not rely on my daughter.”
The paintings almost slid off the walls around Genevieve, revealing the drab gray of her childhood home. The oak tables, grand piano, and sculptures sank underneath the floors, replaced with nothing. She closed her eyes, squinting the lids shut. She opened them, and the furnishings were all back in place.
“Of course you won’t,” she said. “Because you did such a great job before, right?”
Sophia grabbed her by the arm and rushed her away, even as Max continued from inside. When they returned outside, Genevieve noticed the flatness in her mother’s eyes from behind the wireframe glasses.
“Honey, don’t you see?” Sophia said. “It’ll never do any good. One million, five million dollars. It’s not a matter of money. It’s principle. Your father is very set, and you know it. It’s not a salve, it’s salt straight into his psyche. The last thing he needs is another reason to feel inferior.” The mother cupped her daughter’s head, rustled her hair. “Why don’t you do something nice for you for a change? Can’t have much left over after what you’ve done for us, no matter how talented and intuitive you are.”
Without saying a word, Genevieve turned away, never looking back as she drove away.
“Are you sure this is the best way to do it? I can take out the guards by myself. The fewer people involved, the simpler it is. And I’m an Occam’s Razor kind of girl.” For the first time, Coquelicot did not feel the rush of a heist. Without the primary reasons, the ripoff of CitiBusiness made her feel hollow.
“Nope,” said Phoebe Deschenes as she hiked up the zipper to her green latex suit. “This was what Mr. Hebert ordered. He’s the middleman, and he’s the architect. We do it by his design.”
The metal body of the car creaked as Therien Allard leaned out of the Oldsmobile. “So what are we waiting for? The ice isn’t going to grow legs and walk to us. Let’s go.”
As per usual, there were two security guards, each placed on the opposite ends of the vault. Each carried a key. The two keys, when turned in unison, would open the vault. As a result of Coquelicot’s crime spree, all guards were given standard issue MCU-2/P gas masks. The trio of bandits watched as one masked guard read the latest issue of the Montreal Gazette, and the other sat at his chair, inspecting the heat sensors in the building.
“Two minutes, tops,” said Phoebe as she used an electric screwdriver to pop out the lock. The sharp clang of deadbolt against marble floor got the guards’ attention. Immediately, one of the guards pressed the alarm button.
“More than enough time,” said Therien as he held out his hand. Atoms began to spin, forming a bright orange glow.
Phoebe entered the guards’ line of vision alone. With a catwalk strut that would make supermodels envious, she caught their undivided attention. She ran her gloved hand across her midriff, making slight ripples in the latex that quickly smoothed back into place.
“You wouldn’t be calling the cops on poor little me, would you?”
Genevieve couldn’t help but roll her eyes. Phoebe’s come-hither stare poured on the seduction a bit thick, and when one guard reached for his gun, the three crooks knew it was about to go down.
Phoebe gripped the aggressive guard’s bare forearm with her bare hand. For a second, the man froze, his eyes registering a fresh horror that Genevieve hadn’t seen in years. The guard then released the restraints on his mask.
“Don’t take it off!” said the second guard before he was blown back to the wall but Nucleus’ atomic blast. The guard hit the vault hinge with a sickening thud before slamming face first onto the marble.
The conscious guard threw off the MCU-2/P, and Genevieve took a step back as a black widow raced out of his mouth. His shrieks reverberated against the walls of the bank, and he frantically tried to swipe the spider away.
“Shut him up!” yelled Phoebe. Quick to oblige, Coquelicot took a deep breath, her green eyes clouded over with orange. With force, she blew into the guard’s face, knocking him out instantly. Surveying the damage, she looked to her colleagues. Pointing at Phoebe, she said, “OK. Now that was disgusting.”
“Hey, so he’s an arachnophobe. Don’t blame me if he has such a common, boring fear.”
Turning to Nucleus, she said, “And you. Stealing this is going to be bad enough, but we don’t want a body count. You almost killed him.” The giant nonchalantly shrugged.
“The boy doesn’t know his own strength,” said Phobia. “Not let’s get paid.”
“Right,” said Coquelicot. The silence that followed unnerved her.
The static of a walkie-talkie crackled in the night. Nucleus reached into his back pocket and took out the two-way, which looked as big as an iPod in his ham hock of a hand.
“Are the guards taken care of?” said Vincent Hebert on the other end.
“Affirmative,” said Nucleus.
“So step one is done. And what follows step one, genius?”
