Money is such an ironic creature. Like mud, it's both dirty and clean at the same time, and it has many odors.
As you walk through the crowd, exchanging open polite smiles (and discreetly impolite sneers) you seem to collect various synonyms for those odors, like strong, foul, sweet, pleasant, and other less flattering words that shouldn’t be in the vocabulary of a woman of your status.
Your nose isn't for the money, however. You were brought up in this world of strategic parties and fancy clothes and though you have long since learned to blend in with it, it bores you.
“Hello, Hannah.”
You stop and fight the urge to wince at that horrible voice. Instead, you help yourself to a glass of champagne and catch your appearance in a mirror on the far wall. Your dress of black satin practically absorbs the light as you turn to face the owner of the mansion.
“Attica,” You reply in your most falsely cheerful tone.
Attica Spitswicke stands a good foot above you and manages to look powerful in his gangly state. Wearing a black suit and tie, his skin is a burnt tone that looks like someone took a burlap sack, stuffed a bunch of old withered bones in it, and put its name on a birth certificate. Though you’re not one to make fun of someone’s appearance, his hooked nose completes the image in your mind of a giant buzzard – minus the general affection you feel towards buzzards.
“Hannah, I can’t believe your father let you out of the house in that get up,” Attica says in a tone that borders on the fatherly affectionate and something even less appropriate. He even puts his hand on your arm, making you almost regret wearing a strapless as you pull away.
“I’m a bit old to be concerned with what my father wants,” you retort. “As long as I don’t wind up in prison, he couldn’t care less.”
Attica seems at a loss for a response to your wit, so he resorts to taking a bite from an H’orderve. He invites you to look at a statue in the center of the room. As you weave through the crowd, following closely behind, he barely seems to notice as you quietly dip your fingers into the loose fold of his coat pocket, removing the key you knew to be there.
“Magnificent isn’t it?”
A barrier has been set up around the piece. At first glance, it seems to be made out of stone, but it seems to shimmer in the spotlights that are focused on it. People gather nearby, gazing, pointing and making murmured comments of praise and awe. You’re just trying to figure out what the heck it is. It seems to have no discernable shape and it reaches almost up to the ceiling.
“It’s certainly something,” you agree.
“I bought it dirt cheap,” Attica says with a catch in his voice that he must believe is a joking tone. “That is, if you consider forty-thousand dollars cheap.”
“Must have been a steal,” you say, ironically.
“It’s unique in this world.” Attica goes on, ignoring you. “Made of an impossible material not found anywhere on this world.”
That does sound interesting, you think. But it’s not what you’re here for. Attica has been your father’s business partner since the day you were born, and his reputation for collecting rare and valuable items is legendary. You can’t go a day without hearing about some new acquisition to Attica’s collection because he announces it to the four corners of the world as if expecting some kind of unearthly praise in response.
That’s why you accepted the invitation. Because the item you are here about is something that Attica didn’t feel the need to announce. You know through the grapevine at Dad’s office that Attica has something in a safe in his office. And now that you have the key to that office, it’s only a matter of slipping away from this high class crowd.
You finish your champagne and take a look around.
“I need to use the powder room,” you say, disguising your condescension with an upward inflection. “Where is the ladies room if you don’t mind me asking?”
Attica points it out, giving you a once over that should make you uncomfortable, but honestly just makes you want to laugh. As if he would ever have a chance with you.
You make your way for the restrooms, taking a turn down the hall and casually glancing about to make sure no one’s watching. When you are certain you are alone, you take a staircase off to the side and find yourself in the upper rooms of the mansion.
Attica’s office is at the far end of an equally decadent hallway. In no time at all, you use the key you lifted from Attica’s pocket and enter the office.
The room is large enough to play a few games of American football and have room for some rugby on the side. As you scan the office, with its mahogany furniture and state-of-the art technology, the thing that catches your eye is a 17th century portrait of some cardinal in Rome.
“Always in the obvious places,” you think out loud. After making sure the door is locked behind you, you make your way to the painting and with little effort, push it to the side to reveal the large, gray safe in the wall.
You remove your white gloves and put them aside as you pull a miniature stethoscope that a good friend had modified for your use. Placing the earpiece near the tumblers, you methodically work the dial. A rush travels up your spine as you indulge in a talent that you’ve spent years mastering.
In just a few short minutes, the last tumbler slides out of place and you whisper, “Child’s play.”
But what you find inside is not what you expected.
A man sits in the cramped space, but looks less put off than if he had been inside of an egg crate. Dressed in a tweed overcoat, with a loud, brightly colored sweater full of question marks, he looks up at you with an expression of mild annoyance.
“What took you so long?”
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