Giles Blunt - No Such Creature

“They didn’t connect him to the … other things?”

“Nope. Far as they were concerned he was a wig salesman-a failed actor who suddenly snapped. Autopsy showed signs of senile dementia.”

“Not such a failed actor, then. I’m glad you didn’t get charged with anything, at least. Think you’ll keep on the straight and narrow now?”

“Well, seeing as how everyone I’ve ever loved has been killed because of crime, yeah-I’d say I’m done with it.” Owen suppressed the urge to ask about her own plans, but Sabrina answered as if she had heard the thought anyway.

“Right now I’m working in a restaurant while I figure out what to do next. I like the people I work with-they’re all either actors or writers or artists, all completely devoted to something. But what I like best about them is they all have clear consciences. They’re terrified about their careers, they’re in a constant panic about making the rent, but none of them is getting up in the morning thinking, ‘God, I did something really, really wrong. I’m a bad person.’”

“You don’t know what’s in their heads.”

“I think I know them at least that well. Anyway, it’s something I want to try out for a while. A clean conscience. I want to see how it feels.”

They reached the corner of Second Avenue and Owen stopped. “I gotta get back.”

She handed him the canvas bag, and he took it.

“What will you do with that stuff?”

“Way I feel right now, I’ll probably mail it back to the people it came from.”

“Really?”

“I don’t know, Sabrina. I’m still feeling a little … uncertain, you know what I mean?”

When they were back outside Monk’s Castle, the bagpiper was well into “Amazing Grace,” marching slowly back and forth before the tavern. They watched him for a minute, then Sabrina said, “Have you ever walked along Forty-seventh Street?”

“The diamond district? Yeah, why?”

“Well, it just struck me, some of those places would be so easy to knock over, you know? It’s amazing, the lack of security.”

“Yeah, that’s true. But Max was a firm believer in working out of town-until his final performance, anyway-so it was never an option.”

“Right. Good policy.”

“That’s Max. Slow but steady.” Owen put a dollar into the bagpiper’s open jar, then jerked his thumb at the door. “I’m going back in.”

“Okay. But I was thinking-a young couple, maybe scouting out wedding rings, could really get a good look at places like that. They could walk right in and who’s going to suspect them?”

Owen shook his head. “Not interested.”

“I know. It was just a fantasy.”

“Then again,” Owen said, sweeping his arm to include the street, the oblivious bagpiper, the entire vast immensity of New York City, “the whole damn thing is fantasy.”