Jenn took her time packing, which consisted mainly of dumping the contents of her closet in two old, ragged suitcases that bulged at the seams when completely zipped closed. She took significantly longer sorting through the paintings in her studio. There was no time to move them all, but she, like Vitus, fully intended to return at the first safe opportunity to finish sorting out her affairs. Nevertheless, she found a small watercolor paint kit in a plastic case that snapped shut and a notebook full of heavy, blank pages and stuffed both in an outer pocket on one of her bags. She had always felt that her art somehow kept her sane and knew that if she was to survive the next few days or weeks with her mind fully intact, she would need some creative outlet to focus all her hopes and frustrations.
Then, realizing she too had finished all her packing in half an hour, she pocketed a small tin that rattled with cherry-flavored cough drops and set off to see if Vitus needed any help of his own. She appeared incredibly conspicuous as she stepped out her front door with her heavy coat, bulging luggage, dark sunglasses, and the long pink knitted scarf wrapped around her neck. She walked at a brisk pace down the street, only to find Vitus much sooner than she had expected. He ran toward her in a full sprint, his bags in hand. The loafers he wore slapped loudly against the pavement.
"The Russians are here," he said as they met halfway down the street. Vitus bent over to catch his breath, and Jenn caught a glimpse of a long, black car moving slowly toward them through the neighborhood.
"There they are," she said. "We have to move."
Vitus turned and watched the car as he panted, and then the antique-dealer and his partner scrambled off the street. They cut through yards closer to the center of town until they felt they were at a safe enough distance away from the car, which they could still see patrolling the neighborhood streets as they peeked through shrubbery and around the corners of old brick homes.
"They didn't see us," said Jenn as she peered through the mostly-bare limbs of an overgrown privet hedge. "But it looks like they're combing the streets one at a time."
Vitus pulled the old pocket watch from beneath his coat and checked it. "We still have twenty minutes until the taxi comes back," he said. "We need a plan." He scanned the landscape and spied a row of brick buildings along the now-close main avenue. He was looking directly at the rear of Bethel's Fine Finds. "And I've found one," he added.
Jenn followed his line of sight, tracing it straight to the brick shops ahead. "No," she said. "Vitus, no. We really shouldn't go back there."
But the antique-dealer would not be dissuaded so easily, and Vitus set off in the direction of Bethel's Fine Finds anyway. Jenn followed close behind, but not without mumbling a stream of obscenities as they skulked through the yard of a small, bright yellow Cape Cod-style house. Their heavy bags brushed against the grass, and they both had discovered that this was quite possibly the most impractical and burdened escape they could possibly make.
Before making the final dash to the alleyway and the back entrance to the antique-dealer's shop, they made a careful surveillance of the area. From the alley, they would be protected on all but one side, and if a car was to pass on that particular side in the time it took them to open the door, they would be spotted and most likely trapped.
Vitus readied his keys and pounced, and in a matter of seconds, they were inside and locking the door behind them just as Vitus heard the telltale sound of a car driving past. They released their held breaths, but the calm did not last long.
"Oh God!" yelped Jenn as she threw herself to the floor, yanking Vitus down with her.
"What is it?" he whispered, though he'd landed uncomfortably on his own luggage and rolled to the hard tile floor below.
"Outside," she said, pointing to the wide front windows, from which they could see the street and the long, black car that had parked there. Two men in dark suits peered from the car's windows, but they made no sign that they'd seen anything inside.
Vitus watched them from behind the latticework of an old 1950s garden trellis that was set up on display and then began crawling on his hands and feet toward the front of the store.
"Are you crazy? Where are you going?" asked Jenn.
"I need to get something out of my desk."
"That is a horrible, horrible idea."
Vitus ignored her and crept on across the shop floor. When he finally reached the front desk, he peeked over it to see the long, black car and its men in their dark suits still there, watching for any sign of movement. Carefully, Vitus scooted the wooden chair he usually sat in forward so he could reach the top left drawer without giving himself away. Once in the drawer, his hand fumbled through the contents until he felt the bumpy faux leather texture of a book, which he took with him as he crawled again through the store, this time back to where Jenn lay waiting.
"Great," she said. "A little black book. Well, you can forget putting my name in there."
Vitus paused, over-analyzing her statement and attempting to gauge the amount of sarcasm with which it was spoken. "This," he said, finally, "is my address book. In it is a list of all my clients, their phone numbers, and their addresses. One of them screwed us big time and is the reason we're in this mess in the first place."
