Dirty Thief

The barricades I ordered around the pedestrian areas have increased the traffic somewhat on the streets, and it takes me a bit longer to reach the seedy motel on the outskirts of the downtown area. Scanning the side streets, I look for a place to park the motorbike I borrowed from André.

All told, it takes twenty minutes to get from the palace to this place. I’ll allow an equal amount of time to accomplish my mission.

Walking quickly down the sidewalk, I’m again wearing a hat and sunglasses in an attempt to disguise my appearance. So far, I haven’t noticed paparazzi trailing me.

The Monte Cristo is a two-story hotel building with an ancient façade and black shutters lining tall, narrow windows. It’s not a bad hotel. It’s just old and in need of updates. Inside, a small crowd is gathered around a narrow, one-room bar. Music is playing loudly, which suits my purposes. I scan the crowded space, and not seeing my mark, I take a seat at a round table.

“Right on time, your majesty,” Vega’s voice is arrogant, and I wonder if he thinks he’s won somehow. “Can I order you a whiskey?”

“I’m not staying,” I say, motioning to the chair. “Sit down.”

The small chair groans under his doughy weight, and he holds a short glass of whiskey under his chin. “Where is it?” he asks.

Slipping my hand into my pocket, I put the sticky bug on the tip of my finger. I’ll reach across and leave it on his cuff. Like picking up a burr in a field, Freddie had said.

Vega’s eyes go to my hand, and he waits. “You have it in your pocket?”

“Yes,” I say, palming the other ob

ject in my coat.

Lifting out my hand, I hold it straight over the table in his direction. Vega does a little grunt and reaches out to meet my hand. As he does it, I move my thumb, planting the bug on the cuff of his cheap canvas bomber jacket as I pass him the old wallet Ava gave me. Inside is a counterfeit copy of the note she inadvertently stole all those years ago.

His expression changes, and he opens the wallet with reverence, inspecting the bill. “It’s been so long…”

Something about his tone, the way he looks at the note in wonder, I can’t resist following a sudden hunch. “Who did it belong to?”

“I don’t know.” It’s as if he’s forgotten where he is and who I am. “It was in the pocket of her little suitcase.”

My throat tightens. A fist of anger is in my chest, and I have to grip the table to keep from throwing it aside and grabbing him by the neck.

“Whose suitcase?” I manage to speak through my fury.

“One of them… The first one.”

My jaw grinds. I’m sure my shoulders are hunched, but I have to focus on my purpose here. I have to rile him up so he’ll attempt another crime… not kill him like I want to do.

“So you’re not just a child abuser, you’re also a thief? You didn’t just steal their innocence, you stole their inheritance as well?”

That worked. His brow lowers, and he stuffs the wallet in his coat. “I only took what was owed me. I took care of those kids like they was my own. I loved them like they was my own.”

“Is that how you take care of your own?” I’m doing my best to taunt him. By the change in his speech, it seems to be working. His eyes flash and pink floods his fleshy cheeks.

“What do you know about it, Mister King?” he spits the words back at me, and I keep it going.

“I know I don’t have to abuse little girls to make myself feel like a man.”

His face twists, and he sputters as if searching for a comeback and finding none. Instead he stands from the chair quickly. “You owe me money. This isn’t what we agreed to. I want my money.”

“You won’t get another cent from me,” I stand, towering over him. “And you’ll never see my wife.”

I emphasize the word, hoping it will push him over the edge then I turn and walk out of the establishment. Hat back in place, sunglasses on, I only get a block before I hear the swift click of heels on the pavement behind me. Breaking into a sprint, I round the corner and pull the motorbike out of the parking lot, kicking it to life and speeding down the alley before the first flashbulb strobes.

A tap at my wrist, and I glance down to see a text from Cal. Great work, brother. We’ll take it from here.

* * *

Mother sits at the head of the long dining table. I’m seated to her right, and Zelda is two seats down on her left. My eyes are on the empty chair, and I’m torn between wanting to be here and wondering what’s happening outside these walls.