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It’s a lot of pressure, and a lot of people would crack or walk away.
But I’m up to the challenge.
“I’ll contact you after the dinner,” I tell JP simply, sliding the forgery of The Black Rose back into its case. Conversation complete, I get back in my truck and drive off, my mind already going through a mental checklist of what I’m going to need to get this job done.
The ballroom’s set up nicely at one of the best hotels in town. Actually, now that I think about it, my high school prom might’ve been here. Not that I went. I was already well down the path to hoodlumism by that point. But I have been here before for various events, usually corporate or social ones when I was little and my parents were still trying to have me make the right impressions in the right circles.
So . . . safe to say, it’s been a while. But my prep went flawlessly, and as I check my black cuffs for any sign of dust, I feel comfortable. Still, slacks and a button-up shirt aren’t my typical first choices for workwear. Despite what Pierce Brosnan may have shown the world in The Thomas Crowne Affair, stealing shit in a suit isn’t easy. And if I have to run, I prefer to do it in athletic shoes, not slick-bottomed Oxfords.
I do a final scout around the perimeter of the room, mentally confirming escape routes and identifying the power grid location. Everything’s as I anticipated, and I’m able to make my final preparations without being interrupted. I give a few of the other security guards hard looks, but we’re all muscle for hire and no one’s looking to chat about our childhoods or make friends to drink a beer with after this gig. Communication is short, simple, and professional. We’re all on the lookout for various dangers. Never mind that the major risk in the room is . . . me.
Finishing my perimeter check, I move to the stage, closer to my target. I’ve already been onstage, stashing the fake behind some conveniently placed curtains, but I want to check everything once more. Frankly, too often, jobs go south because someone decided at the last minute that a vase just has to be moved or that a projector screen can’t go here, it has to go there, and the operator’s caught unprepared.
That’s not me. I’m good because I prepare with an obsession bordering on OCD. Still, even my cold heart skips a beat as I see the artwork up close. The Black Rose. In person, it’s a beauty, the portrait of a sad woman who has the weight of the world on her shoulders. It pulls at my heartstrings because it’s with bitter humor that I can empathize with this unknown woman. I know how you feel, lady.
No time for that, I tell myself. I’m here to do a job, and the sad lady here’s just going to have to deal with her new life away from the public. I finish my walk-around, mentally adjusting my timing as I see how things develop and more staff start to filter in.
It won’t be an easy job, I knew that, but pulling this off in a room full of people with several other guards keeping watchful eyes is going to be the trickiest job I’ve ever done. But I can do it.
I have to do it.
A side door opens, and a middle-aged woman in a black dress walks in. Her grey hair is pulled back in a French roll and her glasses have rhinestones along the sides. She walks with an air of sophistication, but the smile on her face seems warm and genuine. She’s among her kind, and everyone in the room is a fan of J.A. Fox. After all, according to my prep work, she’s the author hosting the dinner tonight. She walks directly toward the stage, talking to the woman at her side.
“Everything’s all set?”
“Yes, ma’am. Books ready, a box of Sharpie fine-tip, blue ink pens open, and The Black Rose on display.”
I melt into the background, becoming invisible and looking for all the world like one of the staff the attendees will overlook. I’m like that special green paint Disney uses to hide doors in plain view, only dressed in black, not baby shit green.
“Show them in,” J.A. Fox says.
The woman nods at the guard closest to the door, and he silently opens the door. A small crowd of authors walks through the doors, looking eager and excited while at least keeping enough self-control to not rush the stage like Beliebers at a JB concert. A few gasp excitedly when they lay eyes on J.A. Fox, a few others wave as though they’re old friends, and most simply walk in as though they’re exactly where they’re supposed to be.
