A THIEF IN THE NIGHT

A THIEF IN THE NIGHT
Short fiction from the mind of Buster Jent.
1.
I remember my final robbery. It seems like such a long time ago. I was a young buck back then. My hair was black as coal dust. My eyes were electric indigo. I thought I was a stallion. I tell you, time beats us down like an old hickory cane. Time makes broken down mules out of all us stallions, and leaves us to wonder, ‘where have the good days gone?’
What I am about to tell you, I haven’t told another living soul in nearly fifty years. I have not even shared this story with my wife, who hears me fart, greases my rusty hinges with salve, and kisses my toothless, funk ridden mouth first thing every morning. No one has ever heard the horrors of my final robbery, until now. So, lend this broken down mule your ears and your heart, and let an old crook tell you about the time he found Jesus and gave up the thieving business for good.
They say everyone is born with a special talent. Mine was burglary. I have literally stolen candy from a baby. I have stolen pies from window seals. I even went as far as to steal money from God. It was not hard at all. My partner in crime, Willy Bohansen, and myself attended church every Sunday morning. It would be safe to say we were upstanding members of the congregation. We shook hands with all the deacons. We helped seat the little old ladies. Hell, we had even been invited to Pastor Clemens’s house several times for dinner. We knew the hymns by heart. We knew every commandment. We also knew, personally, every dime donated to the offering plate. We would hover around church grounds after services, smoking a cigarette in the shady pines and waiting for the parking lot to clear. When the flock had scattered back to their nests, and we knew we were all alone, Willie and I would shimmy through a basement window we kept propped open with a Nehi bottle, make our way to the pastor’s chambers, and get the hell out of Dodge with at least ten to twenty dollars. It was a descent living at the time. Of course, being the clever criminals we were, we never took all the money. We left enough in the offering plate to suffice. This genius plan continued for quite a few weeks until- as it always does- something unexpected happened.
We were rummaging through the offering plate trying to cipher how much money we could take without making it obvious. We were nervous and paranoid. I am telling you, I would rather rob a bank than a church. There is a spirit that lingers in empty churches. It watches your every move. You feel it on the back of your neck. You catch glimpses of it crouching in the corner. We were almost ready to make our escape when we heard the front door lock jingle. Someone was about to join us. There was no time to think. Like the old saying goes, ‘study long; study wrong.’ We juked left to right for a second then decided to press our thieves’ luck and hide behind the baptismal curtain. The front door opened and our worst nightmare had come true. Pastor Clemens peered about the house like a man searching out a sneaky mouse. His eyes were questioning every crevasse. He crept with concern through crucifix shadow, as if he were expecting someone to be hiding there. I could tell by the look on Willy’s face, he felt the same way I did. We knew for certain we were jail bait. He sat alone on the front pew for a brief while wiping sweat from his forehead with a dingy handkerchief. Then the front door opened again. Imagine our surprise, when we saw standing in Sunday morning golden light, the most beautiful silhouette ever to glide across Kentucky’s blue blades of grass. Her name was Tamara Beverly. Her body fit that black dress perfectly. What was round needed to be round. What was tight needed to be tight. Our breath was gone. Tamara strolled through the church isles like Hell’s angel. Her purse bumped the devil’s rhythm on her thigh. Deep shades darkened the allure of her eyes. An ebony hat dipped her brow like a widow’s crown. She sashayed to the front pew, lit a cigarette with no concern for Jesus’ curious eyes, and sit beside the preacher in a way that would have been a little too close for comfort for the local newspaper’s lenses. Willy and I were locked on her like flies on stink.
“You know you’re going to get in trouble,” she smirked smiling like sunshine.
“Listen, Tamara,” he stifled like a cloud, “I know you need prayer, and…”
“We all need prayer,” she said puffing a cigarette that smelled like vanilla, “if I wanted to talk to God I would open my purse. I want to talk to you. That’s why I’m here.”
“Why did you and Dillon separate?”
“Because Dillon is your typical rich boy. If he can’t buy it, he don’t want it.”
“What couldn’t he buy?”
“Me.”
“So, you left him?”
“No, Henry. He left me. You see, Dillon wants everything to be perfect. He wants a perfect life so he can have a perfect wife, and he wants his perfect wife to be perfectly fertile so he can conceive his perfect son.”
“So, he wants children?”
