The Heist by Will McIntosh Read Free Book Online Page A

the breathtaking view of the outer burbs provided from the tables, Rob slipped onto a bar stool, smiled at Ellie as she came over.
     “What happened to you? You look terrible.”
     Rob tried to wave away the question. “Nothing. It’s stupid.”
     Ellie folded her arms. “Clearly it’s not, or you wouldn’t look like someone just stomped your favorite puppy wearing four-inch spiked heels.”
     Rob surprised himself by choking up. He shook his head, looked down at the bar, felt Ellie’s hand on his shoulder. “I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess you’re not having absinthe?”
     A coarse guffaw escaped him. “No, no absinthe.” Absinthe was Lorelei’s drink. He’d gotten into the habit of drinking it, hanging with her. Suddenly it was way too expensive for him. This entire bar was suddenly too expensive for him without his girlfriend and her rich parents.
     A vodka martini appeared directly below his hangdog face. “First one’s on me, sweetie. And don’t repeat this please, but I think you’re better off without her.”
     “Yeah, I know. But even though I know that, even though she did something so”—he reached for a word to encapsulate the wretchedness of what Lorelei had done to him, but came up empty—“so shitty , it still hurts. You know?”
     Ellie sighed, leaned on the bar. “I know.”
     “I didn’t do anything to her. It was like she just decided to shit on me for kicks.” Rob lifted the martini and took a long swig.

2
Rob
    Rob was going too fast when he hit the long, rainbow-curved ramp out of High Town, and his mini was slowed by the ramp’s governor. High Town, pulsing silver, teal, salmon, and lemon yellow on a backdrop of black night, slowly disappeared out of his rearview mirror as he descended.
     He knew he was leaving High Town for good. Sure, he’d take day trips, maybe be lucky enough to play gigs up there one day, but he’d never live there again. Musicians couldn’t afford to live in High Town. Rob didn’t mind, though. As he curved back around, Low Town spread out before him, the fork of the Hudson and Harlem Rivers flickering in the mottled blobs of lamplight. In some ways he preferred the tightly packed, aging stone and steel of the old town to the shiny glass and carbon fiber of the new. It suited him. It felt more honest.
     As he reached ground level, the smoothness of the ramp was replaced by the rattle and bump of old blacktop. Rob hung a left onto 192nd Street. The streets were nearly deserted at this time of night. He’d have to crash with Beverly or his folks until he could find somewhere to live. Which reminded him—he’d put a block on his link. He removed the block and found six messages waiting for him. Three were from Mort. “Dickhead. Asshole,” Rob hissed. He’d better have left a damned sincere apology after scoping Lorelei’s little ambush party. On second thought, Rob didn’t care how sincere the apology was; there were no words sincere enough to forgive such backstabbing. He was tempted to delete the messages without watching them, but decided to see the first at least, just to satisfy his curiosity.
     Mort didn’t sound apologetic, he sounded frantic. “Brother, hey, are you seeing this? You need to get back there. She’s ditching all your stuff. Shit. Not okay. Get back up there, okay?”
      Ditching all his stuff? A sick dread crawled up his spine as he set his frame for one eye only so he could see to drive while peeping Lorelei’s bedroom, expecting that Lorelei had already blocked him. But she hadn’t. No, of course she hadn’t—she wanted him to see.
     Lorelei was leaning out the window. Rob tried to maneuver closer, but a thousand frames were crowded around her, forming a porous, semicircular barrier. Rob peered between the cracks, his stomach clenching. Lorelei was holding a storage clip lightly between her thumb and forefinger, dangling it out the window.
     “ Adiós , photos age seven to twelve. Sayônara.