Chapter Text
“State your name for the record.”
“David. Rose? David Rose.”
“Thank you. The purpose of this parole hearing is to determine whether you are likely to break the law again. This was your first conviction, but you've been implicated in a dozen other schemes and frauds. What can you tell us about them?”
“I mean, I can’t, because all those are implications? And I’ve been — I mean lots of things get implied about you, as an art dealer, I can tell you. Yeah. And things have been implied about me for — well. Gosh. Long time. So.”
“We're trying to find out if there was a reason for committing this crime or just a reason you got caught this time.”
“Oh, well this crime, the one I was charged with, was — um, well, my husband had left me. I was upset. Got into a real… self-destructive pattern, that’s the term. And when Sebastien—“
“Mr. Rose, Sebastien Raine was not convicted of the theft, or the insurance fraud. Nor was he even charged.”
“Oh, I’m not blaming him, god! No. Part of the self-work I’ve been doing in here is, you know, letting go of that…blaming. But what I was going to say was, when he came to me with an opportunity, I misused it, yeah. A real shame. I regret it, just… so much.”
“A condition of your parole, Mr. Rose, is that you avoid contact with people who might tempt you back into those self-destructive patterns. For you, this includes a significant portion of your family and social circle. Do you think you can manage that?”
“I mean, one of the best parts about being here was that I didn’t see my family, you know? If you check my visitation logs you’ll notice they did not come to see me, either. So no, I think that will a requirement I’ll be happy to, um. Fulfill. Yes.”
“Mr. Rose, what do you think you would do if released?”
*
Downtown Auburn is bleak in any context, not least because there isn’t really a downtown. There’s a Wegmans, a Dunkin’ Donuts, and an assortment of vacant shop windows, some of them still sporting dusty “Save Copper John’s Johnson!” placards. David wanders up Genesee; he has a dead cellphone in his pocket, US$45 and a toonie in his wallet. He keeps heading vaguely northeast until he comes across what he’s looking for.
An hour and a half later he’s driving his new used Outback off the auto lot and onto Route 5. The dealer had been very sweet about throwing in the charger for free, although he probably doesn’t realize yet that David also has his phone, credit card and TimCard.
He dials Stevie’s number, hanging up after the third ring, calling back and hanging up after the first. Before he can hit redial, the phone rings back.
“So would you like a ‘Congratulations On Your Parole’ sheet cake or should I just get some of that sweet tea vodka?” Stevie asks.
David puts her on speaker, dropping the phone into a cupholder. “I believe I merit both, thank you very much? But maybe not the vodka, there was this potato moonshine still my cellmate tried to pull off in the toilet and I’m still having flashbacks.”
Stevie laughs, the sound filling the car, and David takes a deep breath full of it. “I’m at the Apothecary,” she says. “You coming?”
“I’m driving a Subaru,” he tells her, because no one else is ever going to hear about this shame but he has to share his burdens with someone. “I’ll be there whenever.”
“Key’s in the same place,” she says, and hangs up.
*
David called it the Apothecary. Stevie never asked why, mostly because she knew he wanted her to. From the street it looks like another warehouse that’s escaped gentrification by the skin of its teeth. Inside it’s all varnished floors and wood molding, light filtering in from the high windows, a huge central room that probably could’ve been a super snazzy dance club if David was a completely different human being. David used to joke that it was his “branded immersive experience:” it was where he lived, but it enfolded everyone who came through its doors. So long as they didn’t spill anything.
When David went upstate, he left a lot of things behind: his stupid clothes, his gallery in SoHo, a half-dozen or so paintings that were too hot to sell. And the Apothecary.
He left a lot of people behind, too, but Stevie’s always been better with things.
She kept the Apothecary and the paintings and the clothes, using them when she needed; David’s sweaters are ugly as fuck but really comfortable, the paintings come in handy when she needs to impress a fence with what they can’t have, and the Apothecary had been home base for so long that she’d almost forgotten who it was who used to joke about it being called “home base.” She’s always been better with things.
“I hate what you’ve done with the place,” David says, walking in with his head on a swivel. “Very mid-90s depression grunge.”
“We can’t all afford Vermeers over the mantlepiece,” Stevie says, getting up from the couch. He looks pretty much the same, five years on the inside not noticeably different from five years on the outside. His hugs are still suffocating. “I need to breathe,” she reminds him.
“Do you, though?” He lets her go and squints down at her, his lips pursed. “So. You busy?”
She sighs and heads for for the whiskey. “Really, David?”
“What? I’m asking.”
“You’ve been out for five minutes.”
“Excuse me, I’ve been out for eight hours. And it’s a foolproof plan.”
“Says the fool.” She pours two glasses out, holding them firmly when he reaches for one. “This is for non-fool ex-felons only,” she tells him, and takes a sip out of both glasses.
“Do you want to hear it or not? I came to you first.”
“How much was that because I signed you up for that cookie of the month club?”
David doesn’t answer, which is an answer. He sits on her couch and makes a face. “This is hideous, by the way. We’re getting rid of all of this. Where’s all my stuff?”
“You mean the furniture ‘pieces’ you kept roped off everywhere? I sold them. I needed money. And a place to sit down,” she adds at his outraged expression.
“And I needed my Louis XV accotoirs,” David protests, but he’s wriggling into the Pier One sofa with a resentful huff.
