No Such Creature

TWELVE

“What state or nation is divided by the Great Dividing Range?” Roscoe held his beer up to the light, inspecting it like a chemist.

“Existence,” Max said. “It divides the living and the dead.”

Roscoe shook his head. They were sitting at a table in the Red Rose Tavern, the kind of bar that looks friendly at night but in the daytime looks tawdry and forlorn. It reeked of last night’s cigarettes, the fashion for clean lungs having yet to reach Tucson. The only other patrons seemed to be the two blobs sitting at the bar, one in a stetson, the other in a John Deere cap.

“The United States,” Owen said. “We’ll be crossing the Great Divide in a couple of days.”

Roscoe shook his head again. “Australia,” he told them, “is home to the Great Dividing Range.”

“Well, now that we’ve passed Geography,” Max said, “perhaps we can get down to work.”

“We’re not waiting for Pookie?”

“Pookie won’t be joining us on this outing,” Max said.

Roscoe looked from Max to Owen, and back to Max.

“You may not want to join us either,” Owen said.

Max gave him a sour look.

“You have to tell him,” Owen said.

“Pookie seems to have gone astray,” Max said. “We’ve not been able to raise him, and he’s made no effort to contact us.”

“That’s alarming,” Roscoe said. “That’s not like Pookie. You think he’s …”

“Crossed the Great Dividing Range? I’ve no idea.”

“You think maybe he got pinched?” Roscoe said.

“That’s another possibility,” Max said.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to come with us tonight,” Owen said. “It might be a little riskier than we thought.”

Roscoe stared out the window at the parking lot. “You pay me half if I bail now?”

“Expenses. Not half.”

“It’s not my fault Pookie’s … whatever.”

“How do we know it’s not your fault?”

“You’re not calling me a rat, I hope.”

“Roscoe, I have called you many things over the years-base Hungarian, cutpurse, and once I believe a rhesus macaque-never a rat. But perhaps inadvertently you mentioned our adventures to someone less discreet than yourself-possibly you were overheard.”

“I’m not an idiot, Max.”

“Well, I don’t know what happened to Pookie. But I do know I’m not paying you for a job you don’t do. As I say, expenses for getting here, and even your overnight, but the whole fee? Only if you play your part in the show. Look, help us pull this one off and we’re off to bigger and better things in Dallas. Maybe we could cut you in for a one-time percentage on that one.”

Roscoe raised an eyebrow. “What kind of percentage?”

“Five. Am I not the world’s most reasonable man? Mind, this is strictly a one-time offer. And you have to do this show as well.”

“I’m in.” Roscoe shrugged. “I need the dough.”

Bradford Blake had made so much money in hedge funds that even a self-confessed glutton like himself really couldn’t use any more. Once you’ve got the fourth house, the racehorses, the sports team, what can you do? Buy a fifth house? Consequently, he now put his money into political causes, that is to say, the campaign funds of extreme right-wing Republicans. Name it-gun lobby, missile shield-if it upset liberals, Bradford Blake was all for it. Lately he had developed a taste for owning newspapers.

He was aided in this by his pretty wife, Cassandra, a conservative columnist ten years his junior, who had recently become a favourite on the talking-head circuit. She was a piquant presence, not afraid to heap scorn upon the poor and praise upon the lucky. Most liberals were reluctant to appear on camera with her. Somehow those sparkling blue eyes, those erotically swollen lips, rendered greed sexy and concepts such as world peace synonymous with erectile dysfunction.

Owen had gleaned most of this from an unflattering biography. The author had revelled in the details of the couple’s extravagant parties, their sailing adventures, and most of all Cassandra Blake’s insatiable lust for jewels.

The party tonight was to be a relatively subdued affair of eight people, nothing like the San Francisco show. There would be no point trying to sneak in as caterers. This time, speed would be the crucial factor. The plan had originally been for Max, Pookie and Roscoe to work with the guests in the dining room once everyone was seated. Owen would be upstairs emptying everything of value from Cassandra Blake’s jewellery box into a pillowcase. With Pookie out, it was more risky but still doable.

