“To better days, boys,” she said.
Over the next half hour, Minerva puffed away. She let her mind drift back to happier, more profitable times. But they refused to stay there. These young stars today, she thought. They were all vegans. They all did yoga. Or they went to Beverly Hills quacks for thousand-dollar high-colonics. And when one of them did come by, on the drunken advice of some fossil of a star as old and washed up as Minerva herself, it was always with a dozen friends. They laughed and never listened to what the cards or the crystal ball had to say. Dross, of course, loved them. The ridiculous starfucker. And as much as the kids laughed, they tipped big, so she gave them the whole swami bit.
Minerva smiled, remembering the time she managed to slip a ring off one little starlet’s finger during a palm reading. That was slick. Now she wondered if she could slip a Hula-Hoop off a skeleton.
Someone knocked at the door. She went up front and peered out. It was Kellar. When they’d met in the early sixties he’d been a buff body builder and ran with a rough crew of bikers. Now he was as pale and round as the moon, but with a magnificent comb-over. She undid the lock and let him come in.
“Well?” he said anxiously. “How did it go with the jewels lady?”
Minerva shook her head. “No dice.”
“Damn,” said Kellar.
“And Dross took a powder. Forever.”
“Bummer.” He plucked the joint from her mouth, took a couple of massive puffs, and handed it back.
They sat down at Minerva’s reading table.
“How did your real estate scam go today?”
Kellar waved his hands at her. “Don’t ask. A disaster. A total disaster.”
“Yeah. We’re getting good at those.”
“We’re getting old,” said Kellar.
“We are old. We’re ancient. Archaic. Antediluvian.”
“Speak for yourself. I’m not a day over primeval.”
Minerva laugh-coughed out a mouthful of pot smoke. Kellar laughed at her choking and slapped her on the back a few times.
“I’m okay,” she said as her throat cleared. “I’m okay.”
Kellar sat back. “Maybe we should get into sideshows.”
“Do they even have those anymore?”
“Ironic ones, yes. It’s these rock-and-roll circus types. They get a few tattooed freaks, a couple of sexy contortionists, and some masochists who’ll do awful things to themselves and call it a circus. There’s always have a little freak show on the side.”
“You said sideshow.”
“Did I? Freak show. Sideshow. What’s the difference at our age?”
Minerva’s buzz ebbed substantially at that thought. “I’m not joining any freak show.”
“I might,” said Kellar. “If I don’t get some actual money coming in, I’m going to lose my mystical hovel out by the airport.”
“Still in that strip mall?”
“Between a computer repair shop and a massage parlor that smells like sandalwood and shame.”
Minerva looked at him. “Who repairs computers these days? I thought people just chucked them and got a new one.”
“I’ll tell you who repairs computers,” said Kellar. “Old people. I thought about going in and asking them for a job.”
“You can repair computers?”
“No,” he said quietly. “Sweeping. Cleaning up.”
Minerva puffed out some smoke. “You mean cleaning them out. Were you just going to steal the cash register or were you planning on hammering the safe out of the wall? If there’s not a lot of heavy lifting, I might join you.”
Kellar crossed his arms on the table and laid down his head. “We just need a break. One damned break.”
“More than one, but I’ll take one.”
“Have you reconsidered my idea . . . ?”
“I’m not burning the place,” said Minerva. “I live here. Besides, those insurance companies, they have all kinds of machines and tests these days.”
Kellar sat up. “You’re right. Arson just isn’t fun anymore.”
“Remember the old days when people still played cards? Dross would look at everyone’s hand and we’d clean them out.”
“He was a good ghost.”
“He was. The asshole.”
Kellar took another hit off the joint. “I’m going down to Hollywood Boulevard to let tourists hit me with their rental cars.”
Minerva pinched the end off the joint and put the rest back in the tin. “Are you going for an insurance settlement or a quick bribe from the drivers?”