“I left the important stuff up in a room upstairs,” she assures him. “The Gucci and whatever.”
“How are we friends?”
“Because I have endless supplies of booze,” she answers, sitting next to him and handing him a glass, “And you have a plan.”
He takes it and clinks with her. “To fools like us,” he says, and downs it in one gulp.
*
The Metropolitan Museum of Art is 2,198,576 square feet, a massive quarter-mile conglomeration of a dozen or so buildings that have been absorbed into its mass over the century and a half the Met has been in existence. It boasts the most sophisticated security system in the world; it has never been successfully robbed, though many have tried.
And failed.
*
“So you want to steal from the most secure museum in the world on the day when security is at its maximum,” Stevie says, pouring herself another shot. She looks good; her hair’s longer and back to its natural brown-black, and she’s still not-really-rocking the flannel plaid look of 1995. Her redecoration of the Apothecary shouldn’t really be a surprise, considering.
“That’s a very cynical way of putting it,” he says, refocusing. “Look, does the Met Gala get a lot of extra security? Yes. Does it get a lot of extra surveillance? Also yes. And extra cameras and lights and staff—“
“This is not giving me more confidence in the foolproofness of your plan,” Stevie tells him.
“But,” David says, trying to convey with the plosives that he means serious business, “These extra measures also put extra strain on the Met’s power grid. Meaning that they bring in generators specifically for the Gala.”
“And?”
“And,” he continues, “They don’t use them for the Gala. They use them for the rest of the museum. For one night only, the entire Met depends on eleven generators.”
“Eleven.”
“Eleven. And guess who worked very hard to get his electrician’s license while in the slammer?”
“David Axl Rose—“
“That’s not my name—“
“But it is funny,” she reminds him. “So your plan is to knock out the generators, sneak into the museum using the Gala as a cover, and steal…what, exactly? The Vermeer isn’t even there.”
“I know exactly where it is, thank you,” David says, probably sharper than he should. She doesn’t say anything; she never has, not about that. He keeps going, “It doesn’t matter what we steal. Stealing is the easy part.”
“There’s an easy part, that’s good to know.” She leans back into the cushions. It really is a comfortable couch; that doesn’t make up for the fact that there’s a couch in the Apothecary, when before there was a Victorian roundabout conversation chair, but it’s a mitigating factor. He lies down, experimental, his feet draped over the arm. “So this plan,” Stevie continues, as David settles his head in her lap, “It would have nothing to do with who’s hosting the Gala, right?”
Stevie’s fingers sink into his hair. She’s the most beautiful woman he knows; she always will be, probably. “And who might that be?” he asks, innocent as he can manage while getting the first scalp massage in five years and also knowing that she’s totally wise to him. But it’s important to play along.
“Sebastien Raine,” she says, “Among others. Don’t get me wrong, I love screwing over an ex as much as the next girl, but…” She tugs a little bit, warning. “He’s not any less dangerous now, just because he’s more legit.”
“I’m kind of counting on that,” David admits.
“So are we doing this for payback with bonus cash, or are we doing this for cash and bonus payback? Not that it changes my answer.”
“And what’s the answer?” He’s holding his breath, because even after five years he still needs her to say yes; he still needs her looking for the holes he can’t see, the angles he’s not smart enough to cover. But more importantly than needing her, he wants her.
She laughs and covers his face with a pillow, yelping when his flailing spills her whisky all over the couch.
“We’ll need a dozen guys at least,” she says, after they’ve found a towel, “And at least that many different cons. When does this thing start?”
“Three months. The first Monday in May, which I can’t believe you’ve been my friend for this long and don’t know that.”
“I knew who was hosting the fucking thing, that’s got to get me some points.”
“That’s just because you’ve got Google Alerts set for Sebastien, like any good friend would have.” David frowns, dabbing at his sweater. “Is Google Alerts still around?”
“Yep. Sadly, Google Reader is dead.”
“Well, as long as Vine still exists.” He catches sight of her expression and sighs. “Just put me back in solitary, it’d be kinder.”
“So where will we get the money? Because this is not going to be cheap.”
“I still have friends,” David reminds her, then amends: “You still have friends.”
“Friends with this kind of cash and crazy enough to go for this?” She smiles. “You know what, I think I know just the guy.”
*
“I have to say, this has got to be one of the very stupidest ideas I’ve come across in quite a while!” Ray says, handing out the tea. In business it’s important to be honest with one’s colleagues, especially colleagues who are also good friends who have come out all the way to Newark just to visit. “But David,” he adds, because perhaps this is too much honesty, “It is so good to see you — you are looking very well! I don’t know why, I just assumed you’d die in prison. But here you are! Looking fit!”
David smiles. He really is still so charming. “Well, who knows what the future holds.”
“Truly, Stevie, David, I am so flattered that you would come to me for your nefarious dealings. It’s quite like old times! And I cannot deny that I could ‘bank roll’ this,” he has to put his tea down to make his quotation marks, “With very little difficulty.”
“Yes,” says David, leaning forward with a bright smile. “Stevie was telling me on the way over that your business…es? Are doing very well.”
Ray beams. Such a thoughtful young man, to pretend to be interested! “They are! Thank you so much for asking. It is very appreciated. But David, as much as prison clearly agreed with you, I do not think this plan is very well thought out!”
