“The Electric Thief” by C. Lue Lyron


The Miami night is humid, as she places one foot over the other, steadily grasping her rope, trying not to shift her weight very much, minimizing the strain on her well-trained arms. Being twenty two stories above the street, the penthouse balcony should be unlocked, saving valuable minutes.
Her innate sense of time tells her she still has over half of the opera, Lucia di Lammermoor , which should be at intermission, now, in which to complete the job.

One sliding glass door later, she carefully considers each step, as she releases a capsule. The thin gas emitted is intended to color any electric eyes, any trip beams. Without a single sound, she passes the large living room; if only she could be sure the blueprints were correct, but they were even chancier than the gas, which she could only assume was working, to reveal not a single security measure remaining. She takes a hunch, forsaking the left side of the room; the door has a decoration that seems to confirm it to lead to the kitchen. At least, it seems to; domestic furnishings are not typically of much interest to her. She touches her backpack for security. Her device remains cradled inside.

Her guess to exit the living room through the right door leads her face to face with a pair of paintings, her quarry. The first is a girl, holding a doll. From her uncle’s books, she recognizes the impressionistic work of
Miroslav Kraljević. She is surprised to see paintings of this quality outside of the Louvre, or the museum at Zagrebu, yet she has been tipped that these are genuine. She pauses a moment to stare at the second one, a Požega landscape painted in the impressionistic atmosphere plenerističkom influence. She begins to remove it carefully from its mounting, prepared to strap it to her back as soon as she finishes with the safe.

She can hardly believe her fortune: the safe is directly behind the Kraljević! Now is the time for the device, tested time and again over the past two months. The patent for its adjustments had not been filed; as it was, its dodgy purpose did not lend it to large scale commercial production. She affixes its lock-negating electrodes, carefully reading the feedback before channeling the current that will reverse the magnetic polarity of the locks inside its door. Despite her noble intentions, a part of her relished this clandestine activity---perhaps the worst thing she’d ever done in her life, certainly in a court of law. She banishes any thought of being caught; the gamble requires her full commitment .

Not a sound can be heard. The readout checks out, twice, now she chooses the currency of her charge. “Takav uređaj graciozan, ona misli. Ako mi je ovaj događaj na puno radno vrijeme, ja bih provesti dizajn odabrati odgovarajući odgovor valute automatski, ali ja sam htjela biti u mogućnosti nadzirati kvalitetu.”*

[i]"Such a graceful device," she thinks. "If I were doing this full-time, I'd carry out the design to pick the proper response currency automatically, but I wanted to be able to monitor the quality (of the charge)./i]

With a smell of ozone, the door swings open. She quickly rummages for the unmarked bonds, leaving an antique pearl necklace; it seems to be a family heirloom, and not worth the price to her conscience to fence. She pauses to unwrap a parchment; by its brittleness it seems a hundred years old. Suddenly she becomes aware of a breath.

“That’s quite an impressive safecracking device you have there,”

Even with her nerves like steel, she very nearly drops her equipment. She stares like a deer caught by surprise in headlights on a country road. He chuckles, waving his hand downward, slowly, a calculated gesture. He appears to be blond, or have blond highlights, atop a nicely shaped head, with a body that showed its athleticism by the silhouette.

“I won’t hurt you. I want to know about the device though. Where did you find it?

“I made it.”

“You made it?” Clearly, he is amused. Damn him, doubtlessly the police have been alerted already. Or had they?

“I am a descendent of Nikola Tesla. I suppose it runs in the family.”

“You’re not joking, are you? You are clearly a lady who takes a notion in mind and pursues it with all seriousness. Though I’ve little reason to believe you, I do. I’m familiar with his work. Do you see these devices in your mind, as you begin to invent them?”

“I...yes, I do.”