Jenn's eyes widened.
"Yeah," said Vitus.
Jenn turned to the window again. The Russians were still there, unsurprisingly. "Okay, so how do we get out of here?"
Vitus' expression was as solid as that of the statuary he kept in the shop's northwestern corner. He pulled the pistol from his coat and summoned his best action hero voice. "The same way we came in," he said.
"Wow. Where did you get that?"
"It's a loaner from Philip."
"And you know how to use it?"
Vitus smiled.
"This is a side of you I never, ever thought I'd see, and I've got to admit, I'm liking it," she said, and she was telling the absolute truth.
Since it became apparent that the Russians were not prepared to leave anytime soon, the antique-dealer and his partner made a plan. They knew it would take them five minutes to run from the shop to the corner where (they hoped) the taxi driver would be waiting, so Vitus counted the minutes on his pocket watch. When the time came, they held hands as they eased the back door open just wide enough for them to squeeze through, and then they crawled to the alley. Jenn's hands were full with her own bags, and Vitus was much worse off. He had two bags of his own that he was forced to carry with one hand while he kept the other on the pistol's handle. Maybe once they were home free he could put the gun away, but for now, it was more important for him to endure the struggle. If nothing else, Vitus thought as he hobbled along with one weighted arm, it would help build muscle, which he had decided he would now need if he was to adopt this sort of lifestyle permanently.
They wound down the streets, past row after row of safe, perfect houses (oblivious to the occasional couple or bathrobe garbed man who watched them curiously from their front porches) until they saw the rendezvous point not far ahead, and there waiting for them was the glorious yet drab orange taxi and its driver, who chewed impatiently on a large cigar. The driver, noticing his fare approaching, sighed and pulled a lever to release the lock on the trunk. He watched from the rear view mirror as they loaded their ragged luggage and then scrambled into the backseat, where they engaged in a kiss that lasted fifteen seconds. As they settled awkwardly back into their seats, the driver shook his head, and they were off.
"Back to the docks?" the driver asked as he drew the enormous, unlit cigar from his mouth.
Vitus pulled the small black book from his breast pocket and flipped through a few pages. "Actually, there's a private museum at the end of Bering Street in Anchorage. We need to meet a friend there first."
"You got it."
Vitus pat his coat, comforted by the bulge of the pistol he hadn't yet needed. His hands fell to his pockets, and he was reminded of something he had forgotten in all the action. He pulled a piece of toast from his coat and handed it to Jenn. She took it, and they ate their pieces of toast silently as the taxi sped away from the place they had formerly called home.
Then, realizing she too had finished all her packing in half an hour, she pocketed a small tin that rattled with cherry-flavored cough drops and set off to see if Vitus needed any help of his own. She appeared incredibly conspicuous as she stepped out her front door with her heavy coat, bulging luggage, dark sunglasses, and the long pink knitted scarf wrapped around her neck. She walked at a brisk pace down the street, only to find Vitus much sooner than she had expected. He ran toward her in a full sprint, his bags in hand. The loafers he wore slapped loudly against the pavement.
"The Russians are here," he said as they met halfway down the street. Vitus bent over to catch his breath, and Jenn caught a glimpse of a long, black car moving slowly toward them through the neighborhood.
"There they are," she said. "We have to move."
Vitus turned and watched the car as he panted, and then the antique-dealer and his partner scrambled off the street. They cut through yards closer to the center of town until they felt they were at a safe enough distance away from the car, which they could still see patrolling the neighborhood streets as they peeked through shrubbery and around the corners of old brick homes.
"They didn't see us," said Jenn as she peered through the mostly-bare limbs of an overgrown privet hedge. "But it looks like they're combing the streets one at a time."
Vitus pulled the old pocket watch from beneath his coat and checked it. "We still have twenty minutes until the taxi comes back," he said. "We need a plan." He scanned the landscape and spied a row of brick buildings along the now-close main avenue. He was looking directly at the rear of Bethel's Fine Finds. "And I've found one," he added.
Jenn followed his line of sight, tracing it straight to the brick shops ahead. "No," she said. "Vitus, no. We really shouldn't go back there."
But the antique-dealer would not be dissuaded so easily, and Vitus set off in the direction of Bethel's Fine Finds anyway. Jenn followed close behind, but not without mumbling a stream of obscenities as they skulked through the yard of a small, bright yellow Cape Cod-style house. Their heavy bags brushed against the grass, and they both had discovered that this was quite possibly the most impractical and burdened escape they could possibly make.
