CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR #2
Conor finished his last set of squats. He stepped forward stiff-legged to the rack and eased the three-hundred pounds off his shoulders.
He toweled the sweat from his face and thought back to the video footage of Cracker sticking out his tongue and screaming his rebel yell before finishing his opponents.
If that maniac found him, he had to be ready to run or fight.
He threw the towel down and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.
Bruises still shadowed his torso from his fight with Duck’s guys at the church.
He stretched his arms over his head and twisted, watching his abs flex, then dropped his arms to his sides.
Veins laced his arms, chest, and shoulders.
He’d felt better, but if it came to it, he could fight.
The better option was to steal the paintings, get the money, and run.
He turned toward the sound of a door opening.
Angel stuck his head around the side of the door at the top of the basement’s stairs.
“Come on up,” said Angel. “Your dad’s here. We’re going over the job.”
Conor pulled on jeans and a white T-shirt. He wiped his face with the towel, took a sip from a bottle of water, and then looked in the mirror.
“Get the paintings, get the money, get Julia, and then get out,” he whispered. “I can do this.”
Conor walked into Angel’s office. His dad sat in a chair in front of Angel’s desk. Angel came in behind Conor and pointed at a stack of metal folding chairs propped against the wall. “Get a chair,” he said, then walked behind his desk.
Conor pulled a chair over and sat next to his dad. Angel spread an architectural drawing over the top of his desk.
“This is it. Louis Bromfield’s house,” said Angel. “The park system runs tours through it three times a day. They’ll walk us right in, no problem.”
Angel went on to explain the layout, circled all the alarm systems in blue, then drew a red X on the locations of the two Grandma Moses paintings. Conor asked a couple questions, but mostly listened. He looked at his dad, thinking how he’d nailed this job. It was almost too easy.
“So that’s it,” said Angel, rolling up the drawing.
“Mickey will drop you off. You walk in, you hide, and then you steal the paintings after they close up for the night. Mickey will pick you up at the Mount Commons parking lot across the street. I got a buyer in Europe. He’ll set up the provenance, the certificate of authenticity, and move both paintings through private auction. ”
“What’s provenance?” asked Conor.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Angel.
“How much we getting?” asked Conor.
“Three hundred,” said Angel. “But we gotta pay for transport. When it’s all done, we’ll clear ninety-five each.”
Conor smiled. Angel slapped him on the back.
“I told you it was good, didn’t I?” his dad said.
Conor gave his father a quick glance, then stared at Angel.
“Instead of my dad, how ‘bout you take me over and pick me up?” he said.
Angel sighed. “No. I have eyes all over me every time I step out of the garage. Your dad’s perfect. Nobody cares where he goes. Plus, he’s been sober since I talked to him yesterday, haven’t you, Mickey?”
“Haven’t had a drop.”
Conor eyed his dad. “You got the DTs?”
Mickey gripped his hands together. “I feel great.”
“I don’t like this,” said Conor.
His dad grabbed his shoulder.
Conor turned. For the first time in a very long time, Conor noticed his dad’s eyes were clear and bright.
“I won’t let you down,” Mickey said, tightening his grip on Conor’s shoulder. “You can count on me.”
Conor fixed a hard stare on him. “This is like—you know—your last chance. Screw this up and we’re done.”
His father nodded. “I know.”
Angel put a backpack on the desk. “Okay, then. Now that we’re all a happy family, here’s what you’ll need to get the job done.
” Two cardboard tubes stuck out of the top of the backpack.
He pulled one out. “Just remember, if any of us gets caught, we shut up and serve our time. The money will be here for you when you get out.”
Angel handed Conor the cardboard tube. Conor pulled a plastic end cap from the tube and slid out a thick, rolled-up, piece of paper.
“I printed off reproductions for each painting,” said Angel.
“After you get the original out of the frame, tape the fake into the frame, and put the original in the tube.
“ Conor nodded, slid the reproduction back into the tube, and laid the tube on the table.
Unzipping the top of the backpack, Angel rummaged around a bit, and then pulled out something that looked like a flashlight.
“This is your saw,” said Angel. “Extremely low vibration. Six point seven inches long. Ten thousand strokes per minute. It’ll cut right through the walls behind the paintings.”
Conor examined it. “What about vibration sensors?”
“They’re using contact sensors,” said Angel. “If the frames are moved—or if the glass is broken or removed—the sensors will trip. But you’re coming in from behind the paintings. The sensors won’t even know you’re there.”
“How do I know where to cut into the walls?” said Conor.
Angel took a magnetic stud finder out of the backpack. “The frames are anchored with four big bolts. Find the anchors, draw a square, and start cutting.”
“How do I get out of the house without tripping an alarm?” said Conor.
Angel put the saw back in the backpack and then looked at Conor. “All the doors and windows are alarmed, so you’re going into the attic and cutting your way out through the bottom of the cupola on the roof. It’s marked on the drawing.”
Conor turned to his dad. “You sure you’re up for this?”
Mickey took a deep breath and exhaled. “Yeah,” he said. “One hundred percent.”