A Hefty Heist

Chapter 1: A Lead Too Good to Ignore

Tanner Holt lived by three rules: move fast, stay quiet, and never let panic get the better of him. It was that last one that had come the most in handy to him over the course of his ‘career’, if it could be called that. He kept his lights on slipping into houses under the cover of night to relieve the rich of their valuables–always empty ones, of course. He was a burglar, not a fighter or a killer, and so, he hid in bushes staking out affluent neighborhoods, waiting for a family to leave on vacation (there were signs, there were always signs; the big one was when they left the porch light on, and usually one inside, too, to cast the illusion that somebody was home, but there’d be no movement in the windows and a car missing from the driveway…)

And then…

Jackpot.

With the forethought he put into each heist, he could afford to breathe a little while getting in and out. Never paranoid, rarely having to watch his back. He sold his finds for just enough to keep him in comfort; the landlord never came knocking and the pawn shops loved him. It wasn’t glamorous work, but it beat punching a clock, and it bought his booze.

But if planning was his strength, drinking was his weakness. That was why, even as his funds for the month began to run–well, not dry, but below the level he considered a comfortable safety net, he found himself once again perched upon a stool in a rundown bar, nursing a beer and half-listening to his usual coterie of crooks as they swapped stories. Between them, there would have been enough breaking-and-entering charges to fill the county jail, if by some bad miracle they were all caught on the same day, but none of them were stupid enough to linger at the scene of the crime, or, for that matter, talk specifics where ears might be listen–

“Ghost! Hey!”

Tanner was ‘Ghost,’ on account of his elusive ways: even among fellow thieves, he was the best of the best at disappearing after a B&E and leaving the authorities baffled, and it was Twitch that shoved him in his seat at the counter. Twitch was Twitch because he was unpredictable. Jumpy, uppity…twitchy. The sudden push of his shoulder against Tanner’s sent half of the latter’s beer leaping out of his glass to splash against the bar-top in a tidal wave of foam, and Tanner might have been a lot more irritated, if not for what Twitch said next: “You hear about Marta Beaudelaire?”

“The restaurant tycoon?” pitched in Rick ‘The Wrecking Ball’ Rodgers, from where he sat at a nearby table, over his hand of five-card stud.

“Yeah yeah yeah,” Twitch affirmed, leaning in and nodding vigorously, his head bobbing upon his wiry neck. Dropping his voice, he added, “Died three nights ago. Unknown cause. Real shame, huh?”

Tanner didn’t know Marta personally. He was pretty sure nobody knew her personally. But everyone in town knew her name. Her chain of restaurants was legendary. You couldn’t even get in without a reservation made months in advance, and even at the door, if you talked the wrong way or wore the wrong outfit, then forget about it. Her net-worth was somewhere in the sevens–seven figures, that is. Tanner shifted on his stool and quirked an eyebrow. “Shame for who?”

Twitch smirked. “Just a shame, I guess.” He bounced one heel against the railing below the bar. Lit a cigarette.

The barmaid came to wipe up the spilled beer with a rag and lifted Tanner’s glass to set it down on top of a coaster.

“And shame for her, I guess,” Twitch went on. “Her big ol’ fancy house is just sitting there, untouched. No family, no will, no security—far as anyone knows, anyway. Damn mansion full of God-only-knows-what.”

Tanner exhaled slowly, measuring his words in his head before he spoke them. “And nobody’s hit it yet?”

The bar fell quiet except for the overplayed bluegrass song on the juke. A few of the men exchanged glances before Wrecking Ball looked over his shoulder and spoke back up. “People say she was into… stuff. Freaky stuff. Weird things happened to people who crossed her.” As he scratched his bearded jaw and set his hand of cards on the table facedown, his game-mates all fixed Tanner with identical, grave, wide-eyed expressions. “You remember that food critic who trashed her restaurant last year? They say he went back home after he put in his review at the paper, and then never came back out again. Or that business partner who sued her? You hear about the way they found him in his car? Just sayin’.”

Tanner scoffed. “Come on. She probably just had good lawyers and bad enemies. Supposing–just supposing–somebody tried to hit a lick on that house, it’s not like she’d be able to do anything about it now.”

Twitch shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. Point is, nobody wants to touch that house.” His eyes gleamed with the manic energy everyone at the bar knew him for. “Which means if somebody got it in his head to do it, he’d be a legend. And he wouldn’t have to split the take.”

Tanner considered that. A jackpot with no competition.

The smartest move would be to walk away, let someone else take the risk, and if the other guy succeeded, then, no big deal. There were always other houses. But if something happened to the sucker, better him than Tanner, who would do well to close in like a vulture and seize the prize.

Then again, that was bad sport. There was a thing called honor among thieves, and besides, didn’t fortune favor the bold? He was good at this. He could be in and out before anyone even knew he was there, including his bar buddies.

Tanner took another sip of his beer, then set it down with a decisive SMACK against the bar.

“Well, I’m not a burglar. You guys know me better than that. But if I was, I’d bust in there.”

The guys went quiet again.

The bartender made another pass behind the counter and placed his glass back upon the coaster with a scowl and a disapproving tut in the back of her throat.

Then Twitch grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s why I like you, Ghost. Always looking to try your luck. Hypothetically speaking, of course.”

With a laugh, Tanner drained the remainder of his beer, picked up the coaster between two fingers, and tossed it over the counter. “Luck’s got nothing to do with it. Hypothetically speaking, of course.”

He had a job to plan.