Before making the final dash to the alleyway and the back entrance to the antique-dealer's shop, they made a careful surveillance of the area. From the alley, they would be protected on all but one side, and if a car was to pass on that particular side in the time it took them to open the door, they would be spotted and most likely trapped.
Vitus readied his keys and pounced, and in a matter of seconds, they were inside and locking the door behind them just as Vitus heard the telltale sound of a car driving past. They released their held breaths, but the calm did not last long.
"Oh God!" yelped Jenn as she threw herself to the floor, yanking Vitus down with her.
"What is it?" he whispered, though he'd landed uncomfortably on his own luggage and rolled to the hard tile floor below.
"Outside," she said, pointing to the wide front windows, from which they could see the street and the long, black car that had parked there. Two men in dark suits peered from the car's windows, but they made no sign that they'd seen anything inside.
Vitus watched them from behind the latticework of an old 1950s garden trellis that was set up on display and then began crawling on his hands and feet toward the front of the store.
"Are you crazy? Where are you going?" asked Jenn.
"I need to get something out of my desk."
"That is a horrible, horrible idea."
Vitus ignored her and crept on across the shop floor. When he finally reached the front desk, he peeked over it to see the long, black car and its men in their dark suits still there, watching for any sign of movement. Carefully, Vitus scooted the wooden chair he usually sat in forward so he could reach the top left drawer without giving himself away. Once in the drawer, his hand fumbled through the contents until he felt the bumpy faux leather texture of a book, which he took with him as he crawled again through the store, this time back to where Jenn lay waiting.
"Great," she said. "A little black book. Well, you can forget putting my name in there."
Vitus paused, over-analyzing her statement and attempting to gauge the amount of sarcasm with which it was spoken. "This," he said, finally, "is my address book. In it is a list of all my clients, their phone numbers, and their addresses. One of them screwed us big time and is the reason we're in this mess in the first place."
Jenn's eyes widened.
"Yeah," said Vitus.
Jenn turned to the window again. The Russians were still there, unsurprisingly. "Okay, so how do we get out of here?"
Vitus' expression was as solid as that of the statuary he kept in the shop's northwestern corner. He pulled the pistol from his coat and summoned his best action hero voice. "The same way we came in," he said.
"Wow. Where did you get that?"
"It's a loaner from Philip."
"And you know how to use it?"
Vitus smiled.
"This is a side of you I never, ever thought I'd see, and I've got to admit, I'm liking it," she said, and she was telling the absolute truth.
Since it became apparent that the Russians were not prepared to leave anytime soon, the antique-dealer and his partner made a plan. They knew it would take them five minutes to run from the shop to the corner where (they hoped) the taxi driver would be waiting, so Vitus counted the minutes on his pocket watch. When the time came, they held hands as they eased the back door open just wide enough for them to squeeze through, and then they crawled to the alley. Jenn's hands were full with her own bags, and Vitus was much worse off. He had two bags of his own that he was forced to carry with one hand while he kept the other on the pistol's handle. Maybe once they were home free he could put the gun away, but for now, it was more important for him to endure the struggle. If nothing else, Vitus thought as he hobbled along with one weighted arm, it would help build muscle, which he had decided he would now need if he was to adopt this sort of lifestyle permanently.
They wound down the streets, past row after row of safe, perfect houses (oblivious to the occasional couple or bathrobe garbed man who watched them curiously from their front porches) until they saw the rendezvous point not far ahead, and there waiting for them was the glorious yet drab orange taxi and its driver, who chewed impatiently on a large cigar. The driver, noticing his fare approaching, sighed and pulled a lever to release the lock on the trunk. He watched from the rear view mirror as they loaded their ragged luggage and then scrambled into the backseat, where they engaged in a kiss that lasted fifteen seconds. As they settled awkwardly back into their seats, the driver shook his head, and they were off.
"Back to the docks?" the driver asked as he drew the enormous, unlit cigar from his mouth.
Vitus pulled the small black book from his breast pocket and flipped through a few pages. "Actually, there's a private museum at the end of Bering Street in Anchorage. We need to meet a friend there first."
"You got it."
Vitus pat his coat, comforted by the bulge of the pistol he hadn't yet needed. His hands fell to his pockets, and he was reminded of something he had forgotten in all the action. He pulled a piece of toast from his coat and handed it to Jenn. She took it, and they ate their pieces of toast silently as the taxi sped away from the place they had formerly called home.
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