You can stand around and smoke and look French. Any problems, you tap on the window. Are we all set?”
Ginny was not remotely set, but things were in motion. The bill was brought over, and she put down sixty Euros while the others donned their coats.
“I’m just going to walk Ellis back to the car,” Keith said. “Stay here. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Oliver set his lighter on the table and gave it a spin.
“I don’t have any illusions about the two of us,” he said. “I did the card trick because you looked nervous. When you’re nervous, you need a distraction. I provided one.”
“You’re not that good at sleight of hand, though. I guess it’s a good thing you’re not picking the lock.”
He shrugged.
“I’m nervous too,” he said, getting up. “I’m going to have a cigarette. I’ll be outside.”
There was a little clink of a bell as the door shut behind him. Ginny absently ate the crust off Keith’s untouched apple tart. She wasn’t sure which was more annoying—the fact that he had successfully distracted her and temporarily made her less nervous, or that he was being honest about his own nervousness. She didn’t want him to have good qualities. Horrible people should be horrible all the time. That should be the law.
She stared at the street, remembering the last time she was in Paris with Keith. They broke into a graveyard. And they got caught. Last time, they were let go. This time, they might not be so lucky.
Really, the only question now was whether she should call Richard before the police got them, or after. She reached into her pocket for her phone. Something came out with it and fell to the floor. Ginny leaned over to pick it up.
On the ground by her seat was a card with a picture of a golden retriever.
The Great Table Caper
Keith pulled his hat low over his head, pressing all the fringy ends of his hair down flat around his face. It gave him long sideburns and almost entirely obscured his eyes.
“I look shifty, don’t I?” he said. “Good. Best to look the part.” He clapped and rubbed his hands together eagerly. “I can’t tell if you’re enthused or about to be violently sick.”
“Is there a third option?”
“Cheer up,” he said, putting an arm around her shoulders. “It’s me you’re with. Would I ever lead you to do something stupid? Best not to answer that. Just follow me down this dark path over here.”
Put like that, the idea had more appeal. Follow Keith into the dark . . . yes, that she could do, even if the alley that he had described was actually just a space just over a foot wide. It was a minor separation between buildings, nothing that people were really supposed to pass through. Keith turned himself sideways and started moving along quickly. Ginny could only see his outline, and mostly followed by sound, trying not to scrape her face or knees on either wall. This had to be some kind of garbage alley for the restaurant. Whatever was underfoot was squishy and slippery—maybe boxes, maybe food—she refused to consider any other options. And actually, Parisian restaurant garbage smelled kind of nice. It was fresher than other garbage, sweeter, like overripe fruit. Maybe that was something she could put in her college essay: There I was, creeping down the sweet garbage alley to break into the restaurant. . . .
“You all right?” Keith asked. “Be careful when you get to the end. There’s an old bike you have to step over.”
“Fine,” she said, trying to keep her tone confident.
Even though she’d been warned, she tripped over the bike. She probably tripped because she’d been warned and was telling herself not to trip over the bike. She did that sometimes. It was often easier not to know what obstacles were in the way. The space behind the buildings was wider, but scrappy, mostly full of rubbish bins, boxes, and cast-off bits of furniture. Keith had turned on his cell phone for a light and was holding it up to a narrow window
Ginny was not remotely set, but things were in motion. The bill was brought over, and she put down sixty Euros while the others donned their coats.
“I’m just going to walk Ellis back to the car,” Keith said. “Stay here. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Oliver set his lighter on the table and gave it a spin.
“I don’t have any illusions about the two of us,” he said. “I did the card trick because you looked nervous. When you’re nervous, you need a distraction. I provided one.”
“You’re not that good at sleight of hand, though. I guess it’s a good thing you’re not picking the lock.”
He shrugged.
“I’m nervous too,” he said, getting up. “I’m going to have a cigarette. I’ll be outside.”
There was a little clink of a bell as the door shut behind him. Ginny absently ate the crust off Keith’s untouched apple tart. She wasn’t sure which was more annoying—the fact that he had successfully distracted her and temporarily made her less nervous, or that he was being honest about his own nervousness. She didn’t want him to have good qualities. Horrible people should be horrible all the time. That should be the law.
She stared at the street, remembering the last time she was in Paris with Keith. They broke into a graveyard. And they got caught. Last time, they were let go. This time, they might not be so lucky.
Really, the only question now was whether she should call Richard before the police got them, or after. She reached into her pocket for her phone. Something came out with it and fell to the floor. Ginny leaned over to pick it up.
On the ground by her seat was a card with a picture of a golden retriever.
The Great Table Caper
Keith pulled his hat low over his head, pressing all the fringy ends of his hair down flat around his face. It gave him long sideburns and almost entirely obscured his eyes.
“I look shifty, don’t I?” he said. “Good. Best to look the part.” He clapped and rubbed his hands together eagerly. “I can’t tell if you’re enthused or about to be violently sick.”
“Is there a third option?”
“Cheer up,” he said, putting an arm around her shoulders. “It’s me you’re with. Would I ever lead you to do something stupid? Best not to answer that. Just follow me down this dark path over here.”
Put like that, the idea had more appeal. Follow Keith into the dark . . . yes, that she could do, even if the alley that he had described was actually just a space just over a foot wide. It was a minor separation between buildings, nothing that people were really supposed to pass through. Keith turned himself sideways and started moving along quickly. Ginny could only see his outline, and mostly followed by sound, trying not to scrape her face or knees on either wall. This had to be some kind of garbage alley for the restaurant. Whatever was underfoot was squishy and slippery—maybe boxes, maybe food—she refused to consider any other options. And actually, Parisian restaurant garbage smelled kind of nice. It was fresher than other garbage, sweeter, like overripe fruit. Maybe that was something she could put in her college essay: There I was, creeping down the sweet garbage alley to break into the restaurant. . . .
“You all right?” Keith asked. “Be careful when you get to the end. There’s an old bike you have to step over.”
“Fine,” she said, trying to keep her tone confident.
Even though she’d been warned, she tripped over the bike. She probably tripped because she’d been warned and was telling herself not to trip over the bike. She did that sometimes. It was often easier not to know what obstacles were in the way. The space behind the buildings was wider, but scrappy, mostly full of rubbish bins, boxes, and cast-off bits of furniture. Keith had turned on his cell phone for a light and was holding it up to a narrow window
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