“The Electric Thief”                     by   C. Lue Disharoon

            The
Miami night is humid, as she places one foot over the other, steadily grasping
her rope, trying not to shift her weight very much, minimizing the strain on
her well-trained arms.  Being twenty two stories above
the street, the penthouse balcony should be unlocked, saving valuable minutes.

 Her innate
sense of time tells her she still has over half of the opera, Lucia di Lammermoor , which should be at intermission, now, in which to complete
the job.

                One sliding glass door later,
she carefully considers each step, as she releases a capsule.  The thin gas emitted is intended to color any
electric eyes, any trip beams.  Without a
single sound, she passes the large living room; if only she could be sure the
blueprints were correct, but they were even chancier than the gas, which she
could only assume was working, to reveal not a single security measure
remaining.  She takes a hunch, forsaking
the left side of the room; the door has a decoration that seems to confirm it
to lead to the kitchen.  At least, it
seems to; domestic furnishings are not typically of much interest to her.  She touches her backpack for security.  Her device remains cradled inside.

                Her guess to exit the living
room through the right door leads her face to face with a pair of paintings,
her quarry.  The first is a girl, holding
a doll.  From her uncle’s books, she
recognizes the impressionistic work of

Miroslav Kraljević. 
She is surprised to see paintings of this quality outside of the Louvre,
or the museum at Zagrebu, yet she has been tipped that these are genuine.  She pauses a moment to stare at the second
one, a Požega
landscape painted in the impressionistic atmosphere plenerističkom influence.  She begins to remove it carefully from its
mounting, prepared to strap it to her back as soon as she finishes with the
safe.

            She can hardly
believe her fortune: the safe is directly behind the Kraljević!  Now is the time for
the device, tested time and again over the past two months.  The patent for its adjustments had not been
filed; as it was, its dodgy purpose did not lend it to large scale commercial
production.  She affixes its
lock-negating electrodes, carefully reading the feedback before channeling the
current that will reverse the magnetic polarity of the locks inside its
door.  Despite her noble intentions, a
part of her relished this clandestine activity---perhaps the worst thing she’d
ever done in her life, certainly in a court of law.  She banishes any thought of being caught; the
gamble requires her full commitment .

            Not
a sound can be heard.  The readout checks
out, twice, now she chooses the currency of her charge. “Takav uređaj graciozan, ona misli. Ako mi je ovaj događaj na puno
radno vrijeme, ja bih provesti dizajn odabrati odgovarajući odgovor valute
automatski, ali ja sam htjela biti u mogućnosti nadzirati kvalitetu.”*  

            With a smell of
ozone, the door swings open.  She quickly
rummages for the unmarked bonds, leaving an antique pearl necklace; it seems to
be a family heirloom, and not worth the price to her conscience to fence.  She pauses to unwrap a parchment; by its
brittleness it seems a hundred years old. Suddenly she becomes aware of a
breath.

“That’s quite an impressive safecracking device you have there,”

Even with her nerves like steel, she very nearly drops her
equipment.  She stares like a deer caught
by surprise in headlights on a country road. 
He chuckles, waving his hand downward, slowly, a calculated gesture.  He appears to be blond, or have blond highlights,
atop a nicely shaped head, with a body that showed its athleticism by the
silhouette.

“I won’t hurt you.  I want to know about the device though.  Where did you find it?

“I made it.”

“You made it?”  He was clearly amused.  Damn him, doubtlessly the police have been
alerted already. Or had they?

“I am a descendent of Nikola
Tesla.  I suppose it runs in the family.”

“You’re not joking, are you?  You are clearly a lady who takes a notion in
mind and pursues it with all seriousness. Though I’ve little reason to believe
you, I do.  I’m familiar with his
work.  Do you see these devices in your
mind, as you begin to invent them?”

“I...yes, I do.”

“Please, come over to this sofa
in front of me for a moment; relax, I won’t shoot you.  What, pray tell, is someone of your intellect
doing burglarizing a penthouse?  Though I
must admit, I applaud your careful work casing this place, by the way; to
choose a night when the occupants were attending the opera is rather brash,
considering the many condos you might choose that lack year-round residence,
and still come off with quite a haul---I suppose, in emulation of that
“Spider-Man” fellow, as the press has begun calling him.  He must be an Army Ranger, to climb these
buildings so many times without falling. 
I theorize he’s doing it with his bare hands and feet, to avoid...ah,
but you wonder how you miscalculated.   Eglise
Gutiérrez was
ill at the last moment.  Though her
understudy is quite good, I decided to exchange my tickets for next week and
return home.”

He looks
the lithe burglar up and down, leering at her sleek black leather outfit,
topped by a scarlet mask of silk, with two eyeholes cut out.  “Slavic accent?”

“I...I am Croatian.”  What was this fellow’s idea?

“I suppose you’re procuring the Kraljević for the museum?”  He laughs at his own jest.

            “May I?” he says,
casually, unraveling the parchment, and setting the bonds aside on back of the
couch.  Then he looks it over for a
moment, lifting his eyes long enough to meet her inquisitive gaze.  “I appreciate that you left the
necklace.  Belongs to an aunt,
Liuke.”  His accent seems like that of
the American South; perhaps he had lived in the northern part of this state at
sometime.  Only the Croatian name sounds
European, giving it an exotic flair by contrast to his sing-song syllables.           

“How very appropriate!”  he chuckles, like a brook overrunning shale
stones.  “Do you see the name, down here
in the notes?  You recognize these notes
in Serbian?”

            “I haven’t had a chance to read
them.”

           "Nebjosa Petrovic.  This inventor worked with your
famous ancestor.  These are incomplete
plans for a twin turbine. They should be worth a pretty
penny!  But tell me---what is your
motivation?  You might as well confess to
me.  I’ve not harmed you in any way.”

