Honest illusions(BookZZ.org) (13 page)

The blueprints Max was currently poring over had cost a little more than five thousand in bribes. It was an investment Max calculated well worth the ultimate payoff.

The Crooked R Ranch, as it was overcutely named, was loaded with nineteenth- and twentieth-century art, heavy on the American and Oriental, all of which had been chosen for the owners by agents. It had been purchased not for its aesthetic value or simple beauty but as an investment.

A good one, Max had no doubt. It was about to make him a great deal of money.

There was jewelry, too. The list Max had obtained—from a file drawer in Security Insurance, Inc.’s home base in Atlanta—contained enough baubles and beads to stock a modest jewelry store.

Since his marks were heavily insured, Max figured Security’s loss would be his gain. And after all, insurance was a bet, between insurer and insuree. Eventually someone had to lose.

Max glanced up and grinned at LeClerc. The Cajun’s knuckles were white as he gripped his armrest.

Around his neck were a silver cross, a gold ankh, a crystal talisman and an eagle feather. There were rosary beads, a black rabbit’s foot and a pouch full of colored stones in his lap.

LeClerc covered all the bases when he flew.

Because LeClerc’s eyes were tightly closed, and his mouth moving in silent prayer, Max said nothing as he rose to pour a small brandy for both of them.

LeClerc downed the brandy. “It’s unnatural for a man to be in the air. He dares the gods.”

“He dares them every time he takes a breath. I’m sorry to subject you to something you dislike, but my absence in New Orleans couldn’t possibly go unnoticed if we’d taken the time to drive.”

“Your magic makes you too famous.”

“I’m nothing without it. And there are advantages to fame. It’s becoming quite the thing for the more important hostesses to invite me to dinner parties, as a guest.” He pulled a coin out of the air and began to manipulate it through his fingers. “With the hopes that I’ll entertain her, and her party, in the parlor.”

“Like a juggler,” LeClerc said in disgust, but Max only shrugged.

“If you like. I’m always willing to pay for a well-presented meal. And I’m more than paid back in kind with the contacts I’ve made. Our friends in Houston were delighted with my impromptu performance at a soiree in Washington last year. How fortunate for us that they’d decided to visit their cousin the senator.”

“More fortunate for us that they’re in Europe now.”

“Much more. Though it’s not much of a challenge to steal from an uninhabited house.” He moved his shoulders again and turned one coin into two.

They picked up a limo at Hobby, and Mouse donned his chauffeur’s cap and jacket for the drive. The long stretch limousine would be less conspicuous in the rich neighborhood than an unmarked sedan.

And Max preferred to travel well whenever possible.

In the backseat, to the strains of a Mozart cantata, he checked his tools one last time.

“Two hours,” he announced. “No more.”

LeClerc was already slipping on his gloves—an old fire-horse who hears the alarm bells and quivers for the harness.

It had been months since he had heard the tumblers click and fall, months since he had had the pleasure of opening the door of a safe and reaching into the darkness beyond. For the long summer, he had been celibate—at least figuratively—and was anxious for the romance of theft.

Without Max, he knew this pleasure would be lost to him by now. Though they never spoke of it, they both knew that LeClerc was slowing down. A younger man would have fit the triangle made up of himself, Mouse and Max more practically. And that day would come. Already he accompanied Max only on less arduous jobs. If the oil man’s house hadn’t been empty, LeClerc knew he would be at home waiting, as Lily was waiting.

But he wasn’t bitter. He was grateful for the opportunity of one more chance at the thrill.

They purred up the sweeping drive, past a statue of a nude boy holding a carp. When the Texans were in residence, Max imagined the carp would vomit water into the birdbath.

“A lesson for you, Mouse. Money can’t buy taste.”

When they parked in front of the house, the men moved in silence. Max and LeClerc walked to the trunk, Mouse lumbered off to deal with the security system. It was pitch dark, without even a hint of moon.

“Lots of land,” LeClerc murmured, pleased. “Lots of big trees. The neighbors must need binoculars to peek in each other’s windows.”

“Let’s hope no one’s playing Peeping Tom tonight.” Max took a large velvet-lined box from the trunk, and a roll of soundproofing often used in theaters.

And they waited.

Ten minutes later, Mouse hurried back. “Sorry. Was a pretty good system. Took some time.”