“He wants a son. When I told him I could not bare him a son, he left me. Hopefully he’ll be able to buy himself a bastard.”
“Did Dillon leave you anything? I mean, the church’s money is tight…”
“I don’t need the church’s money. Dillon left me the house, and a small fortune I have tucked away in a vault at home…”
“Tamara, you better keep that quiet. You know money makes great bait for wolves.”
“You talk to me as if I know nothing about money. Trust me, Henry. I know what money can buy. I also know what it can’t. I know about wolves, too. I’m not worried about Dillon’s money. I’m worried about something else.”
“What?”
Tamara crushed her cigarette on the pew, and tossed the butt to the floor. She scavenged her purse for a moment, until she found a prize. She stared aimlessly at the pill bottle… contemplating. She released the pills into the pastor’s hand like hot coals.
“Lately, I’ve been taking these pills to help me sleep. Now, the only problem is I can’t sleep without them. I want you to dispose of them for me. I’m afraid I won’t have the heart to do it.”
“Sure, Tamara. Whatever you want.”
“Whatever I want,” she smirked.
Mrs. Beverly stood and walked away with no further regard for the pastor or Jesus’ questioning portrait.
“Henry,” she said just before melting into Sabbath gold, “some wolves come dressed in sheep’s clothing. Those are the ones you really have to be afraid of. Pray for me, Henry. What the hell? It couldn’t hurt.”
With that she was gone. Willie and I were able to breathe once more. The pastor trembled on the front pew like a lost lamb. Once he gained his composure, Pastor Clemens pocketed Mrs. Beverly’s pills, rescued the fallen cigarette butt, cuffed it in his hand, checked the shadow’s for peeping eyes, moved through the church, and gave Jesus one last guilty glance before locking the door and scampering away. Willy immediately fell to his knees.
“Oh, sweet Jesus,” he prayed, “we’re going to Hell.”
“We’re not going to Hell,” I scoffed, “we’re going to Mexico.”
“What do you mean, Mexico?”
“That broad’s got a fortune locked up in her vault at home. We’re gonna steal it.”
“How much money you think she’s got?”
“Well, she’s married to Dillon Beverly. I’d say she’s got at least a million.”
“A million dollars,” Willy whistled, “that’ll buy a lot of senioritis. What’s the plan, Mr. Capone?”
“I say we sneak up to her place tonight and scope it out. We’ll lay low and just check around for easy escape routes. We’ll do the usual- scope for cracked windows or an unlocked cellar door. If we do this, we’re gonna do it right. I want an easy way in and an easy way out.”
“What about the vault? How are you gonna get that sucker open?”
“That’s a good question,” I sighed, “well, if it’s one of them big vaults like they have in a bank we’re in trouble. The amount of dynamite it would take to blow that sucker open would blast the house right off its foundation. If it’s a small vault, we’re in trouble, too. With a small vault, dynamite will blast the vault and whatever is inside it to kingdom come. What I’m hoping for is a medium sized vault. If that’s the case, I’ve got just enough dynamite at home to do the trick.”
“Hot damn, a million dollars,” Willy exclaimed, “that’s a lot of money.”
“Are you in this with me or not?”
Willy scanned the church with caution until his eyes found Christ.
“I’m with you,” he stuttered, “now, let’s get out of here. All these pictures of Jesus are making me paranoid.”
2.
The Beverly estate was pretty run down, considering they were rich folk and all. Their land sat on the far end of the county, where Appalachia’s rolling hills taper off into plain. The mansion resembled a skull, with weathered gray siding revealing seasons’ worth of erosion, and dust stained windows staring out through the fields like cataract eyes. The fields, beyond Beverly place, were barren and covered over with briar patches. I do not mind saying I felt a twinge in my balls as I exited evergreen sanctuary and found myself toe first in bushes of buzzard briars. I could tell by the look on Willy’s face, he felt the same.
“You take the front yard,” I ordered like a general, “I’ll scope out the back.”
So, we tip toed like pros. The devil could not have spotted us, even if he tried. We followed every cinder block crack until we found a delta. If a window was weak, if a duct was vulnerable, you could bet your hard-earned dollar we knew about it in an instant. We were almost ready to high tail it back home, when headlights cut the scene. Oh damn, did we haul ass to the first hiding place. I took shelter beneath the rear deck. I hoped like hell Willy had been able to find a hiding place of equal value.