“It’s never been tried,” David starts, “And—“
“Oh, David. So young! So full of ideas! So very completely out of your mind! I can assure you that it has indeed been tried! But no one has been successful in over forty years, and there are good reasons for that! They have cameras and guards and lasers and sensors and all manner of ‘high-powered’—“ he puts his tea down again— “Anti-theft measures. Not to mention, if you are planning to rob it that evening, there will be all manner of extra security! And in this day and age, getting arrested is perhaps preferable to getting shot by an overzealous police officer.” Both David and Stevie look crestfallen, and Ray is not heartless. “I admire your… what’s the term? Gumption? I admire it. But this will never work.”
“You’re absolutely right,” David sighs. “I mean really, Ray, thank God for you, because — I don’t know, I just saw my opportunity to get back at Sebastien and maybe—“
Ray chokes on his tea, which is a shame, because it really is excellent. “Sebastien?” he repeats. Perhaps he hadn’t heard correctly. “As in Sebastien Raine?”
Stevie blinks, her eyes wide. “Ray, do you know him?”
He takes a deep breath. “Sebastien Raine was responsible for my one and only business — I don’t like to use the word failure, because all a failure is is a success that has turned a bit inside-out.”
“Mmm,” says David, taking another sip of tea. “He has a real gift for turning people inside-out.”
“How is he involved in this?” Ray demands.
“He’s one of the hosts of the Gala,” Stevie informs him. “And whatever happens that night, he’ll be heavily involved.”
They are quite the pair — always had been. He can remember the first time Stevie and David tried to swindle him; such memories! “I see what it is you are doing,” he warns them.
Stevie shakes her head in shocked negation; David just smiles. “We’re not doing anything, Ray. Just talking. We’d like to talk more, but if you really don’t think this is worth a try—“
“Sit, sit sit sit sit,” Ray urges, waving them back down. It’s as though they’re back in Ontario all over again, delightful. “All right. I still think this is entirely a crazypants idea.”
“Which is why we’ll need a crew as crazypants as we are,” Stevie says, reaching for a scone.
Ray grabs the tray and holds it out for her. “Who do you have in mind?”
*
Twyla answers on the first ring. “What is it?” she asks, sounding breathless.
Stevie hesitates. It doesn’t sound like the usual “what is it” that people answer the phones with. She sounds excited. “Hi?” she tries.
“Hi, sorry! Hi, Stevie, how are you?” Behind her voice is a slew of other voices. “I’m sorry, I was just — what’s the job? You know what, doesn’t matter, I’m in. Oh, dear, I’ve got to—“ and the phone gives that cheerful beep when someone’s hung up on you. Stevie kind of misses the finality of a receiver being clanged in your ear like when she was a kid.
“Do we have a greaseman?” David frowns around his pad thai. “Greasewoman,” he corrects.
“I…think so?”
“Great. Okay. Surveillance?”
“Ronnie Lee.”
“Right, but she hates me.”
“She hates everyone.”
“She doesn’t hate you.”
“Which is why she’ll do the job. Probably.”
“Probably?”
“I’m gonna need to ask her first.”
David makes a shooing gesture with his chopsticks.
*
“Hank’s practice got cancelled,” Karen shouts down the stairs, “Can you pick him up? I’ve got that thing in Wappinger Falls that’ll probably run over.”
Ronnie bites down on her cheeks because the kids don’t need to see her laughing at “Wappinger Falls.” “Honey,” she yells back, “You know I put in the intercom for a reason?”
“But I can’t yell I LOVE YOU REALLY LOUDLY over the intercom,” Karen bellows, and Gwennie starts giggling so hard a Cheerio somehow gets stuck up her nose, which Jasmine declares “super gross” and now the day’s really started.
She almost doesn’t hear her cell phone: the perimeter sensor’s gone off. Ronnie flicks through the cameras and sees a tiny white woman making herself comfortable on a lawn chair in the garage. “Hank, help your sister out,” she orders, and gets her ass out there.
Stevie waves at her as she comes down the garage steps. “This place is nice,” she says. “I remember thinking you guys were crazy moving up here but,” and she makes an “OK” sign.
Ronnie crosses her arms. “I’m gonna give you points for being cute,” she admits, “But whatever it is—“
“Hey, what’s with all the security anyhow?” Stevie says, propping her feet up on the riding lawnmower. “I mean, you kept saying on the phone how you were ‘out’ and not interested and all that stuff, but I counted nine cameras along the perimeter. Kinda paranoid there, Ronnie.”
There are ten cameras, but Ronnie’s not about to correct her. “It’s a busy street and I’ve got three kids.”
“Oh, well in that case.”
Stevie’s good at this; Maureen taught her and she’s gotten better since then. “So are you gonna tell me what this is so I can say no, or are you planning on moving in?”
“David’s got an idea for a thing,” she says, and waits.
Which is probably a good thing. “David? David Rose. Is it an idea for breaking out of prison?”
“He’s out. Did his five years like a good boy, ready to be a productive member of society.”
“Yeah, I remember what his productive member used to get up to.”
Actual annoyance flashes across Stevie’s face; the Roses have always been a weird spot for her, who knows why. “That was a long time ago,” she snaps. “He changed before he ever went up.”