“Sadly, the latter. Want to come along and be my witness? Do a little screaming?”
“Why not? If that old biddy calls the cops, I don’t want to be here.”
As Minerva got her bag she said, “I swear, I’d shake down the pope if I thought it would bring me just a smidgen of luck.”
“You should have fucked over Keith Richards back when you had the chance.”
“No, him I should have fucked.”
Kellar laughed and they went out. As she locked the door, Minerva thought, Send me one good mark, Saint Jude and Saint Keith. Just one.
They took the bus into Hollywood and spent the rest of the evening bouncing off rental cars and screaming. After the fourth car, Minerva began to think that the sideshow idea might not be so bad after all.
14
The break-in team was in Coop and Giselle’s apartment. Giselle, Morty, and Dr. Lupinsky were huddled in the kitchen. Smuggling the doctor from the car into the apartment had taken some time. It was less like sneaking in the back door and more like trying to discreetly maneuver a tap-dancing refrigerator through a wedding reception.
Coop sat alone in the far corner of the apartment, staring into space. Blueprints and coffee cups littered the floor around him.
“How many cups has he had?” said Morty.
Giselle put a finger to her lips for quiet. “I don’t know,” she whispered.
Dr. Lupinsky’s cat paced nervously back and forth.
It looks like a lot. Is that good for him?
“Definitely not,” said Morty.
And he’s always like this when he’s making plans?
“Not always,” said Giselle.
“Just when he’s on to something.”
“Or not.”
Morty shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Yeah. Sometimes he’s like this when he’s completely stumped.”
Is he stumped now?
“It’s hard to tell.”
“He’s busy being enigmatic,” said Giselle.
“But superfocused.”
It’s a little unnerving seeing him there all evening not talking.
“Don’t be scared,” said Coop. “Panicked is a much more reasonable response. In fact, feel free to scream. We don’t much like the neighbors.”
“Have you got something?” said Morty.
Coop shook his head. “I’ve got nothing.”
“What are we going to do? We can’t use the same plan as last time, can we?”
“Why not?” said Giselle. “They don’t know how we did that job. We just cut the power and do it all again.”
Coop shook his head. “It won’t work. The first thing that’s going to happen is someone moves in an emergency generator.”
“We can blow that, too.”
“Maybe.”
“If we can’t go through the back, how are we getting in?” said Morty.
Coop looked at them. “I have one terrible idea. The roof.”
“Why there? And bear in mind, I’m a bleeder.”
“They’ll have the roof locked up, so it’s the last place they’re going to worry about. If there are cops or worse—armed security—they won’t be up there.”
Why is armed security worse?
“Cops deal with crooks and have to fill out forms when they shoot people, which they don’t like doing,” said Giselle. “Armed security are basically velociraptors with guns.”
“One look at you, doc, and they’ll
be setting off nukes,” said Coop.
“So, he can stay on the roof,” said Morty.
“No way. He’s our Egypt expert. I want him right there with us.”
Giselle said, “How do we get on the roof? A helicopter?”
Coop stared at the plans. “No. Someone might hear it.” He looked over at Dr. Lupinsky. “You walked up Woolrich’s wall pretty good. Think you can do that at the museum?”
Of course.
Coop pointed to Lupinsky. “There you go. The doc goes up, lowers a line, and we follow. Morty takes care of the locks.”
Morty hunched his shoulders and slid his hands into his pockets. “I still think we should cut the power.”
Coop came to the kitchen and ticked off items on his fingers. “Here’s how I figure it. If we cut the power, people get antsy, and if anything goes wrong, we’re going to get shot. If we try a smash and grab—with whatever new alarms they’ve set up—we get shot. If we try to infiltrate the cops or security and get spotted, we get shot.”
“You’re an inspiring leader,” said Morty. “You need to know that. I feel inspired.”
Giselle looked worried. “I can cloud a lot of minds, but if there are too many people too far away, I don’t know. If we go in with the lights on, someone is going to spot us.”