            “You have alerted the
police?”

            “Perhaps!  Maybe I’d tell you that, for my own safety.
Then again, should they arrive, it might

 be a false alarm.  It happens.”

            She releases her breath heavily,
then after a few seconds, relents.  “My
father is in prison, as he has been for most of my life.  I suppose he was my inspiration to do this
thing tonight, for he was the best cat burglar in Zagreb, an artist as much as
any of his siblings.  He has served
almost all his sentence, but he is going to die of cancer before he is
paroled.  I anguish over the thought of
him dying behind bars.  I want him home,
surrounded by my mother and sister and I. 
That will take money that I do not have, money I need quickly.”

            He studies her there by the
moonlight, in steady breaths.  “You know
what?  I believe you.  Can I tell you a story, about this
blueprint?”  She nods.

“This was some of Tesla’s
early work before he was paired with Thomas Edison.  Our boy genius here claimed he was offered $50,000 U.S. currency---about a
million, today, adjusted for inflation if
he redesigned Edison's inefficient motor and generators, which were too large
and wasted a lot of energy.  Tesla
worked night and day on the project and gave the Edison Company valuable new
patents in the the process.

Finally Tesla asked
for the payment for his work, and do you know how that bastard Edison
responded?  "Tesla, that was a
joke!  You don’t understand our humor
here in America." So much for that! 
Tesla was paid a mere US$18 per week. 
It would have taken over ...let’s see...five decades to earn the amount
he was promised. Tesla resigned when he was denied even a suitable raise.  You know, he found himself digging ditches
for a short period of time for the Edison company; an awful job.”

“But he wasn’t
defeated,” she replies.”I believe, about that point, he began to focus on his
AC polyphase system.”

                “Yes, how
about that?  You know, if you went to
jail, you could very well spend the time considering some engineering system,
yourself.  This device of yours is a bit
beyond me,” he says, looking it over. 
“But I’ll bet it would make your ancestor proud.  It’s almost crude enough for me to make heads
or tails of it.  Listen, my masked
friend, I find you fascinating.  I think
you should take this bouillon, and perhaps, some of these certificates.  If you can make it out of here without
breaking your neck, I’ll let you go---but I want to ask something of you.  I want you to send me a letter, to the
address on this card, with a picture of you and your father when you take him
home.”  He places the card in her hand,
pressing it into her palm.  Now...this
bit is not quite necessary, but I would like a kiss from you.”

                She stares at
him, perplexed, her jaw dropped open. 
Was he serious?

                She leans
forward, smelling a certain sweetness on his breath, like a peach.  She waits before touching her lips to his,
feeling their warmth.  The kiss is slow,
lingering.   His hand lightly touches her
silk scarf mask, and she caresses the hand. 
She reaches back with her tongue and touches his, as a flood begins in
the core of her.  She invites his weight,
slowly on top of her, this man she has never before met.  “Does he plan to have me,” she thinks, “as
his price to let me go?  Can I let myself
do such a thing?”  She wonders if perhaps
she can...but would she always question, has she paid a whore’s price for her
freedom, or were they truly enflamed by animal passions in the moment.  “Always, I think several steps ahead, as I go
with my feelings,” she thinks.  His sinewy
hands caress her hair that protrudes from her red mask.  He balances on his knees, whispering, “may I
please just bite...?” into her ear, as he begins to lightly nibble her ear
lobe.  “Yes,” she coos softly.

                He begins to
exhale his hot breath onto her ear, as his fingertips outline the jugular vein
on her throat, once, twice, as though feeling her racing pulse.  “I feel your heart pounding from here,” he
says of the blood racing through her veins. 
“Please, let me kiss you here before you go.”  She nods her assent, and his lips begin to brush
her neck in light strokes, subtle arcs that mirror the rhythm of his
breathing.  Then he puts his mouth on her
neck, pressing his tongue against it again and again as she writhes, making
soft sounds.

                “Is your leg
comfortable?” he stops to ask.

                “My butt is
going to sleep,” she confesses with a laugh.

                He lets her
move into a more comfortable position. 
Having won some of her trust, she lets his finger drag across her chest,
hardening her nipple.  He gives her
breast a light squeeze, as he meets her tongue with his own.

                Then, with a
final sigh, he raises up on his well-defined arms, muscles flexing beneath his
sleeves.  “And now, if I’m ever to hear
from you again, I suppose we should part. 
I’d invite you to take the elevator, but you wouldn’t want to be
recognized.”

                With a mix of
anticipation and relief, she gets up from the couch, taking up the documents he
hands to her.

                “I have to
thank you for an evening I won’t soon forget,” he says, picking up the painting
as he walks with her to the balcony. 
There, he opens the moonlit door, to the torrid Miami night.

                Of her own
accord, she gives him a kiss; his hand climbs the front of her as her legs
squeeze together, and his hand pets her beneath her top, before his fingers
curl away as though waving good-bye.

                Then, he hops
up on to the ledge, looking out over the city as the breeze blows in from the
harbor.

“Lucia di Lammermoor is a fairly long opera,” he says, “but unless the patrons
have stopped for a sherry with friends first, they will be winding their way
home.  Be very careful on the way down.”

She pulls
out her grappling hook, and as she secures it, she watches in disbelief as,
with the painting strapped to his back, her mysterious paramour begins to ease
down the balcony, gripping the side with his hands.  In shock, she remembers that, she, too, must
depart, setting herself up to rappel, watching the extraordinary athleticism of
her fellow thief.   He begins to let
himself down the side of the building to the next ledge, depending only upon
his arm strength to secure his perilous way, handhold by handhold, gradually
descending to the street below.