Owen and Max waited for Roscoe in the parking lot of the shopping mall where they were supposed to meet, but Roscoe didn’t show. Five minutes after the appointed hour, Max said, “Our valiant friend must have had second thoughts.”

“The odds are different now that Pookie’s missing.”

“Pookie didn’t know what our next show was going to be, so despite his having vanished in a puff of smoke, the odds remain exactly what they were: favourable. How many people know when Bradford and Cassandra Blake got married? Or that they always celebrate their anniversary in Tucson, where they met and where they still keep a house? We do a lot of research, young man, which is why we always come out on top.”

“How do we know it wasn’t the Subtractors who grabbed Pookie, and now they have Roscoe too? And Roscoe does know the plan for tonight.”

“How could the so-called Subtractors-who don’t exist in the first place-have got on to Roscoe?”

“Maybe he and Pookie had already decided on a hotel. If they got Pookie, Pookie could have told them where they were planning to stay.”

“Rubbish,” Max said, and started the car. “Absolute twaddle.”

The Blake house was in the exclusive Foothills area, with the Santa Catalina Mountains rising up behind it. Unlike their Connecticut colonial, or their London townhouse, or their Fifth Avenue penthouse, the Blakes’ Tucson abode was a long, low bungalow, mostly glass, with a central living area and two wings branching off to the east, giving it an unexpected, asymmetrical look.

Max himself was looking a little asymmetrical, as this time he had opted for an utterly hairless pate that reflected the street lights as they drove. He finished it off with a straight nose that made him look rather like a window mannequin. Owen was wearing a dark wig, medium long, and an artful goatee, almost perfectly square. With the darkened eyebrows he looked roguish, an up-and-coming film director you might see on the cover of Details magazine. Hollywood’s whiz kid talks about his life, his loves, and his meteoric rise from Juilliard to Hollywood’s A-list…

Max stopped the car just before the Blakes’ driveway. He switched off the radio and the air conditioner and they were plunged into a deep hush. No houses were visible, not even the Blakes’. The evening light crept across the hills in a thousand shades of gold and red.

“Any questions before we make our entrance?” Max said.

“This is scary, Max. We need at least two guys in the room where they’re eating, and we don’t even have Roscoe. It’s too easy for someone to make a break for it-and then we’re in big trouble.”

“We have the cellphone jammer, do we not?”

“It’s not enough, Max.”

“Here’s what we do: you enter the far end of the house-couldn’t be easier with this Swedish modern monstrosity-you liberate the goodies and come back out.”

“Good. We skip the dining room altogether.”

“We do no such thing.”

“Max, we almost always get more from the bedrooms than from the guests.”

“But Cassandra Blake is a jewellery horse. Her friends will try to outdo her.”

“How do we cover kitchen staff and the dining room at the same time?”

“After you come out, we go in through the kitchen and bring them into the dining room with us.”

“Max, last week this was a four-man job. This morning it was a three-man job. We’re making a mistake here.”

“Cowards die many times before their death, my son.”

“It’s not cowardice, it’s common sense. You’re not thinking clearly.”

“Improv, boy. Improv. You’re an elderly little sod, in your way. I am supple-brained and creative, while you, my infant, are becoming more hidebound by the minute.”

“Max, I really don’t like this.”

“Fine. I’ll do it myself. You wait here. Back in a trice.” Max grabbed the door handle.

“You’ll get yourself killed.” Owen reached out and caught his arm. “And I can’t stand the thought of you dying in that bald head.”

Max cut the phone wire, a largely theoretical manoeuvre since the real threat would be from cellphones and the jammer would take care of those. He was careful not to cut the burglar alarm wire, which would have set the thing off. In any case, with the house full of guests, it was certain to be switched off.