“Please, come over to this sofa in front of me for a moment; relax, I won’t shoot you. What, pray tell, is someone of your intellect doing burglarizing a penthouse? Though I must admit, I applaud your careful work casing this place, by the way; to choose a night when the occupants were attending the opera is rather brash, considering the many condos you might choose that lack year-round residence, and still come off with quite a haul---I suppose, in emulation of that “Spider-Man” fellow, as the press has begun calling him. He must be an Army Ranger, to climb these buildings so many times without falling. I theorize he’s doing it with his bare hands and feet, to avoid...ah, but you wonder how you miscalculated. Eglise Gutiérrez was ill at the last moment. Though her understudy is quite good, I decided to exchange my tickets for next week and return home.”

He looks the lithe burglar up and down, leering at her sleek black leather outfit, topped by a scarlet mask of silk, with two eyeholes cut out. “Slavic accent?”

“I...I am Croatian.” What was this fellow’s idea?

“I suppose you’re procuring the Kraljević for the museum?” He laughs at his own jest.

“May I?” he says, casually, unraveling the parchment, and setting the bonds aside on back of the couch. Then he looks it over for a moment, lifting his eyes long enough to meet her inquisitive gaze. “I appreciate that you left the necklace. Belongs to an aunt, Liuke.” His accent seems like that of the American South; perhaps he had lived in the northern part of this state at sometime. Only the Croatian name sounds European, giving it an exotic flair by contrast to his sing-song syllables.

“How very appropriate!” he chuckles, like a brook overrunning shale stones. “Do you see the name, down here in the notes? You recognize these notes in Serbian?”

“I haven’t had a chance to read them.”

“Nebjosa Petrovic. This inventor worked with your famous ancestor. These are incomplete plans for a twin turbine. A Serbian, I believe. They should be worth a pretty penny! But tell me---what is your motivation? You might as well confess to me. I’ve not harmed you in any way.”

“You have alerted the police?”

“Perhaps! Maybe I’d tell you that, for my own safety. Then again, should they arrive, it might

be a false alarm. It happens.”

She releases her breath heavily, then after a few seconds, relents. “My father is in prison, as he has been for most of my life. I suppose he was my inspiration to do this thing tonight, for he was the best cat burglar in Zagreb, an artist as much as any of his siblings. He has served almost all his sentence, but he is going to die of cancer before he is paroled. I anguish over the thought of him dying behind bars. I want him home, surrounded by my mother and sister and I. That will take money that I do not have, money I need quickly.”

He studies her there by the moonlight, in steady breaths. “You know what? I believe you. Can I tell you a story, about this blueprint?” She nods.

“This was some of Tesla’s early work before he was paired with Thomas Edison. Our boy genius here claimed he was offered $50,000 U.S. currency---about a million, today, adjusted for inflation if he redesigned Edison's inefficient motor and generators, which were too large and wasted a lot of energy. Tesla worked night and day on the project and gave the Edison Company valuable new patents in the the process.

Finally Tesla asked for the payment for his work, and do you know how that bastard Edison responded? "Tesla, that was a joke! You don’t understand our humor here in America." So much for that! Tesla was paid a mere US$18 per week. It would have taken over ...let’s see...five decades to earn the amount he was promised. Tesla resigned when he was denied even a suitable raise. You know, he found himself digging ditches for a short period of time for the Edison company; an awful job.”

“But he wasn’t defeated,” she replies.”I believe, about that point, he began to focus on his AC polyphase system.”

“Yes, how about that? You know, if you went to jail, you could very well spend the time considering some engineering system, yourself. This device of yours is a bit beyond me,” he says, looking it over.
“But I’ll bet it would make your ancestor proud. It’s almost crude enough for me to make heads or tails of it. Listen, my masked friend, I find you fascinating. I think you should take this bouillon, and perhaps, some of these certificates. If you can make it out of here without breaking your neck, I’ll let you go---but I want to ask something of you. I want you to send me a letter, to the address on this card, with a picture of you and your father when you take him home.” He places the card in her hand, pressing it into her palm. Now...this bit is not quite necessary, but I would like a kiss from you.”

She stares at him, perplexed, her jaw dropped open. Was he serious?

