Bank in San Francisco, stole the hundred dollar plates, and mailed them to the Treasury Department in Washington. Sent a note along saying they might think about hiring some girl scouts to guard the place for them.
Tan was true innovator, a pioneer, Michelangelo reborn as a thief. Twenty years at it, and he never got caught. Then time and luck caught up with him.
He was breaking into a museum where they were keeping some of Leonardo da Vinci's notebooks. He claims he didn't want to take them; he just wanted to look at them up close. I tend to believe him. He was up on the roof, on his way down, when a security guard up there sneaking in a cigarette caught a glimpse of him in the moonlight. The guard got off a lucky shot; Tan got a bad break and caught the bullet in his spine. He just laid there twitching, bleeding his life out, while the cops took their own sweet time sending an ambulance over. By the time they got him to the hospital, he was paralyzed from the waist down.
After that came the hospital, the court room, and the penitentiary, in that order. Twenty years all together, and when he was finally released he was just another withered old man in a wheelchair. He went back to New Orleans, where he'd been born, and moved into a large second story apartment. He'd socked away quite a bit of money over the years, on jobs no one even knew about, and hidden it where the feds could never find it. I think he intended to just live out his life in luxury, drinking twelve year old Irish whiskey and betting on the races. That's when I came along and he realized just how bored he'd become. He took me in and became my teacher.
"Howdy, Cachelle," I said as I stepped through the beaded curtain into the back of the palm reader's shop. The palm reader, Madame Divinity herself, was heating up a pan of fried vegetables over a hot plate, her back to the door.
She turned around, all two hundred and fifty pounds of her, the jewelry on her wrist, neck and ears ringing like the bells at the University of Texas clock tower.
"Spencer, you little bastard," she said, smiling broadly. "How long has it been?" She held her arms out wide, bracelets clattering.
"Too long, beautiful," I answered, and stepped into her arms. She hugged me like a professional wrestler, almost lifting me off the ground.
"Let me look at you," Cachelle said and held me out at arms' length. Her eyes took me in, head to foot. "Why didn't you call, let me know you're coming?"
"Well, I lost my cell, and–" I answered sheepishly, before she cut me off.
"You are eating right, aren't you?" She wagged a finger at me.
"I get by. But nothing like your cooking."
She laughed.
"Boy, are you full of shit." She glanced at my feet again. "I like the boots though."
"Thanks. A gift."
"A gift?" she asked, frowning. "You know that in the Philippines it's considered bad luck to give shoes as a gift. You got to be more careful."
"Bad luck for the person giving or the person getting?" I asked. Madame Divinity, better known to her friends as Cachelle Humphries, was the world's unacknowledged expert on crazy superstitions. I half expected that she made up most of them, but nobody ever challenged her on them.
"Aw, hell, I don't know. Who give 'em to you? Not a Filipino, I hope."
"Nope," I replied. "A beautiful Italian gal who didn't think that anyone from Texas should get to walk around wearing normal people shoes. She ended up leaving me for a painter, but she let me keep the boots."
"You are one hard luck case, aren't you?"
"Like I said, I get by." I glanced around the room. This was the backstage, where Cachelle came to relax between performances. The front room was all incense and effigies and altars to the Loa, but back here she was just a middle-aged black woman from small town Louisiana fixing her dinner. "Is the old bastard around?"
"Yeah, he's up there," she answered. "You better get on up
Tan was true innovator, a pioneer, Michelangelo reborn as a thief. Twenty years at it, and he never got caught. Then time and luck caught up with him.
He was breaking into a museum where they were keeping some of Leonardo da Vinci's notebooks. He claims he didn't want to take them; he just wanted to look at them up close. I tend to believe him. He was up on the roof, on his way down, when a security guard up there sneaking in a cigarette caught a glimpse of him in the moonlight. The guard got off a lucky shot; Tan got a bad break and caught the bullet in his spine. He just laid there twitching, bleeding his life out, while the cops took their own sweet time sending an ambulance over. By the time they got him to the hospital, he was paralyzed from the waist down.
After that came the hospital, the court room, and the penitentiary, in that order. Twenty years all together, and when he was finally released he was just another withered old man in a wheelchair. He went back to New Orleans, where he'd been born, and moved into a large second story apartment. He'd socked away quite a bit of money over the years, on jobs no one even knew about, and hidden it where the feds could never find it. I think he intended to just live out his life in luxury, drinking twelve year old Irish whiskey and betting on the races. That's when I came along and he realized just how bored he'd become. He took me in and became my teacher.
"Howdy, Cachelle," I said as I stepped through the beaded curtain into the back of the palm reader's shop. The palm reader, Madame Divinity herself, was heating up a pan of fried vegetables over a hot plate, her back to the door.
She turned around, all two hundred and fifty pounds of her, the jewelry on her wrist, neck and ears ringing like the bells at the University of Texas clock tower.
"Spencer, you little bastard," she said, smiling broadly. "How long has it been?" She held her arms out wide, bracelets clattering.
"Too long, beautiful," I answered, and stepped into her arms. She hugged me like a professional wrestler, almost lifting me off the ground.
"Let me look at you," Cachelle said and held me out at arms' length. Her eyes took me in, head to foot. "Why didn't you call, let me know you're coming?"
"Well, I lost my cell, and–" I answered sheepishly, before she cut me off.
"You are eating right, aren't you?" She wagged a finger at me.
"I get by. But nothing like your cooking."
She laughed.
"Boy, are you full of shit." She glanced at my feet again. "I like the boots though."
"Thanks. A gift."
"A gift?" she asked, frowning. "You know that in the Philippines it's considered bad luck to give shoes as a gift. You got to be more careful."
"Bad luck for the person giving or the person getting?" I asked. Madame Divinity, better known to her friends as Cachelle Humphries, was the world's unacknowledged expert on crazy superstitions. I half expected that she made up most of them, but nobody ever challenged her on them.
"Aw, hell, I don't know. Who give 'em to you? Not a Filipino, I hope."
"Nope," I replied. "A beautiful Italian gal who didn't think that anyone from Texas should get to walk around wearing normal people shoes. She ended up leaving me for a painter, but she let me keep the boots."
"You are one hard luck case, aren't you?"
"Like I said, I get by." I glanced around the room. This was the backstage, where Cachelle came to relax between performances. The front room was all incense and effigies and altars to the Loa, but back here she was just a middle-aged black woman from small town Louisiana fixing her dinner. "Is the old bastard around?"
"Yeah, he's up there," she answered. "You better get on up
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