Architectural Digest had told them which room was which. They used glazier’s tools to remove a windowpane from the master bedroom, and Owen climbed in. Max stood guard in a clump of trees nearby, bald head gleaming in the moonlight.

Once inside, Owen went straight to the door and checked the corridor, which was so long it seemed to taper to a dot. There wasn’t a sound from the dinner party; it was too far away and the house was too well built.

Chokers, necklaces, earrings and bracelets were strewn in magnificent disarray across a mahogany dresser. Owen checked his disguise in the mirror, dark wig and goatee nicely in place, which was good, given the tiny security camera above the door.

With a sweep of his arm he cleared the top of the dresser of three necklaces and several bracelets, all glittering with diamonds. Then he upended a jewellery box into his sack. In a top drawer, a row of TAGs and Breitlings and Rolexes sparkled on a roll of blue velvet. Into the sack with the rest.

He was out the window in less than five minutes. The sack went into the trunk of the car, then it was round to the back door and into the kitchen. It was important not to hesitate here. The Asian couple in the kitchen silently raised their hands at the sight of Max’s revolver.

“Don’t be alarmed.” Max put a finger to his lips. “We have reason to believe there are burglars in this house. Into the dining room, please.”

The couple went in through the swinging door, closely followed by Max and Owen. The guests had not yet sat down to dinner, so they had to continue through the dining room into the living room. Upon stepping onto this new stage, Max became instantly Australian.

“Good evening everybody, my name is Bruce Whittaker of the Australian National Wealth Reallocation Service. Now, pay attention.” He pronounced it attintion. “The gun is loaded, and for your own safety I must ask you to deposit all valuables in my assistant’s bag: rings, watches, jewellery of all sorts. Heroics of any kind will have repercussions of the most catastrophic order.” Ketastrophic.

“Who the hell do you think you are,” Bradford Blake said, rising from a leather chair. “You get the hell out of here.”

“Sit, mate, sit.” Max brandished his pistol, a new one Owen had never seen. “We don’t want this little thing to go off. Now behave yourself and there’ll be no worries.”

“What do you want?” It was Cassandra Blake who spoke. She was seated on an elegant suede couch between two guests.

“The good life, my dear-comfortable shoes, a fine single malt and a hot tub-same as everyone.” Then, to the group: “Cellphones into the sack, if you please.”

They were robbing one of the most beautiful rooms Owen had ever been in. There was a fire roaring in a shoulder-high fireplace and a huge painting of a picnic scene that looked like something you’d see in a museum. He went from each person to the next, sack extended like a trick-or-treater’s, acutely aware of how undignified a pursuit robbery is.

Aside from the two cooks and a maid in uniform, Owen counted seven people around the room. He was pretty sure he had seen eight place settings on the dining table.

“Aren’t you a little old to be doing this?” Cassandra Blake said to Max.

“Siventy,” he pointed out, “is the new fifty. Though I gotta say, doll-o, that necklace looks so fetching on you I’ve half a mind to leave without it.”

“If you had any conscience, you would. My husband gave me this.”

“Into the bag, if you please. Enjoyed your piece on gayism, Mrs. Blake. Canny coinage, ‘gayism.’ I imagine Mrs. Wood found it amusing too.”

He nodded toward Victoria Wood, a fortyish blonde seated on the couch beside her film producer husband. More than one gossip column had hinted that Cassandra Blake and she had enjoyed a torrid lesbian affair the previous summer while their husbands were embarked on a hairy-chested sailing venture in the Pacific, far beyond the reach of tabloids.

“I don’t understand,” Bradford Blake said. “Why would Victoria find it amusing?”

“That looks an exy timepiece, sir,” Max said. “Into the bag, if you please.”

The maid stepped forward with a thin silver and jade bracelet.

“Not necessary, my dear,” Max said.

“Why not?” she said. “I am with them.”

“But not of them. Now, if you’ll just be seated …”

Owen had collected five cellphones, half a dozen watches and bracelets, and the pearl necklace. He held up the sack.