She’s right, but Ronnie’s not about to admit it. “So what’s the idea. Just so we can hurry this along, I’ve gotta take the kids to school in ten minutes.”
Stevie smiles, lacing her fingers together behind her head. “You ever heard of the Met Gala?”
*
“Ronnie’s in,” Stevie says as she comes through the door. “We just have to—“
David looks up from where he’s sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table. Opposite him is Twyla, looking perky as ever, a deck of cards in her hands.
“Oh god.” She hopes that was quiet enough for Twyla not to hear. “Playing a two-person game of solitaire?” she asks, louder.
“Boys don’t like funny girls,” David says, waving her off. She ignores that — he’s enough evidence against it — and plops down on the couch behind him. There’s a few cards on the table already; Twyla’s got that little furrow between her eyebrows that means she’s either trying real hard or working up some impressive bullshit, it’s never been clear which. She pulls out a card and lays it in some sort of a pattern: a woman dressed in orange with a blindfold on, and a bunch of sticks around her. David leans in, interest all down his spine.
“Eight of swords — imprisonment.” She looks up at David. “Oh, right! Because you were—“
“Yes thank you,” he says, waving his hands.
“The next card is the present,” she says, laying it down. “Hmm.”
It’s a picture of two dudes with cups and a weird lion wing thing floating above them. “This is really helpful,” Stevie mutters in David’s ear.
“Forgive me for wanting to use everyone’s talents to the fullest,” he hisses back at her. “So Ronnie’s in?”
“Yep.” She refrains from explaining exactly what she had to promise in order to get her, because David’s not going to appreciate knowing that Ronnie can and probably will cut his comm whenever he gets too annoying. “What about Munitions. Jake’s available.”
“Jake’s always available,” David mutters. “What he isn’t is reliable. Or, how to put it, discreet?”
“Fair enough.”
“I can’t believe I’m about to suggest this,” David says, as Twyla mutters over another card, “But what about Jocelyn?”
“Jocelyn comes with Roland,” Stevie reminds him.
“I know, I know — although, how has that guy not blown up yet — but she’s good. And can probably wrangle him.”
“The past thirty years would indicate otherwise, but I’ll go ask.”
“And this,” Twyla says, laying down another card, “Represents your hopes and fears. The Lovers, which means—“
David thunks his head on the table. “Okay, we’re done! Thank you!”
*
“You’ve got the wrong guy, I swear,” Roland says to the cop leading him — not very gently — away from the bank toward the squadron of police cars. Is that what it is, a squadron? He just likes the word. Sounds like something out of Law & Order.
“Mr. Schitt, you have the right to remain—“
“I didn’t do anything,” Roland asserts. He hadn’t had a chance to do anything, because they’d showed up before he got to the plunger, but that’s got to count for something.
“Yeah, I’m sure you were just there making a deposit,” grumbles the cop, and shoves him into the nearest car. He doesn’t even put a hand on his head, which seems reckless, and Roland’s not even settled in before there’s an all-too-familiar banging on the roof and they’re pulling out into traffic.
“Hey,” he says, trying to get a look at the driver. She’s young, sort of pretty, with something weirdly familiar about her. “Have you arrested me before?”
She glances back. “Roland, it’s Stevie. Budd? You used to change my diapers and taught me how to pick locks? We saw each other last Thanksgiving?”
Now that she says it, he recognizes her. “Stevie! How’re things! Are you — you’re not actually a cop, now, are you?” He wouldn’t dream of ever getting in the way of someone else’s dreams, but it doesn’t feel like the right line of work for her.
“Yes, Roland, I’m actually a cop.” She slows down at a corner and the passenger door opens; Joss slips in. “Look what I picked up at the scene of the crime,” Stevie says to her.
“Rollie, we’ve really gotta work on your pacing,” Joss sighs.
“I’ve got us train tickets to New York,” Stevie says. “Figured you guys might want to clear out of town for a bit.”
“We just have to swing by Wrigleyville first,” says Roland.
“What’s in Wrigleyville?”
Honestly, it’s like she doesn’t even keep up with the group chat. “Rollie Junior? Our little miracle?”
“Your little — okay,” Stevie says, and glances at Jocelyn. “So you now come with two Rolands, is what I’m hearing.” And they peel off into the cold Chicago night.
*
David surveys the board. “Okay. It’s looking good.” He sounds grudging; Stevie rolls her eyes.
“We still need a Barrington,” she says, tapping the relevant Post-It. “Otherwise that handoff isn’t going to work.”
He nods. “What about Carl?”
“Dead.”
“Holy shit. When? How?”
“Mmm, best not to ask,” she says, because that whole episode had been gross.
“Eesh. Okay.” David makes a face. “What about… ugh. Wendy?”
Stevie understands the face. “Retired in Cabo, thank God. But I heard she was training somebody. A kid she knows, or gave birth to, something?”
“I see,” David says, and looks like he does. “Call her and ask—“
“I just got back from O’Hare,” she says, and goes to collapse on the couch. Her feet hurt. “And I had to go to Chappaqua, which is worse. You call.”
David grumbles and goes hunting for his sunglasses.