The headlights belonged to Bimbo Scruggs, a name Willy and I knew well. Bimbo had been the town’s sheriff for three terms. Bimbo parked his car and made haste inside. He and Tamara could not have exchanged more than a mere greeting before the backdoor opened and the two of them were standing directly above me on the rear deck. I cursed beneath my breath. Mrs. Beverly’s perfume drifted through patio cracks and danced at the summit of my nostrils. Coyotes howled somewhere, off in the distance.
“Willy,” I pleaded, “wherever you are keep your ass still.”
“You think you’re slick don’t you, Tamara?” Bimbo slurred, “you drag me outside where it’s cold enough to silence a man’s beggin’ balls.”
“Shut up, Bimbo,” Tamara ordered.
“Let me tell you somethin’, sugar. You’re gonna learn somethin’, and you’re gonna learn it quick. You don’t bite the hand that feeds you.”
“Right back at you sheriff,” Tamara chuckled, “I have money, and a politician without money is like a dog without a bone.”
“Yeah, and a rich woman without protection is like a pussy thrown to hounds.”
“That’s right,” Tamara conceded, “but, the only time a dog gets treed is when that dog crosses Dillon Beverly. Don’t underestimate the power of money.”
“I don’t, sugar britches. I don’t underestimate money at all. That’s why I’m standing here icin’ your punkin pie.”
“Dillon’s mad at me, Bimbo. He’s murdering mad.”
“You don’t understand somethin’, punkin’. Havin’ the sheriff in your pants is as good as gold. There ain’t nothin’ Dillon Beverly can do in this county. If he crosses me, he’s crossin’ the law.”
“You can bet your tin foil badge, if Dillon has it out for you, Dillon will get the best of you. He pays his attorney more in one month than you’ll see in a year.”
“Bet on this this, beautiful. I am an officer of the law. If I shoot Dillon Beverly, guess what, it was self-defense. You gotta understand something. You two ain’t fully divorced yet. If he dies right now, you get to keep all of his money.”
“I don’t want all of his money. All I will ever need, or want, is locked up inside that vault. All I want, from you, is protection. If Dillon crosses the county line, I want to be the very first one to know.”
“Why is he so mad at you?”
“Divorce business. That’s all.”
“Okay, I’ll play puppet. I’ll guard the county line like Saint Peter. If he comes rollin’ in, you’ll know about it before the crows. But, you realize this service is gonna cost you.”
“Everything does, Bimbo. Everything does. But, just keep in mind, a wise politician never bites the hand that feeds him.”
“Well,” he slurred taking her in his arms, “I’m a lover, not a biter. Why don’t we go inside and have a drink?”
“Okay,” she surrendered, “but, there’s one more thing. Tomorrow I have to go to Louisville. I have very important business to take care of. I need you to take me. I don’t trust a taxi. Dillon is too powerful. I need you to take me, Bimbo. If you do, I promise it will yield major fruit for your next campaign. Catch my drift?”
“I catch your drift, punkin’. Listen, if I can’t take you, one of my deputies will. How does that sound?”
“Like money in the bank, sugar. Be here at eight o’clock sharp. Now, let’s go inside and relax.”
Two shadows melted into one. Their silhouettes waxed intimate just inches above my head. I don’t mind saying I was a tad jealous. Bimbo Scruggs was a worthless wino, but he carried some weight. I figured, ‘what the hell?’ If I can’t have her body, I’ll settle for her money. Willy slithered from somewhere in the darkness like a sly serpent.
“We gotta get the hell outta here,” he proclaimed, “for God’s sake, that’s the sheriff!”
“I know, Willy. Ice your panties, okay? I’d say he’s gonna be occupied for at least the next hour.”
“Well, I’m glad to know you’re relaxed,” he bitched, “me personally, I would rather avoid conflict with the law at all costs.”
“Willy, we know all we are ever gonna need to know for the rest of our lives. Come eight-thirty tomorrow morning we’re gonna be rubbin’ elbows with the Rockefellers.”
“What are you talkin’ about?”
“Tomorrow morning, at eight o’clock, Tamara Beverly is heading out for Louisville, and the sheriff is gonna be the one taking her. It’s a good four-hour drive one-way to Louisville. That leaves us eight hours to break in, crack the vault, and make like bats outta hell toward Mexico, before that bitch even knows what hit her. Tomorrow morning, brother, we’re never gonna go hungry again.”
