Wednesday, January 27, 2010
"Electric Thieves" an original short story by Cecil Disharoon
“The Electric Thief” by C. Lue Disharoon
Her innate sense of time tells what her watch confirms; she still has half of the opera, Lucia di Lammermoor , which should be at intermission, now, in which to complete the job.
In the torrid Miami night, steadily she places one foot over the other on her skyline precarious perch. Firmly she grasps her rope, not shifting weight very much, minimizing the strain. Twenty two stories above the street, the penthouse balcony should be unlocked.
One sliding glass door later, she touches her backpack, which cradles her device inside, for security.
Her guess leads her to a pair of paintings, her quarry. The first: a girl, holding a doll. From her uncle’s books, she recognizes the impressionistic work of
Miroslav Kraljević. Surprising, to see paintings of this quality outside of the Louvre, or Zagrebu, She stares at the second one, a Požega landscape painted in the impressionistic atmosphere plenerističkom influence. She removes it carefully from its mounting, for after she finishes the safe.
“What fortune: it’s directly behind the Kraljević!” Now, the device--- tested for two months. She affixes its lock-negating electrodes, carefully reading the feedback before channeling the current that will reverse the magnetic polarity of the locks inside its door.
The readout checks out, twice, now she chooses the currency of her charge in silence. “Takav uređaj graciozan, ona misli. Ako mi je ovaj događaj na puno radno vrijeme, ja bih provesti dizajn odabrati odgovarajući odgovor valute automatski, ali ja sam htjela biti u mogućnosti nadzirati kvalitetu.”*
A smell of ozone; the door swings open. Unmarked bonds...an antique pearl necklace: “no, it’s a probably a family heirloom.” She unwraps a parchment; it seems a hundred brittle years old.
“That’s quite an impressive safecracker there,”
She nearly drops her equipment. He chuckles, waving his hand downward---a blond, a silhouetted athlete.
“I won’t hurt you. Where did you find this device, though?
“I made it.”
“You made it?”
“I am a descendent of Nikola Tesla.”
“Not joking, are you? Clearly a serious lady.” Please, come over to this sofa; relax. Careful work casing this place; choosing a night when the occupants attended the opera. Ah, but how did you miscalculate? At the last moment. Eglise Gutiérrez was ill. I decided to exchange my tickets.”
He leers at her sleek black leather outfit, topped by a scarlet mask of silk, with two eyeholes. “Slavic accent?”
“Heh--- procuring the Kraljević for the museum? May I?” he says, casually, unraveling the parchment. His eyes alternate between it and her inquisitive gaze.
He chuckles like a brook. “See the name? Recognize these notes in Serbian?”
“I had no chance.”
“Nebjosa Petrovic. Worked with your famous ancestor---on incomplete plans for a twin turbine. But tell me---what is your motivation?”
“You alerted the police?”
“Perhaps! Then again, should they arrive, it might be a false alarm, no?”
“My father is in prison. I suppose he was my inspiration to do this thing tonight, for he was the best cat burglar in Zagreb. He’ll die of cancer before parole. I anguish over the thought of him, alone. I want him with his family. That will take money that I do not have, quickly.”
By the moonlight, he studies in steady breaths. “I believe you. Can I tell you my thoughts on this blueprint? Some of Tesla’s early work. He never drew his own blueprints, so the hand here is Petrovic.” Listen, my fascinating masked friend, I think you should take some of these certificates, these blueprints. Make it out of here, you’re free. I want you to send me a letter, to the address on this card, with a picture of you and your father when you take him home.” He places the card in her hand, pressing it into her palm. “Now...could I kiss you?”
Perplexed, her jaw drops open.
She leans, hesitates--- smells his peach breath. Her lips touch his, feeling their warmth. His hand lightly touches her silk scarf mask. She touches his tongue with hers; a flood begins in the core of her. She invites his weight, slowly onto her. His sinewy hands comb her hair that protrudes from her red mask. He balances on his knees, whispering, “may I please bite...?” into her ear, as he lightly nibbles her ear lobe. “Yes,” she coos.
He begins to exhale his hot breath, as his fingertips outline her throat twice. “I feel your heart pounding here,” he says of her veins. “Please....” She nods. His lips brush her neck in light strokes, subtle arcs that mirror his breathing. He puts his mouth on her neck, pressing his tongue to hers. She writhes, making soft sounds.
“My butt is asleep,” she laughs, and shifts. She lets his finger drag across her chest, hardening her nipple. He gives her breast a light squeeze, another deep kiss.
He sighs, raises up on his well-defined arms. “I’d escort you to the elevator, but you can’t afford witnesses.”
Relieved, excited, she gets up from the couch, with the documents.
“I won’t forget you,” he says, picking up the painting as he walks her to the balcony. He opens the moonlit door, to the torrid Miami night.
Of her own accord, she kisses him; his hand climbs the front of her as her legs squeeze together. His hand pets her beneath her top, before his fingers curl away as though waving good-bye.
Then, he hops onto the ledge, as the harbor breeze blows in.
“Lucia di Lammermoor is over,” he says. “They’ll be home. Careful on the way down.”
Painting strapped to his back, her mysterious paramour eases down the balcony with a bare-handed grip. Down the side of the building to the next ledge, he goes, depending only upon his arm strength to secure his perilous way, handhold by handhold, to the street below.
She secures her grappling hook, in disbelief. She remembers: she, too, must depart.
"Time to read about Orange Revolution in Ukraine and Green Revolution in Iran. The stage is being set to re-enact the same drama here in Sri Lanka with international support."