“Yeah. They will . . .” said Coop, trailing off.
Dr. Lupinsky’s cat stopped pacing and sat up on its hind legs, its front paws against the screen.
What are you thinking?
“How are we going to stay hidden?” said Giselle.
Coop stared into space again. “We’re not. They’re going to see us. It’s the only way.”
“Are you crazy?” said Morty. “You just said we’d get shot.”
Coop came over and poured himself more coffee. “Giselle, can you get us some of that government amnesia gas?”
She handed Coop the sugar. He started pouring. “Sure, but you know that stuff isn’t a hundred percent,” she said. “People are going to remember things.”
“I’m counting on it,” he said, absentmindedly pouring sugar.
“If they can see us, how are we supposed to do the job?” said Morty.
“We’ll be in disguise.” Coop set the sugar down.
“I love disguises,” said Giselle. “What kind?”
“Horrible. Terrifying. The worst thing imaginable.” Coop took a sip and set his coffee down. “Who made this? It’s terrible.”
Dr. Lupinsky’s cat paced again.
If it isn’t too late, I think I’d like to panic.
"It’s never too late to panic,” said Morty. “I do it every morning with my cornflakes.”
“It’s better exercise than jogging,” said Coop. “But so is drinking.”
Dr. Lupinsky’s cat walked offscreen.
Excuse me. I’m going to have a hot toddy and scream for a while.
“You can drink?” said Giselle.
The cat poked its head back on-screen.
No, but it seemed like the polite thing to say.
The cat disappeared again.
“Take care, doc,” said Morty uncertainly.
Across the bottom of the screen appeared: AAAAAAAAA!
15
Froehlich winced. Rockford, the insurance investigator, was back and he was dragging two of the museum’s most irritating board members with him. He’d spent a lot of time with them over the last twenty-four hours, ever since Rockford made it clear that Froehlich was a prime suspect in his break-in investigation. Finessing a chat with the three of them was like navigating a runaway kiddie pool between Scylla, Charybdis, and Darth Vader.
Besides those nosy nuisances, Froehlich was surrounded by a police forensic team and a heavily armed squad from an outside security firm that seemed to recruit mainly—judging by their size—professional wrestlers and the mutant offspring of humans and redwood trees.
And then there was the investigator’s name. Rockford. Why did the nosy bastard have the same name as a TV detective? There was something nightmarish about it. Like it was a trap. Or a hallucination. Oh God, Froehlich thought. I’m going crazy. He pinched himself. It hurt. Was that good or bad? Was self-pinching itself a sign of madness? There were so many questions, each one worse than the last.
The three museum representatives stopped in front of him.
“Froehlich,” said Rockford.
“Rockford,” said Froehlich.
“Froehlich,” said Mr. Klein.
“Mr. Klein,” said Froehlich.
“Froehlich,” said Ms. Baxter.
“Ms. Baxter,” said Froehlich.
Every time the trio got near him, Froehlich wanted to duck out to the loading dock for a drink, but with so many people around it was hard to slip away. Having no access to vodka, he settled for being light-headed with fear.
“What are you doing here?” said Rockford.
“You’ve asked me that twice today,” said Froehlich. “I work here. I’m still head of security.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“You said that, too.”
Rockford tapped a pencil against a small spiral-bound book in which he obsessively scribbled notes. “You have a pretty good memory for a guy who doesn’t remember anything.”
“What am I supposed to remember? I wasn’t here during the robbery.”
“That’s convenient.”
“How is going home convenient?” said Froehlich. “I do it every day.”
Rockford scribbled something in a notebook. “I’m going to check that.”
“I bet you go home every day, too.”
Rockford pointed the pencil’s eraser at him. “You know who else goes home every day? The Mafia. Al-Qaeda. John Dillinger.”
Froehlich thought for a minute. “Hasn’t John Dillinger been dead for something like eighty years?”
