I trot down the stairs to the lobby. The show’s well into its first act, and the lobby’s near empty ’cept for a few staff who don’t give me a second look. Heading toward the double doors like a gentleman after fresh air, I turn into a narrow passage where a man stands in the dim, surprised to see me but not afraid. He raises his brows, ready to be helpful.
The music swells, blaring as I say, “Pardon me. I seem to be a bit lost.”
His brow furrows and he shakes his head, stepping closer, turning his ear to get a better listen. Shouldn’t have turned his head. It was a mistake letting his guard down at all. Once he’s close, I swing up hard, my knuckles biting between his ribs. That spot’ll knock the wind out of a man every time. Element of surprise on my side, I get him around the throat, squeezing hard. He groans but can’t shout—ain’t enough air getting through. I hold him, pulse flittering under my palm, just long enough for him to go slack.
If my sweet woman’s taught me one thing, it’s compassion. Before he can wake, I take the length of cord from my coat and tie his hands. A soprano’s high note hits the rafters, and the usher starts to stir. He yelps quick, but I stifle it, my hand over his mouth. I get close to his ear.
“I know you don’t wanna die today, boy.”
His cries muffle into my palm, breath hot and wet. I press harder, digging my nails into his cheek so he knows I bite. “I could snap your neck like a twig, and they’d come scrape your sorry ass off the lobby floor at intermission. Now you can quiet and live to see tomorrow, or you can scream, and it’ll be the last thing you ever do. You gonna behave yourself, or should your ma start plannin’ your funeral?”
He mumbles a pitiful, weepy plea.
“That’s what I thought.”
I know better, and I got a handkerchief balled in my fist. Soon as I ease my grip, I shove it in his mouth. I lay him on his belly—hands tied behind, mouth stuffed like a hog—and move on to step two.
One thing I ain’t had time to do was research the lock. It’s dark, but I graze the handle, feeling the escutcheon gentle for the keyhole. Cool, smooth—brass, most like. From the size and shape, I reckon it’s a mortise. Ordinarily I’d carry my roll—neat little tools wrapped in leather, lost the night the Shermans stripped me to nothing—but a man expects setbacks.
I make do: a nail filed down thin, a twist of piano wire, a fat hairpin swiped from Alice.
Learned lockpicking after my pa died. Big boy like me worked muscle for a gambling den. Met more than a few outlaws with plenty to teach. Old gambler I knew was a locksmith. Said, “Crackin’ a lock’s like fuckin’ a woman.” He meant patience. “You don’t force her,” he’d say, lips curled like a man chewing lemon. “You listen. You take her temper. You find where she wants to give.”
The nail’s a poor stand-in for a proper pick, but it’ll sing if you coax it right. I bend the hairpin to make a little lever, thread the piano wire through to rig tension. Fiddly work in the dark. Fingers knowing what eyes can’t see. My thumb lays soft on thelatch, keeping just enough pressure to make her speak without staring down her throat.
A notch here. A scrape there. Tumblers push back one by one like piano keys. Smell of old brass—dust and oil—and I half expect to hear that old gambler chuckle beside me as it clicks soft.
I don’t stand there admiring my work. I push through gentle, but it don’t make no difference. Soon as it opens, I got two bastards staring right at me, and they sure as hell don’t wanna lend a hand. I shut the door behind me. Figure whatever’s about to go down’s best kept contained.
The box office is smaller than our hotel room—’bout half the size—so there ain’t nowhere for them to run with me blocking the only exit. I got borrowed iron—Alice’s pistol. Wouldn’t be wise to use it, not unless I plan on running out of here, and I already promised that poor drunk sweetheart I wouldn’t leave her behind. I rest my hand on my hip and let my face tell them what’s what.
First one’s brave. Comes running, swings. I jerk aside, come back with a right hook to his jaw. Soon as I hear the crack, the other one’s already reaching for iron, and if he fires, this night’s going a whole lot different. First one hits the floor, blood spilling from his lips. Second man’s drawn, but I grab the muzzle before he can touch the trigger, catch his wrist with my free hand, and shove him back.
“You really wanna die protectin’ another man’s coin, you dumb son of a bitch?” I say, slamming him to the wall. He ain’t in control no more. I yank the gun free and let it clatter to the floor. First man’s reeling, slow to react, so I kick it away. Second one gets me good in the gut. If I wasn’t nursing a wound, I’d’ve taken it clean, but I see white and damn near drop to my knees. He keeps coming and I block, backing off to get space. Thank whatever God Alice is always crying about, ’cause the bastardslips in the other bastard’s pool of blood. That heartbeat of him catching balance gives me time to swing with all I got—right, left, jab jab jab. He hits the floor.
“Where’s the key?”
“Ain’t no key,” he mumbles, mouth a mess of blood and loose teeth.
Gotta get them tied up proper before I start searching. Wrist to wrist, ankle to ankle, looped tight behind their backs like hogs in the slaughter yard. The first one’s face is near twice the size it was when I walked in. The second’s cussing steady, like a carpenter who’s just flattened his thumb.
“Shut up, you stupid bastard, ’fore I change my mind ’bout lettin’ you live,” I mutter. “Ain’t no cause for dyin’ over some rich man’s ledgers.”
They’re breathing, which is more than I promised.
The safe squats in the corner behind the desk, brass face glinting in the low light. I crouch, roll my shoulders, crack my neck. Piano wire. Nail. Hairpin.
It’s so goddamn hot in here. Coats and shirts and waistcoats, goddamn. Sweat glides down my back. Music booms, drums and the crash of cymbals. Ain’t the best sound for concentration, and all that punching’s got my fingers tight.
If I’m gone too long, Alice might come hunting.
Then, I find it. Tumbler by tumbler. She clicks.
Inside: cash boxes tight with bills, velvet sacks of coin, ledger books with numbers I don’t need to understand. I grab what I came for, stuffing it in my coat till the seams groan.
I don’t linger. No time to celebrate.
I ease the door open, step back into the corridor. The usher’s still there, crying behind my handkerchief, stuffed so far back he’s gagging. I drag him inside to join his colleagues, then close the door.