“Step two,” said Nucleus. He hit the squelch button on the two-way, and put it back in his pocket.
Coquelicot looked to her associates. “What’s step two?”
She wasn’t shocked when Phobia reached for her. She sidestepped the mutant and spin-kicked her in the side of the head, sending Phobia reeling. But before she could turn around, Nucleus brought down the force of his massive hands down on her nerves. She tried to kick him away, but his position behind her kept him away from all but the most glancing blows. She felt the consciousness drain away from her. She couldn’t believe she was suckered so easily. To her surprise, she thought about how her parents would react the moment they learned of their daughter’s true occupation. She looked at Phobia’s mischievous smirk, almost taking up her whole field of vision.
“You’ll regret this,” said Coquelicot.
Phobia laughed. “And I’m sure you’ll get your revenge, all from the comfort of your new cell in Bordeaux.”
Coquelicot attempted to turn away as Phobia reached to her and stroked her hair. “Good night, mon princesse. Leave her where she lays, Therien.” The world went dark, and Genevieve Comeaux was out before she hit the floor.
Five minutes later, a squad car pulled out front of the CitiBusiness building. Francis Dinappoli jumped out of the passenger side, running at full speed for the vault. He saw the two guards, still unconscious. The vault door had been blasted open, with an explosion far cruder, but more direct, than dynamite. An empty glass case was all that remained of the Eagle Diamond display.
There was no sign of the culprits.
Dinappoli could feel his cigar give way to the gnashing of his teeth. Tossing it aside, he grabbed the car radio, almost yanking the microphone from the mobile radio.
“Sergeant, get the security cameras. Set up roadblocks over a kilometer radius. Comb the streets. Check all pedestrians. They haven’t gone far.” He released the push button off the radio.
“It’s checkmate tonight, Coquelicot.”
Vincent Hebert rested in his unmade bed, miles from the drama at CitiBusiness. The smile on his face was over an hour old, since Phoebe Deschenes and Therien Allard had confirmed success in the theft of the Eagle Diamond and the deployment of the fall girl. He felt bad about having to leave Montreal; he had enjoyed his last few years. But the sadness paled to the joys of a lifelong retirement in Key West. Whatever the other two did was up to them. Just as long as they never saw each other again… once the funds were dispersed, that was. Satisfied, he took a sip of Commandaria.
His cell phone rang from the bureau dresser to his right, interrupting his Letterman viewing. He hit the green button before the second ring.
“Hebert, it’s Bontecou. Check Tele 7 now.”
Vincent flipped the channels. The regular hairdos in suits were reporting on the CitiBusiness break-in. The blue and red discos behind them showed that the cops were in full force.
“Eagle Diamond… stolen again… thieves at large…”
Vincent’s eyes opened to their full extent.
“Thieves at large?” asked Bontecou. “Where’s my patsy, Hebert? Where is my patsy?”
The glass of Commandaria shattered in Vincent’s grip. He didn’t feel the shards that were now strewn in his hand, nor did he react to the dark wine now staining his bedsheet.
“Dammit!” he yelled into the night, and nothing but the poundings on the walls of the adjacent apartment greeted him back.
Liam
****
Genevieve drove down the freshly paved, almost antiseptic streets of Outremont, one of Montreal’s poshest neighborhoods. Though businesses had changed and houses built and demolished, it still looked like the same Shangri-La that had tempted her since grade school. Half of her class had come from Outremont, and when she looked at the hip fashions, stylish cars, and self-assurance, and compared it to her threadbare grey wool jacket, the first lesson of class structure had been swiftly learned.
Even after her years as a burglar, Genevieve Comeaux did not live in Outremont. Why ruin a good fantasy with a disappointing reality? However, that didn’t mean her family had been for want.
She parked in front of the large brick colonial-style house that dominated McDougall Street. Even before she locked down her gold Honda Accord, the front door to the Comeaux residence opened.
“Is it that time of year already?” asked Sophia Comeaux as she greeted her daughter with open arms.
The Comeaux residence was a study in excess, not surprising when the budget was involuntarily supplied by the many banks of Montreal. Plush couches, various artworks (Bosch was a favorite of Maximilian Comeaux), sculptures, and vases dotted much of the empty space. The living room was dominated by a grand piano, where Genevieve’s father currently sat, penciling in new notes on his perpetually unfinished symphony. His silver hair was slicked back, and his beard had gone weeks without trimming, giving him an almost Biblical look.