“What about the law?” Willy sassed, “you think there won’t be a deputy guarding these grounds while the sheriff and his tasty pastry are outta town?”
“If the law crosses us, we’re gonna have to shoot ‘em. You know that don’t you?”
“Ah damn,” he cried, “this is too big for our britches!”
“Hey,” I hushed, “you’re either in this all the way, or you’re not in this at all!”
“I’m in it with you,” he said, “if I gotta pull the trigger to keep form going to jail, so be it. But, I’d rather not do that. So, let’s hear the master plan, my man.”
“Tomorrow mornin’, five o’clock sharp,” I instructed, “you’re gonna be at my house with a mess of sausage and biscuits. I’ll tote enough dynamite to do the job. We’re gonna steal a couple pillow cases off my mama. We’ll cut slits in ‘em and use ‘em as masks. We gonna cover our faces and tip toe through the hills to this house. Bring your pistol and your runnin’ shoes, brother.”
“Alright,” he chuckled, “you talk a big talk. Tomorrow we’ll see if you walk the walk.”
“I can walk a rich man’s walk,” I answered with authority, “Tomorrow our whole lives will change forever.”


3.
And, they did. Our lives changed. That day of infamy changed Willy into a coal miner and me into a salesman. We found Jesus. We found a little more, too. The morning started as planned. Willy arrived with twilight totting biscuits and sausage. Oh yeah, and his pistol. The dynamite was loaded and ready to roll. The pillowcases were carefully tailored. We smoked a breakfast cigarette and made off through the hills. Absolutely everything was perfect… except one thing.
We splashed the creeks. We flattened the peeks. We made our way to the Beverly estate through the backdoor. The driveway was empty. The house quivered like a vulnerable hen nesting a golden egg. It was too perfect. I knew it immediately.
There were no easy entrances, but that was okay. There was no one around for a million miles. I shattered the back window with a sand rock. The door was unlocked and we were inside before you could say Jesse James. The first thing I noticed was an odd sound. It was barely audible, yet so defined. Something upstairs was rolling in and out of hardwood floor cracks.
“You check here downstairs,” I ordered, “I’ll check upstairs.”
Willy followed orders. He scurried through every parlor checking the home like a hungry rat. I shuffled upstairs. Suddenly, I was no longer concerned with money. Something far more powerful was going on, and I wanted to somehow touch the evident madness.
The sound grew louder with each ascending stair. Finally, at the top of the staircase, near the end of the second story hall, the sound grew to a crescendo, and I knew I had struck gold. Something was rolling around and around, tapping floorboards like angry knuckles. A bedroom door sat slightly cracked. I held my breath and pushed the door open. Tamara Beverly’s naked body dangled from a noose. Blood dripped from between her legs, where it formed a puddle on the floor. Her bedroom window was open. A devilish breeze blew Hell’s breath through the mansion. Beneath her outstretched toes an empty pill bottle circled floorboard cracks. Instantly I dashed downstairs to warn Willy of danger. Once downstairs, I weaved my way from room to dusty room. Willy was nowhere to be seen. Finally, I found him at the far corner of the house. He had removed his pillowcase mask. He stood silent before a vault. The vault door was open. White light flushed his features. Tears streamed. His mouth hung open as he silently shrieked. He turned to greet me. The fear on his face both repelled and attracted me at the same time. I joined his side, after all, he was my partner in crime. I do not know if I can put what we saw into words. Before us was an open vault. Inside were many shelves custom made for holding money. But, there was no money. That vault was void of currency of any denomination. In the center of the vault sat a table, which I imagine was once used for counting and separating bills. On the table lay a tiny fetus, no bigger than a chipmunk. Blood pitter-pattered on the marble floor. I hit my knees in tears. Willy choked back vomit. The baby would have been a girl.
My friends, we left that house that day with our pockets as empty as they had been when we arrived there. I tell you, when you make a living out of doing wrong, God gets angry. Sometimes he whispers. Sometimes he lets out a yell. I heard what he was saying that morning. I have no idea, to this day, who is responsible for the death of that baby and her mother. I suppose only the devil and God knows. I know this. My ideas of thievery changed forever. I knew the time had come to start living the right way. Because, sometimes death can play a cheating hand and steal a sinner’s soul like a thief in the night.