She leans forward, smelling a certain sweetness on his breath, like a peach. She waits before touching her lips to his, feeling their warmth. The kiss is slow, lingering. His hand lightly touches her silk scarf mask, and she caresses the hand. She reaches back with her tongue and touches his, as a flood begins in the core of her.

She invites his weight, slowly on top of her, this man she has never before met. “Does he plan to have me,” she thinks, “as his price to let me go? Can I let myself do such a thing?” She wonders if perhaps she can...but would she always question, has she paid a whore’s price for her freedom, or were they truly inflamed by animal passions in the moment.

“Always, I think several steps ahead, as I go with my feelings,” she thinks. His sinewy hands caress her hair that protrudes from her red mask. He balances on his knees, whispering, “may I please just bite...?” into her ear, as he begins to lightly nibble her ear lobe. “Yes,” she coos softly.

He begins to exhale his hot breath onto her ear, as his fingertips outline the jugular vein on her throat, once, twice, as though feeling her racing pulse. “I feel your heart pounding from here,” he says of the blood racing through her veins. “Please, let me kiss you here before you go.” She nods her assent, and his lips begin to brush her neck in light strokes, subtle arcs that mirror the rhythm of his breathing. Then he puts his mouth on her neck, pressing his tongue against it again and again as she writhes, making soft sounds.

“Is your leg comfortable?” he stops to ask.

“My butt is going to sleep,” she confesses with a laugh.

He lets her move into a more comfortable position. Having won some of her trust, she lets his finger drag across her chest, hardening her nipple. He gives her breast a light squeeze, as he meets her tongue with his own.

Then, with a final sigh, he raises up on his well-defined arms, muscles flexing beneath his sleeves. “And now, if I’m ever to hear from you again, I suppose we should part. I’d invite you to take the elevator, but you wouldn’t want to be recognized.”

With a mix of anticipation and relief, she gets up from the couch, taking up the documents he hands to her.

“I have to thank you for an evening I won’t soon forget,” he says, picking up the painting as he walks with her to the balcony. There, he opens the moonlit door, to the torrid Miami night.

Of her own accord, she gives him a kiss; his hand climbs the front of her as her legs squeeze together, and his hand pets her beneath her top, before his fingers curl away as though waving good-bye.

Then, he hops up on to the ledge, looking out over the city as the breeze blows in from the harbor.
“Lucia di Lammermoor is a fairly long opera,” he says, “but unless the patrons have stopped for a sherry with friends first, they will be winding their way home. Be very careful on the way down.”

She pulls out her grappling hook, and as she secures it, she watches in disbelief as, with the painting strapped to his back, her mysterious paramour begins to ease down the balcony, gripping the side with his hands. In shock, she remembers that, she, too, must depart, setting herself up to rappel, watching the extraordinary athleticism of her fellow thief. He begins to let himself down the side of the building to the next ledge, depending only upon his arm strength to secure his perilous way, handhold by handhold, gradually descending to the street below.

Her innate sense of time tells what her watch confirms; she still has half of the opera, Lucia di Lammermoor, which should be at intermission, now, in which to complete the job.

The torrid Miami night begins to take its toll, as steadily she places one foot over the other on her skyline precarious perch. Firmly she grasps her rope, not shifting weight very much, minimizing the strain on her well-trained arms. Twenty two stories above the street, the penthouse balcony should be unlocked, saving valuable minutes.

One sliding glass door later, she carefully considers each step, as she releases a capsule. The thin gas emitted is intended to color any electric eyes, any trip beams. She touches her backpack, which cradles her device inside, for security.

Her guess to exit the living room through the right door leads her face to face with a pair of paintings, her quarry. The first is a girl, holding a doll. From her uncle’s books, she recognizes the impressionistic work of

Miroslav Kraljević. She is surprised to see paintings of this quality outside of the Louvre, or the museum at Zagrebu, yet she has been tipped that these are genuine. She pauses a moment to stare at the second one, a Požega landscape painted in the impressionistic atmosphere plenerističkom influence. She removes it carefully from its mounting, prepared to strap it to her back as soon as she finishes with the safe.