“Hi, Dad!” Genevieve shouted, and she quickly winced as he lost his already tenuous control of the pencil, leaving a gash mark along the sheet music. He looked up with a familiar look of contempt before ripping the sheet in half.
“Never when I am writing, child. Ever.”
Genevieve looked down to her shoes. For a moment, she thought she noticed the torn laces and dirt-stained materials of her old Converse shoes, well before she learned of her talents. One blink later, and she was back in her red Gucci heels.
“So,” said Sophia. “What’s the special occasion? It’s not Christmas or Easter. It’s neither of our birthdays. And I still see a bare ring finger.”
Genevieve blushed slightly. “Mother, I just wanted to let you know that I’m going to be coming into another bonus soon. The merger has done wonders for Telecorp, and the highers-up wanted to show the proper gratitude. They asked me to stay on board, but I just want to enjoy life. This was my last job.”
“Retirement at 28,” said Maximilian, his bird of prey eyes searching for any hint of a lie. “Not even the really good business folk can say they pulled that off.”
“I’m not really good,” said Genevieve. “I hit an expanding market at the right time. Intuition can trump talent.”
“As evidenced in these very walls,” said Maximilian. “It’s taken fourteen years to write this symphony. And the moment it is finished, we will do very well without the intuition.”
“Max, please.” Sophia walked to her husband, gripping his shoulders.
“No! Enough!” Max gently put his wife to the side. “I will not be catered to any more. I will not rely on my child for my well-being any more. I will not rely on my daughter.”
The paintings almost slid off the walls around Genevieve, revealing the drab gray of her childhood home. The oak tables, grand piano, and sculptures sank underneath the floors, replaced with nothing. She closed her eyes, squinting the lids shut. She opened them, and the furnishings were all back in place.
“Of course you won’t,” she said. “Because you did such a great job before, right?”
Sophia grabbed her by the arm and rushed her away, even as Max continued from inside. When they returned outside, Genevieve noticed the flatness in her mother’s eyes from behind the wireframe glasses.
“Honey, don’t you see?” Sophia said. “It’ll never do any good. One million, five million dollars. It’s not a matter of money. It’s principle. Your father is very set, and you know it. It’s not a salve, it’s salt straight into his psyche. The last thing he needs is another reason to feel inferior.” The mother cupped her daughter’s head, rustled her hair. “Why don’t you do something nice for you for a change? Can’t have much left over after what you’ve done for us, no matter how talented and intuitive you are.”
Without saying a word, Genevieve turned away, never looking back as she drove away.
“Are you sure this is the best way to do it? I can take out the guards by myself. The fewer people involved, the simpler it is. And I’m an Occam’s Razor kind of girl.” For the first time, Coquelicot did not feel the rush of a heist. Without the primary reasons, the ripoff of CitiBusiness made her feel hollow.
“Nope,” said Phoebe Deschenes as she hiked up the zipper to her green latex suit. “This was what Mr. Hebert ordered. He’s the middleman, and he’s the architect. We do it by his design.”
The metal body of the car creaked as Therien Allard leaned out of the Oldsmobile. “So what are we waiting for? The ice isn’t going to grow legs and walk to us. Let’s go.”
As per usual, there were two security guards, each placed on the opposite ends of the vault. Each carried a key. The two keys, when turned in unison, would open the vault. As a result of Coquelicot’s crime spree, all guards were given standard issue MCU-2/P gas masks. The trio of bandits watched as one masked guard read the latest issue of the Montreal Gazette, and the other sat at his chair, inspecting the heat sensors in the building.
“Two minutes, tops,” said Phoebe as she used an electric screwdriver to pop out the lock. The sharp clang of deadbolt against marble floor got the guards’ attention. Immediately, one of the guards pressed the alarm button.
“More than enough time,” said Therien as he held out his hand. Atoms began to spin, forming a bright orange glow.
Phoebe entered the guards’ line of vision alone. With a catwalk strut that would make supermodels envious, she caught their undivided attention. She ran her gloved hand across her midriff, making slight ripples in the latex that quickly smoothed back into place.
“You wouldn’t be calling the cops on poor little me, would you?”
Genevieve couldn’t help but roll her eyes. Phoebe’s come-hither stare poured on the seduction a bit thick, and when one guard reached for his gun, the three crooks knew it was about to go down.
Phoebe gripped the aggressive guard’s bare forearm with her bare hand. For a second, the man froze, his eyes registering a fresh horror that Genevieve hadn’t seen in years. The guard then released the restraints on his mask.