*
The subway’s one of the worst places for a lift; everyone is in that weird space where you’re trying to ignore everyone and pay attention to everything, which means a higher chance of getting caught. But rush hour means crowding in and bumping up against everyone else, and there aren’t a whole lot of men who mind when a cute girl presses against them.
Mandy scores a wallet from some old Tostitos-smelling guy and gets off at Christopher Street; Murray’s is nearby and Michael’s probably there to give her free Humboldt Fog.
She’s heading up Bleeker when someone clears his throat, loudly, behind her. “That was a nice lift.”
Mandy spins around; a tall guy with ugly sunglasses and some really loud pants is looking at her, his head cocked. “Mr. Rose?” she realizes after a second.
He smiles. “I’m reluctant to congratulate Wendy on much of anything, honestly? But that was very good.”
“I thought you were in—“ there are people around, so she probably shouldn’t, but he’s talking about her technique in public so maybe this is just one of those “and they were roommates” conversations that happen in New York. “Upstate?”
“And I thought you’d be in school,” Mr. Rose says, lowering his sunglasses enough to squint at her. “Education is the passport to the future.”
“I’m getting my GED,” she says, defensive.
The last time she’d seen him had been at one of Wendy’s safe houses after some job she and Dad were doing had gone south; Mr. Rose had been her babysitter-slash-bodyguard for the better part of a week, holed up in a 180-square-foot room with a couple of twin mattresses on the floor and a bathtub in the kitchen. She’d started her first period the second night; Mr. Rose had given her his sweater and snuck out to get her pads and tampons and chocolate, coming back an hour later than he’d promised with what he’d described as a “light gunshot graze.” When he’d got put away a few months after, she’d gotten into some trouble trying to mail him blueprints of the Auburn penitentiary.
“Of course you are.” He readjusts his sunglasses and takes her arm. “We going to Murray’s? I’m dying for some Mimolette.”
*
“And that’s eight. We should be fine with that.”
Stevie doesn’t say anything, because she doesn’t need to say anything.
“You think we need one more?”
She continues not to say anything.
“You think we need two more?”
She pops her gum, waits him out.
“You think we need three — no. No.”
She takes a deep breath and lets it out.
“They’ll screw everything up. That’s what they do. That’s their gift, collectively and individually.”
She props her chin on her hand and stares at him.
“Ugh. This is — fine. Fine. But when I get arrested again I’m taking you down with me. As payback for this.”
*
The doorbell rings halfway through dinner, right as Mr. Rose is starting to talk about allocations again. He keeps right on going, and a few seconds later it rings again.
“Adelina!” Mrs. Rose bellows, and Ted tries not to jump but she’s got pipes on her.
“You gave her the night off, remember?” Alexis says, stabbing at her salad with probably more violence than it merits. Wednesday night dinners at the Roses’ house out in Eastport has apparently been going on for years, way longer than Ted’s been involved in them, but half the time Alexis doesn’t even seem to want to be there. He suggested once that they just…not go, anymore, if it made her so miserable; she laughed for a solid minute and kissed him. “You are so funny, like a little stand-up comedian marshmallow,” she cooed, and that was the last time they talked about it.
The doorbell rings again. “Well then what are we supposed to do?” Mrs. Rose demands. “I’m hardly dressed to entertain strangers at this hour.”
The hour is eight-thirty. Ted hopes he doesn’t look too eager as he gets up. “I’ll get it,” he offers.
“You’ve been together almost three years,” he hears Mrs. Rose saying as he slips out of the dining room and into the foyer, “Isn’t it time he stops being quite so sycophantic, dear?”
“Mom,” Alexis hisses. He loves a lot of things about her, even stuff most people would probably not find all that lovable, but one of the things he loves best is that she’s pretty much always ready to fight anyone, any time, who says anything mean about him. Which is kind of a good thing, honestly, because as a vet in New York you get a lot of angry pet owners who make more in a day than he makes in a year, and having an assistant-slash-wife who’s ready to throw down at a moment’s notice is nice, even though he’s had to pump the brakes on most of her preferred methods of throwing down.
He opens the door to a tall guy with black hair and thick eyebrows, almost as startling as Mr. Rose’s; he’s holding a bottle of wine. “Um,” he says.
“Can I help you?” Ted tries. The guy looks weirdly familiar.
“I’m beginning to doubt it,” the guy says. “I’m — did the Roses move out, or die horribly, or something?”
“Oh! No — I’m Ted, Alexis’s husband.” He reaches out to shake the guy’s hand.
“Husband? Wow, okay. Well, I’m David. Alexis’s brother.” His grip is just a little tight.
Ted swallows. “Oh,” he says. His voice goes pretty high. “Nice to, uh. Meet you.”
“Isn’t it, though?” He pushes past him and into the house, leaving Ted to shut the door behind him and maybe also pre-dial 911 just in case. The stories they’ve told about David didn’t make him sound like he’d try to shoot somebody, but Ted’s experience with felons is kind of limited.
By the time he scoots back to the dining room, there’s already a full-on screaming fight going on, which Ted can’t really follow much of because literally all four of them are shouting at the exact same time. “Okay, guys?” he tries, and gets nowhere; Alexis has a butterknife and is waving it in her brother’s face, while Mrs. Rose is gulping down the rest of her glass while also somehow yelling at her husband, who’s protesting loudly right back. “Guys, guys!” he tries again, and when that doesn’t work he gets out his little parakeet whistle and blows hard.