“All righty, then, time for us to say cheerio. Please remain seated until the robbery has come to a complete and final stop. Do not attempt to call the police and do not attempt to follow-or you’ll be hearing from my associate.” He gestured with the gun. “Thank you for your co-operation.”

They were halfway to the front door when a man sprang from a closet and tackled Owen, bringing him down on the hardwood floor.

“Son of a bitch,” he was yelling. “You filthy son of a bitch.”

His breath smelled of Scotch. He yanked the bag out of Owen’s hand, and Owen reached for his pistol. One loud bang was usually enough to settle people down.

Before he could fire, there was a loud crack-crack.

Then the air was full of screams. The man staggered and fell backward into an armchair. Just above his belt, two dark stains were spreading across his shirt.

Owen stood frozen between the bleeding man and the door to escape.

“Move,” Max said. “We haven’t got all night.”

Owen grabbed the sack and blundered out the door, Max following.

They ran to the car, Max wedging himself behind the wheel and starting it. Through long training he resisted the urge to floor it, and they cruised out of the tranquil neighbourhood in a slow agony.

Owen switched off the jammer and fumbled in the sack for one of the cellphones. He dialed 911 and asked for an ambulance to be sent to the Blakes’ address.

“I need your name, sir.”

“No, you don’t.” Owen dropped the phone back into the sack. “You shot the guy, Max. I don’t believe it, you actually shot the guy.”

“I don’t know how it happened!”

“You loaded real bullets is how it happened. We never use real bullets. Or so you’ve always said. Are you going to tell me that all this time you’ve been using real bullets?”

“Of course not! I always use blanks! It was a new gun. Spider Weems was hard up for cash. Sold it to me for a hundred.”

“Fully loaded.”

“Yes, I must have forgot that bit.”

“Max, that was a stop sign!”

Max swerved to avoid a smart car, which had a surprisingly loud horn, and headed for the expressway.

“You’ve probably turned us into murderers. We’re both going to end up in the goddamn electric chair, and some poor innocent guy is going to end up dead. Jesus, Max, what if he has kids?”

“For God’s sake, it was an accident!”

“Yeah, great. Remind me to try that one on the judge.”

They left the car in the parking lot and entered the mall separately as a bald man and a goateed youth, emerging fifteen minutes later as innocent tourists. They left the stolen car in the lot and drove the Taurus back through town toward the trailer camp, Owen at the wheel.

“Bright side,” Max said, “that shot probably saved us from a lengthy semester at Oxford.”

“What about the guy’s life, Max?”

“I value yours more. This is our fifth adventure together. I don’t see why it should be a surprise that sometimes things can go wrong.”

“Max, you didn’t used to shoot people. We have to abort the rest of the trip and head home. And you have to retire for good.”

“Never, lad. Banish Max and banish all the world.”

“This is no time for Shakespeare! This is real life! Those were real bullets! We’ve caused real pain!”

“You’ve missed the turn.”

Owen made a U-turn at the next intersection. They parked in the shadow of the Rocket and went inside.

“What did you think of the accent?” Ek-cent. “Bruce Whittaker, strite outta Queensland, at yer service.”

Max embarked on a recitation of Portia’s speech on mercy, translated into Australian. In other circumstances it might have been funny, but now it was unbearable. Owen turned on the kitchen light and peered into the sack. He was trying mightily to behave as if this had been a normal show, no disasters.

“We should sort out the cellphones first. We can dump them in a mailbox tomorrow. Look at this necklace I found upstairs. It was right in front of the mirror. She must have been trying it on just before the guests arrived.”

“Let’s just stash it for now, laddie.”

Owen loosened a couple of screws and pulled back the dishwasher, and Max handed him the sack. He was tucking it into their hidden hutch when Max said, “Good God. What the hell are you doing here?”

Owen whipped around to see who he was talking to.

Sabrina was lying on the bottom bunk, just now raising herself on one elbow.