“No apologies necessary.” Max felt the familiar tingling in his fingertips as he approached the front door.

Taking out his packet of picks, he went to work.

“Why fool with that? Have Mouse break it in. The alarm’s down.”

“Lacks finesse,” Max muttered, his eyes half closed, his mind inside the tumblers. “There . . . only a moment more.”

He was as good as his word. Minutes later they stood inside a dazzling three-story black-and-white marble foyer, facing a reproduction of Venus and an indoor goldfish pond.

“Jeez,” was all Mouse could think of to say.

“Indeed. It nearly makes one want to pause and reflect.” Max glanced toward an enormous coatrack made of steer horns. “Nearly.”

They separated, LeClerc going up the wide curving stairs toward the bedroom safe and milady’s jewels, Mouse and Max covering the first floor.

They worked smoothly, cutting paintings from what Max considered overly ornate frames and rolling them inside the velvet box. Sculptures of bronze and marble and stone were wrapped in the thick soundproofing.

“A Rodin.” Max paused a moment to teach. “A truly remarkable piece. See the movement, Mouse? The fluidity, the emotion of the artist for his subject.”

Mouse saw a funny-looking glob of stone. “Ah, sure, Max. It’s neat.”

Max could only sigh as he tucked the Rodin reverently between folds of the heavy cloth. “No, not that one,” he said when he noted the bronze work Mouse was holding.

“It’s real heavy,” Mouse told him. “Solid. Must be worth a lot.”

“Undoubtedly, or it wouldn’t be in this collection. But it lacks style, Mouse, and beauty. It’s much more important to steal the beautiful than the valuable. Otherwise, we’d be robbing banks, wouldn’t we?”

“I guess.” He moved to the next room and came back hefting a Remington piece of a cowboy astride a bucking horse. “How about this one, Max?”

Max eyed it. A good piece and probably as heavy as a truck. Though it wasn’t to his personal taste, he could see Mouse was drawn to it. “Excellent choice. Best take it out to the limo as it is. We’re nearly done here.”

“We’re well done,” LeClerc stated, striding downstairs and tapping his bulging pouch. “I don’t know what Madame and Monsieur took to Europe, but they left behind plenty of baubles for us.” It had been difficult to ignore the negotiable bonds and cold cash he’d found in the twin safes, but Max was superstitious about stealing money. LeClerc never sneezed on anyone’s superstitions. “Look at this one.”

He pulled out a blinding array of diamonds and rubies worked into a three-tiered necklace. With a grunt Max took it and held it up to the light. “How can one take such beautiful stones and make something so hideous from them? The lady should thank us for never having to wear this again.”

“Must be worth fifty thousand, at least.”

“Hmmm.” Possibly, Max thought and wished for his loupe. He would choose a few of the choicer stones and have a more suitable necklace made for Lily. A check of his watch, and a nod. “I believe our shopping spree is over. Shall we load up? I believe we can be back home in time for brunch.”

PART TWO

A devil, a born devil, on whose nature

Nurture can never stick; on whom my pains,

Humanely taken, all, all lost, quite lost . . .

—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

8

When Luke was sixteen, Mouse taught him to drive. They did a lot of bumping and grinding on the back roads, and once, when Luke attempted to shift, steer and brake at the same time, nearly ended up in a swamp. But Mouse had an endless store of patience.

Getting his driver’s license was a momentous occasion for Luke, that giant step toward reaching the manhood he was beginning to crave. But even that paled against another momentous occasion. His date with Annabelle Walker that included the fantasy roller coaster of
Star Wars,
two giant tubes of popcorn and an evening ending in sex in the backseat of the secondhand Nova he’d bought with his savings.

Neither Annabelle nor the Nova were strangers to the backseat boogie. But it was Luke’s first time, and for him, the dark road, the music of the cicadas in counterpoint to all the gasps and grunts, the miraculous feel of Annabelle’s braless breasts in his hands were as romantic and majestic as the Taj Mahal.

Annabelle might have been considered easy, but she only crawled into the backseat with a boy if he was cute, if he treated her well and if he was a good kisser.

Luke qualified on all counts.

When she let him under her T-shirt to sample those generous, milk-white globes, he thought he’d found heaven. But when she tugged down the zipper on his Levi’s and took hold, he understood the gates of paradise were swinging open.