All four of them turn on him in identical outrage, and Ted’s got a minute wondering how he didn’t realize who David was immediately. “Okay, maybe if we all just sit down—“
“Who are you, again?” David demands, which is harsh but fair.
“He’s my husband,” Alexis hisses. “As in the guy who married me after I told him the truth about us? I mean, what kind of person marries someone else and hides that kind of thing, David?”
“Okay, you’re making us sound like vampires or elves or something,” David snaps. “We’re just criminals, we’re not… werewolves.”
“We’re not criminals, David,” Mrs. Rose says. “Your father and I — and Alexis — have never been caught.”
“Oh my god, that’s not how it — this is why I didn’t want to come here! The rest of my life it’s going to be about the one time I made a mistake—“
“Getting thrown in prison for five years isn’t really a mistake, David,” says Mr. Rose, doing his best I’m-not-mad-I’m-just-disappointed impression. “That’s more of a choice.”
“Which you said was a mistake!”
“And you didn’t listen to me, and look what happened!”
“Are we seriously still on this! It’s been five years, I think my prison sentence has taught me the error of my ways!”
“So what is it you want our help with, then?” Alexis says. She’s still scrunched in on herself, her jaw set. Ted wants to go over to her but he’s out of place as it is; he puts his whistle away and tries not to get in the way.
David looks around at them, even at Ted. “Ugh,” he says, finally, and sits in Alexis’s seat, setting the bottle on the table with a thunk. “Somebody get me a bottle opener.”
They don’t really stop shouting, per se, for the rest of the meal. Ted gives Alexis his seat and focuses on clearing the place settings as the food disappears, because he’s not about to trust any of these guys with cutlery or flatware that they can break over each other’s heads. Nobody seems to notice, which is kind of insulting but also kind of — not satisfying, exactly, but he doesn’t really mind.
He’s elbow-deep in suds at the sink when David comes in, his arms crossed the same way Alexis does when she’s sad and trying to pretend she’s annoyed instead. “They kicked me out to discuss amongst themselves,” he explains, a fake smile that’s even less convincing than Alexis’s. How either of them are con artists is kind of beyond him, with faces that easy to read. Maybe when you’re on the job it’s different.
“You want to dry?” he offers.
Which is how Ted ends up doing the dishes with an ex-felon (“no, I didn’t break out, this isn’t Out of Sight,”) and hearing all about this heist idea, which sounds pretty neat.
“‘Neat’ isn’t quite the descriptor we’re going for,” David mutters, wiping off a platter with a scowl on his face.
“I just meant, you know, vengeance and profit seems like a pretty good twofer,” Ted explains. The baked ziti is really stuck on there, and he spends a few minutes scrubbing. When he finally gets it cleaned and rinsed, he hands it off; David is watching him. “Do I have sauce on my face?”
David shakes his head and takes the dish. “Alexis says you’re a vet?” he says instead.
“Yup. Got a degree and everything.”
“And you married a con artist who hates animals.”
Ted shrugs. His parents — hell, most of his friends — had said the same thing. “We’re not exactly the ‘purr-fect’ match,” he admits, “But she’s… she makes things brighter, you know? I’ve never met anyone who sees the world the way she does.”
“Clearly you’ve been hanging out with the right crowd,” David mutters. He glances over at the door to the dining room; the voices are still going, loud but indistinct. “They’re never going to — this was such a waste of time.”
He looks miserable, and like he’s trying not to look miserable. “For what it’s worth, I think it’s a great idea.”
“A ‘neat’ idea, is the term I believe you used,” David says, smiling just a little bit. “But Alexis was pretty firm on you not getting involved, so your moral support is nice but ultimately not that useful. No offense,” he adds, not sounding like he’s all that concerned about offending him.
Ted’s a little worried about how fond he is of this guy already. The Rose family’s got that effect on people, he’s been told: you get involved with one of them and suddenly the whole bickering cat-clawed mess is in your lap, whether you want them there or not. “They’re gonna help you,” he tells him. “I mean, you’ve known them longer than me, obviously. But I’ve been here for the past three years. And there’s not a day goes by that Alexis doesn’t mention you.”
“How often is it something like ‘my idiot brother who got himself incarcerated’?” David asks, with a little too much insight.
“The point is,” Ted says hurriedly, “That, like, ninety percent of the reason they were so mad at you in the first place is because you refused to let them help last time. Maybe this can be like, I don’t know. A chance for healing.”
David squints at him. “Where the fuck did Alexis find you?” he demands.
“Smoothies brought us together,” Ted tells him, and hands him another plate.
*
First meet-up with the whole crew is always exciting. Twyla’s done — gosh, tons of these, probably more than she can reliably count, especially after that time with the induced amnesia and stuff — and every time it’s a super fun time. She even brought cookies.
Most people she already knows, from other jobs or just from the Apothecary, back when it was David’s home base. Ronnie and Jocelyn have gotten her out of more scrapes than she can remember, and she’s done a half dozen jobs with one Rose or another over the years. And Ray’s practically an institution, although she’s only really met him once, way back in 2011 when he and David were doing that thing in Belize. That had been a hoot and a half.
