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“Just sort of an inventory of assets.”
He turns around in his swivel chair and drops the beer can onto the top of an overflowing trash can.
“Shit. We’re not getting the boot, are we?”
“The hotel isn’t happy having a pig head on the porch swing, but no one has said anything. Yet.”
He turns back to his laptop. Slaps the keys hard and the photos disappear.
“Why couldn’t you be a nice, boring thief like Vidocq? No one ever bothers him.”
“He doesn’t steal that much anymore. And he’s good at it. I’m good at breaking things. The difference is that people don’t always notice when their diamonds go missing, but they know when their legs bend the wrong way.”
“Think about my offer. Make some honest money. You can probably do with some more friends Downtown.”
“You might be right about that part.”
On TV, a reporter is trying to interview a cop, but everyone behind them is pushing up their noses into pig snouts and grunting.
“One more thing. If you ever spot Medea Bava Downtown, let me know. She’s supposed to be hiding with Deumos, but I don’t trust the vindictive hag.”
“She’s the Inquisition. Even the milk on her cereal comes from angry cows.”
“Just let me know if you see her. And stay out of my phone.”
“Don’t worry. I didn’t see any of those private pictures Candy sent you.”
“Fuck you.”
THE HOUSE PHONE rings.
“Hello, Mr. Macheath?”
“Yes.”
“An envelope arrived for you. Should I send it up?”
“You mean an envelope envelope? I don’t want any packages.”
“No, sir. It’s just an envelope.”
“Okay. Send it up.”
I go out the grandfather clock and wait for the bellhop. He comes up in the elevator and gives me the note. I hand him a table lamp.
“My girlfriend has all the money and she’s asleep, but I think this lamp is Tiffany, so Merry Christmas.”
“Thank you, sir,” he says like this happens to him all the time.
I wait until he’s in the elevator before going back through the clock.
In the penthouse, I tear open the envelope. It’s heavy cream-colored paper and lined with thin gold foil. Very pricey. Inside, there’s a note containing three words:
Stop it.
Blackburn
Add him to the list of people who might have put up the nithing pole, though it’s not really his style. That means my game has gotten under the skin of at least two people. That just leaves four million to go.