“Christ, Annabelle.” He fumbled with her jeans while she jackhammered him toward delirium. He’d

hoped she’d let him touch, but he’d had no idea a handful of dates and an evening watching worlds being saved would convince her to let him do the big IT.

Still he wasn’t one to miss an opportunity once it was presented. Max had taught him that much.

“Let me . . .” Let him what he wasn’t precisely sure, but he got his hand inside her lacy red panties.

Wet, hot, slippery. His blood swam wildly downstream from his head to his crotch, throbbing there in a jungle drumbeat that set the rhythm for his seeking fingers. Annabelle’s pleasure sounded in a low hum that became quick greedy moans, desperate pants, delightful little whimpers. Her generous hips arched and fell, slapping against the tattered seat of the Nova. The windows Luke had rolled up against the chill of oncoming winter fogged up, turning the car into a steamy sauna that smelled of sex.

He could feel, actually feel her muscles contract around him as she pitched higher and happily came in his hand.

His breath hitched in and out as he struggled toward something that had been only a dark dream punctuated by locker-room talk.

With his face pillowed between her breasts, one hand busily working her, he tugged his hips free of the Levi’s. The sensation of being inside of a woman this way was nearly enough to shatter his control. Yet a part of him, some small corner of his brain, remained cool, oddly detached, even amused.

Here was Luke Callahan, bare-assed in his ’72 Nova, with the Bee Gees warbling on the radio—Christ, did it have to be the Bee Gees?—and Annabelle spreading her legs in her best cheerleader style beneath him.

His cock felt like a rocket, huge and hot, vibrating on the launching pad of his arousal. He could only hope lift-off didn’t occur prematurely.

It wasn’t skill which had him giving her more than the other boys she’d dated. It was pure inexperience mixed with healthy curiosity and a love of beautiful things. Feeling all that hot moisture, feeling a female form tremble and buck beneath his was one of the most beautiful things Luke had ever experienced.

“Oh, baby.” A veteran of close-quarters sex, Annabelle wriggled and shifted and locked her legs around his hips. “I can’t wait. I just can’t.”

Neither could he. Blind instinct had him driving himself into her. Control that was as much instinct as the tutelage of four years had him holding back that need for instant release. He worked them both into a delirious sweat before letting go. The last thing he heard was her calling out his name. She all but sang it.

Courtesy of Annabelle, he would return to school Monday with a reputation a growing boy could be proud of.

The house was dark but for a light left burning in the kitchen when he arrived home, smelling of sex and sweat and Annabelle’s Charlie cologne.

He was grateful no one was up to greet him. Even more was he grateful that he’d been given every other weekend off from the club to, as Max put it, develop a well-rounded social life.

He sure as hell was feeling well rounded tonight.

He opened the fridge and drained a pint of orange juice straight from the bottle. He was grinning still, and humming the Eagles’ “Witchy Woman” under his breath when he turned and spotted Roxanne in the doorway.

“That’s disgusting.” She inclined her head toward the bottle he held.

She’d sprung up over the years, as he had. But while Luke skimmed under six foot yet, and was no more than average height for his age, Roxanne was the tallest girl in her class—taller, in fact, than most of the boys. Most of it was leg, as showed now in the short nightshirt she wore. Since her hair was neatly brushed, something Luke knew she did every night before bed, he assumed she’d yet to go to sleep.

“Stuff it.” He smiled and set the bottle on the counter.

“Maybe someone else wanted some.” Though she wasn’t in the least thirsty, she marched to the refrigerator and searched. As she chose a Dr Pepper, she wrinkled her nose at Luke. “You smell.”

Sniffing the air she caught, among other things, the fading hint of Annabelle’s cologne. “You went out with
her
again.”

Roxanne hated Annabelle Walker on principle. The principle being that she was petite and blond and pretty, and that Luke spent time with her.

“What’s it to you?”

“She bleaches her hair and wears her clothes too tight.”

“She wears sexy clothes,” Luke corrected, feeling an expert on the subject. “You’re just jealous because she’s got tits and you don’t.”

“I’ll get them.” On the cusp of thirteen, Roxanne was mortified by the snail’s pace of her feminine development. Almost all the girls in her class had at least the buds of breasts, and she was still as flat as LeClerc’s breadboard. “When I do, they’ll be better than hers.”