The only person she doesn’t recognize is a little blonde girl sitting in the corner, drinking some Starbucks thing that’s about as big as her head. Stevie said something about getting a kid for the Barrington, but this is a kid kid. “Hi,” Twyla says, sitting next to her. “I’m Twyla.”
“Um, Mandy. Nice to meet you.” She clutches harder at her drink.
“Is this your first job?”
“No,” says Mandy, then immediately says, “I mean, yes. I’ve done stuff before. Like, a lot. But um, this is my first—“
“It’s her first group work,” David says, coming up with a plateful of cookies and munching on one already. “She’ll be great.”
Mandy looks like she’s going to throw up. “Yeah, for sure!” Twyla chirps, and gets a stink-eye from David.
Stevie clears her throat. “Okay, everyone got drinks? So let me say first off, nobody’s on the hook yet. What we’re doing here is going to make a lot of money, but there’s a nonzero chance that somebody’s going to get arrested, shot,” Stevie sighs and gestures at Twyla, “Or possibly drowned.”
Twyla’s about to defend herself — it’s not her fault that’s what the reading had indicated! — but Stevie keeps going. “So if that’s not your thing, head out now and we’ll see you at the next Fourth of July party, no questions asked, okay?”
It’s silent for a few seconds; everybody looks comfortable, even the Roses. Twyla looks over at Mandy, who definitely doesn’t. She’s not sure what to tell the kid to help her decide, but just then David hands Mandy a cookie, and the moment passes.
“Okay,” Stevie says, clapping her hands. “Let’s go.”
*
Surveillance
Brady looks over the resume, trying to focus. He’s been dealing with a low-grade headache all day and having to interview people isn’t all that restful, no matter what his boss says. He squints at the paper and a hand comes into view, with a bottle of ibuprofen.
“I’ve seen that look before,” his interviewee—Ronnie Lee, last worked for some surveillance company in Bismarck, looking to transfer for family-related reasons—says, with a smile. “Staring at cameras all day, sometimes feels like there’s a live wire right in the back of your skull.”
He takes the bottle, gratefully. “You’re hired.”
*
Infiltration
Meridith looks over the seating chart one more time. It’s not perfect — Ms. Wintour is have a shitfit over the mess at the Burberry table — but so far nothing catastrophic has happened. Which is honestly a first in the four years she’s been working the Gala.
A certain amount of credit might even go to that new girl, Tyra or Teanna or whatever her name is, with her perky smile and cheekbones and enthusiasm for yoga. She’s taken over some of the more annoying jobs and smoothed things out, including that Calvin Klein mess that could have resulted in a serious slapfight at some point in the evening.
It almost makes up for this.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she groans.
Tina — that’s her name, Meridith’s 80% sure — shrugs apologetically. “I’m as amazed as you are,” she says. “But we’ve got the empty table now with Calvin pulling out, and he’s buying the whole table.”
“Is he sitting alone?” Meridith demands, but the minute she says it she knows that yeah, that’s probably what’s going to happen. Herb Ertlinger hasn’t been seen for something like twenty years, even with his fashion house at the top of its game; he doesn’t attend shows, parties, doesn’t even go to his own offices. If he really is turning up for the first time in a generation for this particular Gala, Meridith’s entire life is about to be so, so fucked.
Tina pats her arm. “A couple of us are going to a yoga class down on eighth later on,” she offers. “You wanna come?”
*
Demolition
Jocelyn rubs her temples. It’s a good way to keep herself cool and calm and collected on days like this, when Rollie Jr. hasn’t had his nap and Roland got her the wrong couplings for the project and is now trying to argue with her about cap triggers, which ordinarily she thinks is adorable but they’re all on a time crunch here. “Honey, sweetie, just go back to Home Depot and get what I asked for, okay?”
“I don’t see what the difference is!” he protests, waving the couplings around. “It’s in, it’s out, boom, right? Why—“
“Because she asked you nicely,” says Stevie from behind her. Rollie Jr. makes a cooing sound and reaches for Stevie, who waves sort of awkwardly. Jocelyn is getting the impression that Stevie isn’t all that thrilled to be around a baby, but finding a good babysitter is such a challenge these days. “And if you don’t go when she asks you nicely, I’ll start asking you. Less nicely.”
“Fine, I’m going, jeez,” he mutters, stuffing the couplings back into the bag and shuffling out the warehouse doors. Stevie shakes her head.
“Just like old times,” Jocelyn says. “Remember, you and Rollie and Johnny with that — what did you call it?”
Stevie shudders. “The Rosebud Motel. And don’t remind me.” She frowns at the mass of pipes and wire sitting on Jocelyn’s workbench. “Are these seriously going to be ready in time?”
“Oh, absolutely,” says Jocelyn, bouncing Rollie Jr. just a little bit as he starts fussing. “I factored in Roland getting at least seven things wrong on the list, so far he’s only gotten three.”
*
Construction
The first painting David paid homage to — Johnny doesn’t like the word “forged,” it sounds so tawdry, when really what’s happening is its own kind of artwork — was “La Mer à Grandcamp” by Seurat, when he was about 12. He sat in his room for a week straight, squinting at the poster Adelina had bought, coming out occasionally to demand more paint or a different brush.
It came out a mess, too many corrections and overpainting in David’s quest to make every brush stroke exactly like the original.
So then David spent another two weeks up in his room. The second version was flawless.
