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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book... “Renegade Winter” Down in the Dirt, v154 (the February 2018 Issue) You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:

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Art Heist

Ian Mello

    It was supposed to be the perfect crime: A heist in an art museum, meticulously orchestrated by the night groundskeeper. Richard made his nightly rounds. Sweat poured from his curly mane. He looked like Robert Plant after belting out a high note. In and out of each exhibit Robert went, marking in his brown leather notebook which pieces of art would no longer grace the hallowed walls of the museum
    The gong from the nearby clock tower struck at midnight, ricocheting through each room, creating a symphony of doom. Like clockwork, Richard heard a faint knock on the window at the emergency exit. He raced to greet two men, Yorkshire and Cabot. Yorkshire, a respected art collector from New Hampshire, peered through the glass, wide eyed. His white hair, bright as snow, was perfectly combed as if he were preparing for a photo. His associate, Cabot, was taller and more muscular. He stroked his mustache as he checked his flowing, greasy hair in the glass. Richard barely had the door open as Yorkshire pushed through.
    “We haven’t a moment to lose! Point me in direction of ‘The Sea of Galilee,” Yorkshire said, marching through the halls.
    “I thought we were only jacking Rembrandts?” Cabot asked.
    “Whoa, guys...it’s all marked here in my book,” Richard said.
    Cabot snatched the notebook and tossed it to Yorkshire, who acted as if he’d just scored a touchdown at the Super Bowl. His eyes bulged as he flipped through the notes.
    “Yes, professionally done, Richard! Looks like we’re starting in Exhibit B, second floor,” Yorkshire said.
    “I’ll go get the crowbars,” Richard said.
    “No need. Cabot came prepared,” Yorkshire replied.
    Cabot opened his black trench coat, revealing crowbars fastened to the inside. A toothless grin formed on his face.
    “Remember our deal...the Vermeer,” Richard said, wiping the geyser of sweat from his forehead.
    “Yes, yes. ‘The Concert,’ correct?” Yorkshire asked.
    “Correct. The one with the crimson blanket in the bottom left corner. It was my grandfather’s favorite,” Richard said.
    “Save the sap for the squirrels. Don’t forget your end of the bargain too. I get any eleven paintings I want, no questions asked, and you don’t say shit. Got it?” Yorkshire said.
    “I have no qualms with that. But I have one question. How the hell are you going to sell stolen originals?” Richard asked.
    “The buyers don’t give a fuck where it came from. In fact, they’d probably pay more if they knew we lifted them,” Cabot said.
    Yorkshire lunged into the doors of Exhibit B, shining his flashlight right onto Rembrandt’s “The Storm on the Sea of Galilee.”
    “There it is. My white whale,” Yorkshire said.
    Cabot brushed past both, and unhinged the painting from the wall with one of his crowbars.
    “Careful, Cabot. She’s fragile,” Yorkshire said.
    “Any way you can be a little quieter?” Richard asked.
    “Nope,” Cabot replied.
    Yorkshire patted Richard on his head.
    “There, there Richie Rich. Just remember that you’re here for the Vermeer. Oh, and Cabot is taping you up in Exhibit F,” Yorkshire said.
    “There’s nothing to worry about. You’re dealing with Grade-A professionals here. Not a strike on my record,” Cabot said, ripping the Rembrandt from the wall.
    “Ten to go,” Yorkshire said, drawing a line through the first painting on the list.
    Richard laid on the cold, Italian tile all night, hands and feet bound with duct tape. He groaned throughout the night as his body became more sore with each gong of the clock tower. Cabot added insult to injury by taping his eyes and mouth, too. This discomfort would only be temporary, and it was worth it knowing that the Vermeer was all his.

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