Pleasure Thieves

It got into the morning papers. Carol picked up the Herald-Tribune from her desk and saw the headlines. "JEWEL THEFT IN RYE."

Below was a picture of plump gaily-clad Mrs. Albright standing amidst the wreckage of her dressing room. The caption read "GYPSY GYPPED." Carol was alone in the pastel office. Without taking off her coat, she phoned Boris.

"Yes dear. For cocktails? Of course." He smiled anxiously. "Fine, at five o'clock, then." He hung up, then went into the shower. The hot water eased him, and after a while he began to sing his Russian version of a Flamenco. He bumped his hips, then let himself go and ground his stomach against the heated tiles of the shower. Five o'clock, five o'clock, five o'clock jump.

Then Carol called Phillip. "How did it go?"

"Didn't you read our write-up?"

"There was no mention of the featured performers."

"Good, good," Phillip beamed. "You see it went perfectly."

Carol laughed. "I've got an appointment for cocktails with Boris,"

she said as her secretary came in.

"Good," Phillip approved. "Come here for dinner afterwards."

"Business?" she sounded wistful.

"No, my dear, pleasure," and he hung up.

Carol laughed again. "Here are proof pages 17 and 34," the secretary announced. "The color plates are lousy." She proudly, like a new mother, laid the problem on Carol's desk. Carol's face became serious, and her day went into full swing.

At 5:30, Harry, rested and shaved, arrived at Phillip's apartment.

This time the project was his. He carried a small notebook that Phillip recognized from their prison days. He had watched Harry lying flat on his back, holding the notebook balanced on his chest and writing small legible letters on to the page.

"Recording you past?" Phillip once asked.

"No," Harry was humorless, "my future. I'm recording my future."

This afternoon, Harry put the notebook conspicuously on the table.

He was composed, deliberate. He picked up the U.S. Social Register and started to turn the pages.

"At my reference books again?" Phillip scoffed. But he was nervous at Harry's reserve. Phillip's reserve was of a different kind: conscious, elegant. Harry's was inward, selfless and lost. It was always Phillip who had to break their silences.

"That was a fair score we made last night. I'd say $45,000, at least."

He watched Harry's reaction.

"Forty-five," commented Harry. There was an almost involuntary tone of condescension in his voice. "That was a lark."

Phillip looked at him with repressed anger. "A lark, you say. But that's only one strike. There are four others that need more work. Five larks make an eagle. Or, don't you agree."

Harry said, "Yes, it adds up. But what about one job that's as big as five of those put together?" He looked at Phillip questioningly and then got up and walked about the room smoking.

Phillip spoke when he stopped moving. "One job as big as all of mine. Sounds majestic. What is it Harry?" Harry reached for his notebook. Then he noticed a small, antique, carved-wood stand with a square slate blackboard. It was bordered by a tray of colored chalk. He put the book aside and pulled the table toward him. Phillip watched closely.

"Every hear of Kit's Island?" Harry began. "It's in the Florida Keys.

It's the original Golden Goose."

"It could also be called the Llewellyn's Island." Harry looked up.

"You must know the Llewellyn collection?" He picked up the notebook and fingered through the pages. He came to a list of numbers with items and numbers next to them. The kind of book the ideal accountant would have.

"Mrs. Llewellyn," he ran his forefinger across from one column to the next, "has one pendant that is worth more than all of Mrs. Albright's madness." He picked up a piece of chalk and studied the board for a second.

Then, with incredible dexterity, he drew the outline of a goose with an elongated neck, almost a swan's neck, and thin beak. When he completed the goose, he drew crosshatched directions and meticulously initialed, N. E. S. W.

Lastly he drew an egg-shaped circle and marked an X through its center. "That's the house," he explained.

Phillip watched the controlled deftness. The execution of the drawing had been impressive. In that gesture, Harry had revealed something so essentially himself, carefully hidden, for the first time.

Harry's secrets had nothing to do with his prick. Couldn't devour him that way. Phillip was not going to be destroyed by going all the way, to find out what was really there. Phillip was afraid. The man seated before him was so obviously rational and so completely mad.

Phillip smiled slightly to himself and Harry continued.