Moira had it hung up in the living room after Johnny knocked together a frame, smiling serenely when people came over to ask when on Earth they had gone to Brussels and picked up such a perfect little piece. And then one day Dee Dee dropped by and said, “You know, no one would know that’s not the real thing.”
For almost five years, Johnny had a nice little side business with his son, paying homage to Degas, Seurat, Bruegel — when he was younger it was mostly whatever David felt like painting, although as he got more invested in the business he started working on pieces that would get them money rather than pieces that would get them noticed.
After David went off on his own, Johnny felt a certain — Johnny doesn’t like the word “regret” — nostalgia, for how it used to be. He remembers working with David as a precious chance to pass on what he knows to his son, to see him grow up and grow into his own. Not many fathers get that sort of chance.
He’s realizing now that he dodged a bullet, getting out of business with David when he did.
“Okay, this is completely unacceptable,” David says, slamming down the frame. It cracks right along the bottom.
“David, it’s supposed to—“
“It’s supposed to what? Look like a frame out of Walmart?” David waves his hands around like he’s kneading invisible dough in mid-air. “You cannot possibly have become this bad at your job.”
“I’m perfectly fine at my job, son, and maybe if you’d concentrate on yours we’d be a little further along—“
“Oh my God, why are you still like this—“
“I’m not like anything—“
“Ugh!”
*
Transport
The car pulls up into the garage, the prettiest little Corvette Kyle’s ever seen, with a prettier girl at the wheel, looking wide-eyed and fearful.
“Ohmigod, hi,” she says, breathless and reaching out to grab his hand as he comes up.
“Hi,” he says. Mama said he’d know when he met the right girl. He’s already ready to marry her. “Um. Welcome to Jared’s Garage and Storage. Can I, uh, help you?”
She smiles. Her hands are as soft as a smooth leather seat. “I really hope so,” she says. “I’m Alexis. What’s your name?”
*
The Raine Gallery is on Bowery south of Houston, around the corner from the New Museum. Back when it had been the Rose Gallery and Stevie was busy making fun of David for buying an entire building just because his boyfriend thought he was an actual art dealer, David had decorated it in grey and beige colors, unobtrusive. “The art should be the focus,” he’d lectured her when she’d made fun of that, too.
Raine clearly thinks differently. Stevie hands her and Mandy’s invitations off to the guy at the door and immediately flinches. “My eyes,” she mutters. The entire gallery is a mix of neon green and purple, even the floors and ceilings, with Raine’s name strategically placed everywhere. It’s like looking at the inside of a migraine.
Mandy doesn’t seem bothered. “Okay, so tonight he’s introducing all the people who are going to be at his table for the gala thing to each other, plus his patrons and artists and whoever else he wants to impress. Stockbroker assholes and socialites who want to look smart.”
“Right.” Stevie grabs two glasses of champagne from off a tray. She tries handing one to Mandy, who looks around. “Nobody’s going to card you,” Stevie tells her. “You don’t have to drink, just keep it in your hand. There’s always a few underage girlfriends and boyfriends at these things.”
“Okay.” Mandy takes a tentative sip and makes a face, then immediately takes another. Stevie bites her lip. No wonder David loves this kid.
They wander through the gallery; it’s full of green and purple and chattering people, all looking like they want to look like they belong. They wander past the grand staircase, with its great big marble steps that seem to spill out onto the floor. David had his offices on the second floor just so he could go up and down a few dozen times a day. Not even Raine managed to ruin it, thank god.
They spot the man himself in the next room, his hand low on some wide-eyed kid’s back and smiling beatifically. Stevie hangs back in a corner, watching the ebb and flow of people around him. “So tell me about Sebastien Raine,” she says.
“The guy’s a douchebag,” says Mandy. “He’s sleeping with a dozen different people, mostly dumbass artists who think he likes their work. He’s also fucking at least one other host, plus there’s rumors that his plus-one for the Gala is actually his boyfriend who’s just like, incredibly oblivious or they’ve got some kind of open relationship BS going on.”
“Guess some things never change,” Stevie says, and waves at her to keep going.
“He’s trying to angle his co-hosting gig into a higher profile for himself and the gallery; he wants to expand into more of a Christie’s or Sotheby’s type of thing.” She frowns when Stevie raises her eyebrows. “What? I know what Christie’s and Sotheby’s are. I’ve got Google.”
“Fair enough,” Stevie admits. “So who’s this plus-one slash boyfriend slash idiot?”
Mandy looks around. “Don’t see him yet. He works here, does the books or something. They have dinner together every Wednesday at whatever the hottest restaurant is. Oh,” she adds, nodding at the staircase. “There he is.”
Stevie looks over; a young man is coming down the stairs, close-cropped reddish brown hair and dark eyes, wearing a boring suit with a tie David would never have approved of. He’s got his hands clenched into fists but he’s smiling at somebody — Raine, it turns out, who’s wandered over to greet him with a kiss on the cheek.
She turns her back as they walk past; Mandy, secure in her anonymity, sips some more champagne as she continues, “I don’t know what his deal is yet — I haven’t even gotten his name.”
Somewhere out there Stevie hopes David can feel her hands around his neck. “Patrick,” she sighs, watching them disappear into the crowd. “His name is Patrick.”