William Deverell: April Fool

He hopes Eve Winters sees that as more a compliment than suggestive, and apparently so, because she offers a smile with clean white teeth and thanks him. She passes on the dessert and rises. Many eyes are on her as she glides out.

With this leggy creature gone, some of the tension eases, the men stop preening, the wives relax, and another two bottles of wine are ordered. The Owl, who is on the dry tonight, is pleased that all eight are consuming to excess, though the downside is people get up at night to piss.

These tourists are of the capitalist class, the men ordering top-of-the-line Cabernet and Bordeaux, the women with their pearls and gold bracelets, and they all came in by chartered plane. He is taking a calculated risk having dinner with them-though Sergeant Flynn will try to finger him anyway-but he has to take stock of these prospective customers, see if the game is worth the play, find out what rooms they’re staying in-which he’s already done, he scanned the registry.

In the meantime he’s still feeling remorseful-he’d sworn to go straight after becoming a local businessman. He isn’t one to mire himself in guilt, despite the fourteen catches on his sheet, and never mind the ones he beat. But he’s got to square the bank, he’s being forced out of retirement to do so.

When the Owl says something complimentary to the waiter about the sockeye steak, the man opposite says that what Faloon just ate was caught by him this morning. It turns out this guy is a retired insurance exec, and the Owl admits he’s retired too, running a little inn nearby.

“What did you do before that?” The tone says he’s not really interested.

Faloon says, “Jewellery.”

He thinks about entertaining him, telling him the secrets of knowing a good stone. The Owl had been a class jewel thief in his prime, once ranked as number seven in the world. But loose lips sink ships, and it is time for Nick Faloon to leave, and he says his adieus, pays his bill, and Mr. and Mrs. Galloway wave him goodbye at the door.

The best rooms at the Breakers Inn are on the third floor, with balcony views of ocean, beach, and craggy outcroppings that are worth the extra they charge, and it is here that all the Topekans are staying. From where he’s hiding, a darkened alcove with mops and brooms, the Owl can hear muffled snores. He’s been crouching here for two hours, after slipping back into the Breakers while the hosts were serving Kahlua and coffee.

He checked out this alcove a few weeks ago, his last visit here, when he excused himself for the john. That’s when he got hold of the master, palming it into soft wax. He took a couple of days off, down to Vancouver, where Iggie Nichols ground out a dupe in his shop and got paid with five bottles of cognac the Owl deep-pocketed from a liquor store.

The Owl is hoping he has retained his touch. A hot prowl holds out many perils for a fifty-four-year-old, out-of-practice thief armed only with latex gloves and Hush Puppies. Even if the play runs smooth, the Owl will be the first object of suspicion-Sergeant Flynn will have him immediately in mind. That was the one glitch in assembling a new life-Jasper Flynn showed up last year from Alberni to smell him out. “You cause any trouble, I’ll flatten you like roadkill.” That was fair, and to Faloon’s great shock the cop didn’t spread the word there was a felon in everyone’s midst, not to mention his conviction for sexual assault, the serious kind they used to call rape.

Nick Faloon will do a long bounce if this caper doesn’t pan out, worse maybe than the ten-spot he drew on that rape because of a cold-blooded but brilliant liar. That was a career-threatening event, it caused the Owl to lose faith in the justice system. His lawyer, the great Arthur Ramsgate Beauchamp, looked so dejected that Faloon had to cheer him up, reminding Mr. Beauchamp he got him off about a dozen real beefs, he was due, things balance out.

The Owl did the fat six years before parole kicked in, worked his tail off to build another stake, a European tour where his French is handy, hitting five-star hotel rooms, jewellery shops, working with two stalls, sometimes three. Over time he retained some gorgeous women to stall for him, Cat McAllister the all-time titleholder, her shtick being to hike her skirt, adjust her stockings, and the sales manager has his eyes on her thighs as the key to the display case disappears.

He was famous for his stagecraft, his detailed set-ups. Like that time in Beverly Hills-he showed up at a gem store as a window cleaner in white coveralls, with ladder, buckets, and squeegees, the staff paying no attention, the blowtorch below their field of vision anyway. When you heat those plate windows, a linoleum knife cuts through them like cheese, a neat hole bypassing the alarm. A mechanic’s claw does the rest.

Faloon wonders if he’s still the class act for which he gained fame in some of the best circles, the hotel industry, the insurance industry, Interpol. A spontaneous actor, he always had a gift of the gab and the bluff. Your eyes can give you away, you can’t jerk, you got to have flow. It’s all angles, reaching in under the salesgirl’s arm, or the high-low trick when there’s a tall case: “I’d like to see that piece,” and the clerk reaches up and you grab from below. Timing is everything, and little edges like garlic on your breath. When all plans fail, you got to be able to wing it. Your feet are the last line of defence.

But in the end it’s the fence who gets the hog, which is why Freddy Jacoby is always ready to pay Faloon’s legal bills, to return him to the street, so the Owl can pay off his debt, a vicious circle.

It is half past one as he emerges from the alcove, half past one on what is now April Fool’s Day, maybe a good omen, maybe bad, he isn’t sure. He should wait until they are in deep sleep, but he’s antsy, primed.

Only the hall light is on, a wall fixture, and he reaches up and twists the bulb loose and lets his eyes adjust to the darkness. He chooses door number five-the twirl inserts cleanly and the bolt releases with a soft thud. The door opens a few inches before the security chain takes hold. He loops an elastic band onto it, jiggles it free. He waits a minute or two, then enters. Light dimly penetrates from outside, below, where the Galloways always keep the porch lamp on.

The male sleeper is on his back, smelling of Cabernet, snoring, his partner curled on her side. He remembers her-a pushed-up bosom graced by a strand of shimmering pearls. And here they are, hanging from the dresser mirror, brazenly set out for the Owl-and for alternate eveningwear, a gold necklace with matching earrings. He’ll pass, though, he is more interested in the trousers hanging from a chair. In the wallet, he finds about six U.S. large. He pockets a couple, returns the wallet, and quietly exits.

It never pays in Faloon’s business to give in to greed. Enough to piece off the whining bank and get himself square, that’s all the contributions he’s seeking. Sometimes they don’t notice, they shake their heads and ask themselves, “Did we blow that much?” Sometimes they blame the staff. Sometimes they don’t complain to the cops, they don’t want to be hauled back here for a trial.

Hitting the next two rooms, Faloon finds more heavy sleepers and has no trouble with the wallets, and manages to triple his score-six grand is already a good night’s work.

When he enters the final room, silently closing the door, making out the shapes, he becomes aware something is amiss. That something is an absent condominium developer, Coolidge is his name, the guy who turned off Eve Winters with his lack of charm, the guy with the heavy moneybelt. The wife is alone in the bed, no sounds from the bathroom, which is dark.

He is frozen in mid-step. The teller of bad jokes is out on a walking tour of Bamfield? Fishing for salmon at two in the morning? He listens for footsteps in the hall, hears nothing. A quick look about reveals no poke in view anyway, obviously he took his moneybelt.