Stuart Kaminsky - Lieberman's thief

George Patniks hated his nickname, "Pitty-Pitty." There was no dignity in a name like Pitty-Pitty Patniks, but then Alex Sewell, the boss of cell block C, hadn't been concerned about George's dignity. Sewell had a great nickname, "Steelhead." It implied that nothing could penetrate Sewell's head, not a tool shop knife made from a toothbrush, not a V bar loosened from the bottom of a bunk, not a thought or idea. Steelhead was a risky nickname. It gave a target and defied the other cons to go after it.

But Pitty-Pitty, what the hell sense did that make? George, whose real name was Gregor Eupatniaks, was sure mat Steelhead Sewell, who was serving two life sentences for murdering a pair of runaway girls in Moline, hadn't thought about the nickname he bestowed on the skinny kid who had just done the first month of time for his first felony, breaking and entering.

But the name stuck. George couldn't shake it. It followed him to Chicago's Near North Side neighborhood where he had spent his life, except for the two years he had done for breaking and entering and the two more years he had done for breaking and entering again and the year he had done for possession of a weapon, a dinky piece, a.22 he carried in his tool belt under his jacket. It was really the burglary tools in the belt that they had gotten him for, not the Friday night nothing-special, but they couldn't nail him on the tools so they got him for the gun.

Even the police called him Pitty-Pitty. A grown man, now pushing forty-six, with almost six years of down time on three felonies. That was one of the worst things about being picked up, cops yelling his nickname across a squad room.

George considered himself one of the most successful burglars in Cook County. He wasn't sure how many houses, businesses, and apartments he had plucked-two hundred? Maybe three hundred? Maybe more? You'd think he'd keep count, but he didn't, like a movie star on Jay Leno who can't remember how many movies he's been in.

George hadn't worked an honest day in his life since his sixteenth birthday, but the dishonest ones had added up over the years. He practiced his profession once every three or four weeks for a few hours-not counting set-up time- and devoted the rest of his time to eating, sleeping, hanging out with his brother when he was around, and trying, sometimes successfully, to pick up women or girls at Unikle's Tap or the Blue Truck Bar. But what he liked to do most was something that he had picked up in prison. George's passion was painting. He had always liked to draw, but in prison an artist from Chicago named Joplin-guy in denims, hair hanging over his eyes, mess of a beard-had conducted a six-week class in painting. George had taken to it. He was a natural. He could paint what was in his head from the moment he picked up the brush.

Most people thought Steelhead Sewell had given him the name Pitty-Pitty because it was what Steelhead thought it sounded like when George was painting. Trouble was, George was sure Steelhead Sewell did not know he was taking the class or painting.

Joplin the painter had told George that he had talent Years later, when George was exhibiting in an art fair in Lincoln Park, he ran into Joplin, who was showing his own stuff. They talked. Joplin said he had been out of town a few years. His hands shook. Rummy. Joplin's paintings were for shit. Who had he been to tell George Patniks that he was a good painter? George had a better grasp on reality man that.

George looked at his own paintings-cons leaning lonelily against concrete block walls, smoking and looking at nothing, buildings that looked so tired they might tumble over with a pat on the back from a good wind off Lake Michigan, kids playing in the park on the merry-go-round but not looking like they were having fun. George knew he had the eye. But he didn't have the magic. Wasn't there. No avoiding the truth. No use crying. George could paint. He could paint what he saw, but he was never going to be anything but a summer exhibitor looking for a park district ribbon.

That was fine with George. No kicks. Life was good. Work once every couple of weeks. Make the good score, sometimes big cash in the back of a drawer inside a pair of socks. Sometimes a good sale to one of the pawnshops on Devon or Milwaukee that fenced on the back and down side. You get caught once in a now and then. That was the price. You took it straight up. It was usually bad luck that got you. At least it had been bad luck that got George each time he had been caught, a really good silent alarm connected to a security service, neighbors when there shouldn't have been, a small green-stoned necklace hidden under the floorboard of his apartment and lucked on by an overeager detective on his first case.

But George was older now. A lot older. He had learned from his mistakes. He never talked about his jobs. He cased each one far beyond what any pro might consider reasonable. He'd get the book hard and heavy and not across his knuckles the next time he stood before a judge with decent evidence on the table. George had to be careful.

He pulled out his wallet and extracted the sheet of paper on which he had written a phone number. Then he dialed the number. It rang four times. Music in the background. Classical. George recognized it but couldn't give a name.

"Good evening," the woman said softly.

"Mr. Harvey Rozier," George said, disguising his voice by going an octave higher and a bit slower and more precise than his normal. "Or Mrs. Rozier."

"The concert is about to begin," the woman said.

"Very important," George insisted. "Mr. Rozier won't want to miss this call."

"One moment," the woman said, and George found himself listening to the faint music again. Not his kind. George had a quiet collection of CDs, for him alone, torchy stuff, definitely off limits to his mother, stuff to paint by, Dinah Washington, Linda Ronstadt, Liza Minnelli. Some things just don't…

"Yes," came a voice over the phone almost whispering.

"It's me," George said, his voice still disguised. "You asked me to call you at ten. I'm calling you."

"Who is this?"

"Burt Chambers from the Tool and Die," said George.

"I don't know what the hell…"

"Look, Mr. Dozier, I'm just doing what-"

"Dozier?"

"Are you Carl Dozier?" asked George.

"Harvey Rozier," the man said with exasperation that George thought was fully justified.

"Look," said George. "Is this or isn't this three-one-two-one-one-one-one?"

"No," said Rozier, looking at the number on the phone. "It is not."

"I'm sorry," George said with a sigh. "I'm having a bad day."

Rozier hung up. So did George.

He had watched the Rozier house for three weeks. Every night Looking for a house in Saginaw Park with signs of money, a wall or tall trees, and no dogs. The Rozier house, a red brick that looked a little like a castle, stood at the end of a cul-de-sac and down a drive. George had had his handyman card ready when he approached the house the first time, right after the mailman left. George had been ready to whip the card out in case he had overlooked a maid, a pool man, a relative. He'd driven right to the front door and rung the bell. No answer, but George was just setting up, taking no chances. Nice place. Big. He went for the mail, found out he was at the home of Harvey and Dana Rozier.

George returned to the street every few days and nights but never to the cul-de-sac. It wasn't the only house he checked out. He had six others on the line in suburbs as far north as Highland Park and as far south as Morgan Park. It was part of the job. He found Rozier's name and office number in the Chicago White Pages-Harvey N. Rozier, Investment Consultant. The home phone was unlisted. No big problem to go to Rozier's office on LaSalle Street near City Hall, find out what kind of car the man had, and get a look at him. Rozier was a big man, maybe George's age, probably a little younger. Good looking. Worked out. Serious guy with a fake smile. Losing his hair and combing it forward. Good clothes.