“Don’t take it off!” said the second guard before he was blown back to the wall but Nucleus’ atomic blast. The guard hit the vault hinge with a sickening thud before slamming face first onto the marble.
The conscious guard threw off the MCU-2/P, and Genevieve took a step back as a black widow raced out of his mouth. His shrieks reverberated against the walls of the bank, and he frantically tried to swipe the spider away.
“Shut him up!” yelled Phoebe. Quick to oblige, Coquelicot took a deep breath, her green eyes clouded over with orange. With force, she blew into the guard’s face, knocking him out instantly. Surveying the damage, she looked to her colleagues. Pointing at Phoebe, she said, “OK. Now that was disgusting.”
“Hey, so he’s an arachnophobe. Don’t blame me if he has such a common, boring fear.”
Turning to Nucleus, she said, “And you. Stealing this is going to be bad enough, but we don’t want a body count. You almost killed him.” The giant nonchalantly shrugged.
“The boy doesn’t know his own strength,” said Phobia. “Not let’s get paid.”
“Right,” said Coquelicot. The silence that followed unnerved her.
The static of a walkie-talkie crackled in the night. Nucleus reached into his back pocket and took out the two-way, which looked as big as an iPod in his ham hock of a hand.
“Are the guards taken care of?” said Vincent Hebert on the other end.
“Affirmative,” said Nucleus.
“So step one is done. And what follows step one, genius?”
“Step two,” said Nucleus. He hit the squelch button on the two-way, and put it back in his pocket.
Coquelicot looked to her associates. “What’s step two?”
She wasn’t shocked when Phobia reached for her. She sidestepped the mutant and spin-kicked her in the side of the head, sending Phobia reeling. But before she could turn around, Nucleus brought down the force of his massive hands down on her nerves. She tried to kick him away, but his position behind her kept him away from all but the most glancing blows. She felt the consciousness drain away from her. She couldn’t believe she was suckered so easily. To her surprise, she thought about how her parents would react the moment they learned of their daughter’s true occupation. She looked at Phobia’s mischievous smirk, almost taking up her whole field of vision.
“You’ll regret this,” said Coquelicot.
Phobia laughed. “And I’m sure you’ll get your revenge, all from the comfort of your new cell in Bordeaux.”
Coquelicot attempted to turn away as Phobia reached to her and stroked her hair. “Good night, mon princesse. Leave her where she lays, Therien.” The world went dark, and Genevieve Comeaux was out before she hit the floor.
Five minutes later, a squad car pulled out front of the CitiBusiness building. Francis Dinappoli jumped out of the passenger side, running at full speed for the vault. He saw the two guards, still unconscious. The vault door had been blasted open, with an explosion far cruder, but more direct, than dynamite. An empty glass case was all that remained of the Eagle Diamond display.
There was no sign of the culprits.
Dinappoli could feel his cigar give way to the gnashing of his teeth. Tossing it aside, he grabbed the car radio, almost yanking the microphone from the mobile radio.
“Sergeant, get the security cameras. Set up roadblocks over a kilometer radius. Comb the streets. Check all pedestrians. They haven’t gone far.” He released the push button off the radio.
“It’s checkmate tonight, Coquelicot.”
Vincent Hebert rested in his unmade bed, miles from the drama at CitiBusiness. The smile on his face was over an hour old, since Phoebe Deschenes and Therien Allard had confirmed success in the theft of the Eagle Diamond and the deployment of the fall girl. He felt bad about having to leave Montreal; he had enjoyed his last few years. But the sadness paled to the joys of a lifelong retirement in Key West. Whatever the other two did was up to them. Just as long as they never saw each other again… once the funds were dispersed, that was. Satisfied, he took a sip of Commandaria.
His cell phone rang from the bureau dresser to his right, interrupting his Letterman viewing. He hit the green button before the second ring.
“Hebert, it’s Bontecou. Check Tele 7 now.”
Vincent flipped the channels. The regular hairdos in suits were reporting on the CitiBusiness break-in. The blue and red discos behind them showed that the cops were in full force.
“Eagle Diamond… stolen again… thieves at large…”
Vincent’s eyes opened to their full extent.
“Thieves at large?” asked Bontecou. “Where’s my patsy, Hebert? Where is my patsy?”
The glass of Commandaria shattered in Vincent’s grip. He didn’t feel the shards that were now strewn in his hand, nor did he react to the dark wine now staining his bedsheet.
“Dammit!” he yelled into the night, and nothing but the poundings on the walls of the adjacent apartment greeted him back.