“So, you’re intimate with the criminal underworld,” Rockford said, making another note.
“No,” said Froehlich. “We had an exhibit on famous American criminals a couple of years ago.” He looked at Klein and Baxter. “Remember it? It was very successful.”
“Yes. We did quite well with that one,” said Baxter in a frigid tone that said, Nice save, but you’re not fooling anyone.
“Of course,” said Klein in a more jovial tone. “The Jesse James snow globes were a big hit.” He turned to Rockford. “You shook him up and all these little bullets would float down around him.”
“Cute,” said the investigator in a tone that made it excruciatingly clear that he thought it was anything but.
Over Rockford’s shoulder, the forensic team worked in overalls that reminded Froehlich of space suits. Between them and the behemoth guards, it was like watching aliens about to abduct a herd of dinosaurs.
“None of that gets you off the hook for this little escapade,” said Rockford to Froehlich.
“Yes. What about the surveillance cameras?” said Baxter.
“What about the alarm?” said Klein.
“What about the lack of guards?” said Baxter.
“And what about the guard who hasn’t reported for duty?” said Klein.
“Yeah. Where is this . . . ?” Rockford flipped through his notes.
“Gilbert,” said Froehlich.
“This Gilbert character?”
Froehlich felt like a dead jackrabbit being eyed by a trio of hungry buzzards.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But Gilbert couldn’t plan a robbery with a copy of How to Rob a Museum, Albert Einstein, and a tunneling machine.”
Rockford’s eyes locked on his. “Who’s this Einstein?”
Suddenly Froehlich was very tired. “A smart guy.”
“Just like you,” said Rockford.
Klein stepped a bit closer to Froehlich and to his surprise said, “Really, Rockford, Mr. Froehlich has been a loyal museum employee for nearly twenty years. I doubt he has anything to do with this business.”
“I’m not so convinced,” said Baxter. “Mr. R
ockford makes a very convincing argument for an inside job. Why weren’t there more guards on duty, Mr. Froehlich?”
“The board—that is you—cut the budget.”
“And the surveillance system?”
Froehlich shook his head. “I don’t know. That’s a mystery.”
“A mystery. Yes,” said Baxter. “It’s all a mystery, isn’t it?”
“Robberies usually are,” said Froehlich.
“I told you,” said Rockford. “He knows all about how criminals work.”
“I—I mean . . .” Froehlich stammered.
“I’ve got my eye on you, Froehlich.”
“Me, too,” said Baxter.
“Don’t try to leave town.”
“I wasn’t planning on going anywhere.”
“Good. See that you don’t,” said Baxter.
“I just said that I wouldn’t.”
“You’ve got an answer for everything, don’t you?” said Rockford.
“Yes?” he said. Froehlich felt like a tipsy bull trying to maneuver through a china shop in high heels.
Baxter harrumphed. “Head of security indeed. I’ve never entirely trusted you or the lack of security around here, Mr. Froehlich.”
Froehlich looked around at the three of them. “But the cuts were your idea. The board’s, I mean.”
Klein nodded to the others. “Why don’t we let Mr. Froehlich get back to work and check in with the other security?”
“Don’t go anywhere, you,” said Rockford.
“I’m supposed to make my rounds in a few minutes.”
“Make sure you do.”
“How can I if I’m not supposed to go anywhere?”
Rockford made another note in his little book. “Always with the smart answers.”
“No, really,” said Froehlich. Looking from Klein to Baxter and back to Klein. “I don’t know what . . .”
“It’s fine,” said Klein softly. “Go and make your rounds. It’ll be all right.”
The trio started walking away, leaving Froehlich with the dizzying sensation of floating out of his body, a perplexed ghost in dire need of a drink.
Klein stopped and said, “Excuse me,” to his companions. “I’ll catch up with you in a minute.”
As the others went on, Klein came over to Froehlich. A moment later, it was clear to Froehlich that Klein was going easy on him.