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thing.”
    Why was I even bothering? Michael X. Johnson—the X allegedly stood for Xerxes—was no doubt thousands of miles away at the moment.
    â€œâ€”track him down. Not too hard since he lives here.”
    That caught my attention. “Where?”
    â€œHere.”
    â€œHere?”
    â€œAnnie, are you all right, dear? Maybe you should have your hearing checked. Do you need money?”
    â€œNo, I’m fine—there was just some static on my end.” I lied with ease, thanks to a genetic predisposition and a lifetime of practice. “So let me get this straight: Colin Brooks is in San Francisco?”
    â€œWhy, yes, dear. I saw him recently at the Brock Museum.”
    â€œWhat do you mean you saw him at the Brock Museum ?”
    â€œAnnie, is everything all right? You sound upset.”
    Wait until I got my hands on that no-good, lying, thieving, son of a—
    â€œI was taking in the Brock’s new exhibit of botanical prints and early depictions of New World flora and fauna,” Anton continued. “Have you seen it yet?”
    â€œUnghh—” My mind reeled at the thought of Anton and Michael, career criminals who had recently stolen the jewel of the Brock’s collection, casually taking in the museum’s latest exhibit. For years I had been afraid to set foot in the place and all I had done was get fired from a crappy internship.
    â€œIt’s marvelous. Simply marvelous,” Anton went on. “You really must take time to see the exhibit, Annie. It’s those sorts of pre-photographic, detailed depictions that remind us of a time before technology, when—”
    â€œAnton!” Once Anton or my grandfather started philosophizing about art they were like runaway freight trains: impossible to stop without inflicting a lot of collateral damage. I feared I was becoming the same. “Tell me about Michael—Colin—whatever his name is. You say you saw him at the Brock?”
    â€œHe’s grown a beard and was wearing eyeglasses. I scarcely recognized him.” He paused, his tone thoughtful. “He was leading some kind of tour. Odd, that. A first-class art thief turned museum tour guide? One never knows where the money goes, does one?”
    â€œYeah, sure,” I said glumly. “I let millions slip through my fingers every day. So, any idea how to get in touch with him?”
    â€œNot really, darling, no. Your grandfather might know. Otherwise, I would try the usual haunts—fine restaurants, wine bars, that sort of thing. You know how the takers are.”
    In the lingo of the art underworld, the “takers” were the thieves while the “doers” were the forgers. The caste lines were clearly drawn, with the takers usually younger, brasher, and free with their money. The doers, with some legitimacy, thought of themselves as more artist than criminal and were often content to live fairly abstemious lives in exchange for the chance to create their art.
    â€œI’ve got to run—take care of yourself, okay?” I said. “And if you speak to Georges, tell him to give me a call.”
    â€œOf course, Annie. You take care too, dear. Bye-bye!” Anton rang off cheerfully. He had been in high spirits since the successful forgery scam last spring, which had put to rest his concerns about living well in his golden years. Retirement was a worry for many of the self-employed. Even criminals.
    Â 
    I was beginning to nod off, my head resting uncomfortably on my knees, when the creaky iron elevator finally pinged its arrival. As I struggled up from my ungainly position on the floor the elevator door slid open to reveal not only Mary and Sherri but also our strapping Bosnian friend Pete and Sherri’s husband, Tom, an ex-linebacker with a blond buzz cut and a skull and crossbones tattoo on the side of his neck.
    â€œWe’re just along for the ride. You never know what could happen,” Tom