It made as good a toast as any.
"And to the one who never even came close," I added, like I always did. Tan didn't know what that one meant either, and I figured that was fair.
I took a drink. I got about a mouthful of the stuff down before I started coughing. Irish whiskey. It meant bad memories.
"You never could hold your liquor, could you boy?" Tan scolded. "Always had a beer in your hand, like a little kid." He poured himself another shot and killed it in one go. "You gotta learn to drink like a man."
"Listen, old man," I answered, still grimacing at the taste. "I gave up trying to keep up with you a long time ago. You drink your way, I'll drink mine."
"Alright, then," he said, "what's this all about? I know you didn't drive all the way out here just to look at my pretty face."
"Tan, I need your help."
Tan had told me once that a cat burglar's style, the technique they use, is as individual as a fingerprint, and that someone with a trained eye could look at a job and, just as if it had been signed, tell you who did it. Add to that the fact that, while there were four or five hundred cat burglars worth their salt worldwide by the old man's estimation, only a third of those were living in the United States. And only a lesser number were currently not incarcerated. Therefore the candidates for the Pierce job numbered only in the order of one hundred to one hundred fifty, and if Tan could pick out enough of the "tells" left by the thief, I would have a good idea who'd pulled it off.
I brought up the box of photos and notes from the car, and only after opening it realized I had the wrong box.
"What's with all these magazines?" the old man asked, rifling through the contents.
"Shit, that's my grandfather's stuff," I answered.
"Your grandfather?" Tan said, surprised. "You been to see him?"
"Just missed him. He's dead."
The old man's smile faded, and he shook his head solemnly.
"That's too bad," he said quietly.
"Why? The old guy was a fucker."
Tan whipped his cane around faster than I could follow and clocked me in the shins.
"You watch your mouth, boy. Don't speak ill of the dead, unless you want them tasking you after they've gone."
"Yeah, yeah."
"And you're way too old for all this bitterness. It's just juvenile. You're not a kid anymore, you know. That old man did right by you and your brother, whatever you think."
I just shook my head. It was like all old white guys were in a club and had to watch each other's backs. First O'Connor, now Tan. I'd had enough of it. I went back downstairs to the car and brought back up the right box.
The photos and hand-written pages spread out before him on the table, Tan seemed to forget all together that I was there. He was at work, immersed in the craft he loved, and I was just a distraction.
"Alright," I announced, not expecting an answer. "I'm going to go out for a while, and you can tell me what you got when I get back."
To my surprise, Tan lifted his hand in an almostwave. I figured that was as good as I was going to get, and went back downstairs.
I decided I would ramble around the old neighborhood for a while, it being an off season and the tourist traffic fairly low. I headed down St. Peter towards Jackson Square, considering stopping in at a Voodoo museum run by a friend of mine. But when I cut across to that street I saw it closed down. I wasn't surprised. A lot of the New Orleans I remembered was gone, washed away by Katrina.
It was late afternoon, and there were only a few herds of tourists moving around the French Quarter, so my best bet would be to get somewhere quiet and cool. I started over to an old haunt of mine, and along the way passed a little used book store I used to steal magazines from. Realizing I had nothing better to do, I ducked in and browsed.
On a little table near the register was a book called The Great Pulp Heroes , by Don Hutchison. I
"And to the one who never even came close," I added, like I always did. Tan didn't know what that one meant either, and I figured that was fair.
I took a drink. I got about a mouthful of the stuff down before I started coughing. Irish whiskey. It meant bad memories.
"You never could hold your liquor, could you boy?" Tan scolded. "Always had a beer in your hand, like a little kid." He poured himself another shot and killed it in one go. "You gotta learn to drink like a man."
"Listen, old man," I answered, still grimacing at the taste. "I gave up trying to keep up with you a long time ago. You drink your way, I'll drink mine."
"Alright, then," he said, "what's this all about? I know you didn't drive all the way out here just to look at my pretty face."
"Tan, I need your help."
Tan had told me once that a cat burglar's style, the technique they use, is as individual as a fingerprint, and that someone with a trained eye could look at a job and, just as if it had been signed, tell you who did it. Add to that the fact that, while there were four or five hundred cat burglars worth their salt worldwide by the old man's estimation, only a third of those were living in the United States. And only a lesser number were currently not incarcerated. Therefore the candidates for the Pierce job numbered only in the order of one hundred to one hundred fifty, and if Tan could pick out enough of the "tells" left by the thief, I would have a good idea who'd pulled it off.
I brought up the box of photos and notes from the car, and only after opening it realized I had the wrong box.
"What's with all these magazines?" the old man asked, rifling through the contents.
"Shit, that's my grandfather's stuff," I answered.
"Your grandfather?" Tan said, surprised. "You been to see him?"
"Just missed him. He's dead."
The old man's smile faded, and he shook his head solemnly.
"That's too bad," he said quietly.
"Why? The old guy was a fucker."
Tan whipped his cane around faster than I could follow and clocked me in the shins.
"You watch your mouth, boy. Don't speak ill of the dead, unless you want them tasking you after they've gone."
"Yeah, yeah."
"And you're way too old for all this bitterness. It's just juvenile. You're not a kid anymore, you know. That old man did right by you and your brother, whatever you think."
I just shook my head. It was like all old white guys were in a club and had to watch each other's backs. First O'Connor, now Tan. I'd had enough of it. I went back downstairs to the car and brought back up the right box.
The photos and hand-written pages spread out before him on the table, Tan seemed to forget all together that I was there. He was at work, immersed in the craft he loved, and I was just a distraction.
"Alright," I announced, not expecting an answer. "I'm going to go out for a while, and you can tell me what you got when I get back."
To my surprise, Tan lifted his hand in an almostwave. I figured that was as good as I was going to get, and went back downstairs.
I decided I would ramble around the old neighborhood for a while, it being an off season and the tourist traffic fairly low. I headed down St. Peter towards Jackson Square, considering stopping in at a Voodoo museum run by a friend of mine. But when I cut across to that street I saw it closed down. I wasn't surprised. A lot of the New Orleans I remembered was gone, washed away by Katrina.
It was late afternoon, and there were only a few herds of tourists moving around the French Quarter, so my best bet would be to get somewhere quiet and cool. I started over to an old haunt of mine, and along the way passed a little used book store I used to steal magazines from. Realizing I had nothing better to do, I ducked in and browsed.
On a little table near the register was a book called The Great Pulp Heroes , by Don Hutchison. I
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