A PIECE OF CAKE

 A PIECE OF CAKE

 I crossed my arms and leaned against the wall of the museum, discreetly scanning the location of the security cameras in the main lobby. The museum tour guide was starting her spiel to those gathered for her tour of the museum.“Welcome to The Royal Ontario Museum, or ROM as it is known to the locals, this is the largest metropolitan museum in the heart of Toronto. As a matter of fact,  the ROM  is the largest museum in all of Canada. It is the home of thousands, no, actually, millions of artifacts, carefully preserved and guarded by a myriad of security cameras, and oh look here comes one of our many security guards now. Hi Tom.”

Tom nodded and smiled, “Enjoy the tour folks but remember.” he said half-jokingly, “we'll be watching you on our state-of-the-art security system.” With this, he gave a mock salute, crossed the foyer, and exited the room.

I had met Tom at the museum on another occasion. He had been working the night shift then, dressed in his ROM  security uniform at the time. I was in my uniform, black pants, black turtleneck, black gloves, and a black balaclava covering my head and face. It had been well after midnight and Tom had deviated from his normal nightly routine. That deviation had cost him dearly.  Probably half a dozen stitches to the head.

I only half listened as the museum guide escorted us through the many wings of the museum, she droned on about the points of interest in each wing.  I was fully familiar with just about every one of the thirteen million items in the building having appraised many of them on behalf of my clients.  It was to my advantage to join the group touring the museum rather than sticking out like a sore thumb, wandering around the museum on my own.

 The security was intense and as Tom had jokingly told the tour, it was state-of-the-art security equipment, but I wasn’t worried. This wasn’t my first rodeo as they say. Cameras were in every corner of the multitude of rooms. Some were cleverly hidden and others were in an in-your-face type of scenario. They obviously meant business. I wasn’t really concerned about the security system. Don’t get me wrong now, obviously, I was concerned but circumnavigating security systems was my profession. It was a very lucrative profession too.

 You see, in this world, there are several types of people, the honest, the dishonest, and then a greater number of people who straddle the fence. Those who were basically honest but if they thought they could get away with something, well then, it was fair game.

 I was of the second variety, the dishonest type. I don’t sweeten up the facts or try to whitewash the facts. I was a crook, plain and simple. I started my career on the first day of kindergarten when I stole a chocolate cupcake out of Jennifer Myers's lunch bag. It was the first time but certainly not the last time. The sweet taste of chocolate made me hungry for more. Over the years my tastes had turned more varied and definitely more expensive but each time they tasted just as sweet.

I never blamed society or the fact that my single mother worked two jobs to support us. I never cried boo-hoo that I had a disadvantaged youth or that crime was my only option, I never put it down to getting in with the wrong friends or hanging out with the neighbourhood gang. I knew what I wanted in life and went for it.

Over the years, I had developed connections with rich, powerful people. People who saw what they wanted and would hire people like me to get what they wanted. At any cost. For some, it was art, paintings by long-dead artists, pictures in gilded frames that they hung in secret rooms in their houses. Rooms that only they knew about. Pictures that only they saw. I was merely a tool for them. Someone to make their dreams, their wants, and their obsessions come true. Like I said, they paid well for this privilege.

For others, it was ancient artifacts, collectors of antiquity, lovers of all things old and dusty. I didn’t judge them, I merely obtained the items for their grimy crumbling collection. After all, the pay was the same, and money is money.

I could relate more to those whose cravings were small and shiny. Diamonds, rubies, emeralds and sapphires. No matter if they were centuries old or newly crafted.  Jewels were my favourite, easy to conceal, and easy to transport. Although I did admire the gems and was mesmerized by their sparkle, I was never tempted to obtain them for myself. In truth, it was the cold hard cash that made the blood flow in my veins. A briefcase filled with unmarked hundred dollar bills was not only my payoff but as the French say, my “Raison d’etre.” My reason for living.

The days of planning, the hours of surveillance, the thrill of the heist, the perfecting of one's craft, the sound of tumblers falling in the safes, outsmarting the security guards, and even outrunning the dogs, were all worth it, although I must say the latter did leave a lot to be desired. The thrill of the chase was the quintessential reason for being in my line of work. Not the thrill of the chase of those German shepherds trying to rip out my jugular but the chase as in my adrenaline pumping, my heart palpitating, feeling so alive at that moment, and reliving those sensations every time I thought of that particular job. The thrill of victory.

I had my regular customers and would always be on the lookout for something that would wet their pallet, and titillate their taste buds as it were. It was as if they were a connoisseur of fine dining, dining on what others owned. Their tastes were exclusive and extensive, and I kept their secret rooms and vaults overflowing. Thus keeping my briefcases coming regularly and creating an ongoing need to expand my secret cache.  The stash under the floorboards in my house kept my house very well insulated, all due to my client’s greed.

 I might be considered nefarious by many but the truth of the matter is, I always managed to escape unscathed and left no bodies in my wake. It was a sense of pride to me that I had no body count.  I don’t count old Tom, for him it was strictly an occupational hazard. Wrong place at the wrong time.  He might have suffered a headache for a few days but he was alive wasn’t he?   Obviously, he hadn’t been fired. There had been times of course, that if it had come down to me or them, I would have obviously chosen me. When it came down to it, It was always about me.

 I continued to walk through the museum with the rest of the tourists. A group of Asian tourists with their fancy cameras clicking busily, A grandmother with her two rambunctious charges, a couple holding hands and spending more time gazing into each other's eyes rather than the priceless artifacts on display under thick tempered glass.

We entered the next room and I pulled my baseball cap low over my face as we passed the museum guard stationed in that room.  I sidled up to a single lady who was taking copious notes drawing quick sketches, and pointing her cell phone camera at everything.  Sometimes it was a good idea to not stand out as a lone wolf as this sometimes draws attention and pulls focus to yourself.

 The watchword here was blend. Never be too obvious, don’t wear anything too outlandish, nothing that draws the eye.  Today I was dressed in a Toronto Blue Jays cap, navy hoody, blue jeans, and running shoes. I could have been anyone. Sunglasses would draw attention, you never wear sunglasses inside when you case a joint, but I wore my baseball cap down as low as it would go, shading my eyes and the top portion of my face. The scruff of my beard hid the bottom of my face and would be shaved off at the completion of my mission.

 This wasn’t my first trip to the museum in the last week, the last time I was dressed like an older gentleman complete with a cane and a gray overcoat.  My usually dark hair was sprayed liberally with a temporary gray dye, and I leaned heavily on the cane that I carried. A cane that also doubled as a sword. It was a masterpiece of design and engineering and I frequently carried it. On that occasion, I had an interesting conversation with some dear little old ladies who were under the misapprehension that I was interested not only in the Egyptian mummies but in them as well. Had I wished it, I could easily have found myself having dinner with my two lady friends.

The tour was long and I had already done my main surveillance on the last trip, this was merely to confirm the number of security cameras and to glean any information I could about the frequent changes that happen to the displays or arrangement in the cameras or other security details. I had an eye for detail and was always meticulous in my planning. My OCD  and attention to detail always kept me on my toes. Everything was in place, every detail planned and perfected. Tonight‘s huge haul would be a piece of cake. We finally finished our tour and of course, we ended our tour in front of the gift shop.  I did not begrudge them their gift shop; museums have to make money somehow, especially as I was so prone to relieving them of their treasures. 

I browsed for a moment and then made my way leisurely to the exit leaving the thirteen million cultural items, natural history specimens, and collections intact. For now. But by tomorrow morning the museum's catalog would have downsized - considerably.