She can hardly believe her fortune: the safe is directly behind the Kraljević! Now, for the device--- tested time and again over the past two months. The patent for its adjustments had not been filed; as it was, its dodgy purpose did not lend it to large scale commercial production. She affixes its lock-negating electrodes, carefully reading the feedback before channeling the current that will reverse the magnetic polarity of the locks inside its door.

Silence. The readout checks out, twice, now she chooses the currency of her charge. “Takav uređaj graciozan, ona misli. Ako mi je ovaj događaj na puno radno vrijeme, ja bih provesti dizajn odabrati odgovarajući odgovor valute automatski, ali ja sam htjela biti u mogućnosti nadzirati kvalitetu.”*

*Such a graceful device, she thinks. If I were doing this full time, I'd carry out this design to pick the proper response current automatically, but I wanted to be able to monitor the quality (of the charge)--C Lue

With a smell of ozone, the door swings open. She quickly rummages for the unmarked bonds, leaving an antique pearl necklace; it seems to be a family heirloom, against her conscience to fence. She pauses to unwrap a parchment; by its brittleness it seems a hundred years old. Suddenly she becomes aware of a breath.

“That’s quite an impressive safecracking device you have there,”

She very nearly drops her equipment. He chuckles, waving his hand downward, slowly, a calculated gesture. He appears blond, with a body that showed its athleticism by the silhouette.

“I won’t hurt you. Where did you find this device, though?

“I made it.”

“You made it?”

“I am a descendent of Nikola Tesla.”

“Suppose it runs in the family," he says, in an American Southern accent---perhaps from upstate. "Not joking, are you? Clearly a lady who takes a notion in mind and pursues it with all seriousness. I’m familiar with his work.”

“I see these devices in my mind, as I invent them. Like Tesla.”

“Please, come over to this sofa in front of me for a moment; relax. Why’s someone of your intellect burglarizing a penthouse? Careful work casing this place, by the way; to choose a night when the occupants were attending the opera. Rather brash, considering the many condos you might choose that lack year-round residence, and still come off with quite a haul---in emulation of that fellow in the papers; to climb these buildings so many times without falling I theorize he’s doing it with his bare hands and feet, to avoid...ah, but how did you miscalculate? Eglise Gutiérrez was ill at the last moment. Though her understudy is quite good, I decided to exchange my tickets for next week and return home.”

He looks the lithe burglar up and down, leering at her sleek black leather outfit, topped by a scarlet mask of silk, with two eyeholes cut out. “Slavic accent?”

“I...I am Croatian.” What was this fellow’s idea?

“Heh---I suppose you’re procuring the Kraljević for the museum? May I?” he says, casually, unraveling the parchment, and setting the bonds aside on back of the couch. Then he looks it over for a moment, lifting his eyes long enough to meet her inquisitive gaze. “I appreciate that you left the necklace. Belongs to an aunt, Liuke.”

He chuckles, like a brook overrunning shale stones. “Do you see the name, down here in the notes? You recognize these notes in Serbian?”

“I haven’t had a chance to read them.”

“Nebjosa Petrovic. This inventor worked with your famous ancestor. These are incomplete plans for a twin turbine. A Serbian, I believe. They should be worth a pretty penny! But tell me---what is your motivation? Confess to me. I’ve not harmed you in any way.”

“You have alerted the police?”

“Perhaps! Maybe I’d tell you that, for my own safety. Then again, should they arrive, it might

be a false alarm. It happens.”

After a few seconds, she relents. “My father is in prison, as he has been for most of my life. I suppose he was my inspiration to do this thing tonight, for he was the best cat burglar in Zagreb. He has served almost all his sentence, but he is going to die of cancer before parole. I anguish over the thought of him dying behind bars. I want him home, surrounded by my mother and sister and I. That will take money that I do not have, money I need quickly.”

He studies her there by the moonlight, in steady breaths. “You know what? I believe you. Can I tell you my thoughts on this blueprint?” She nods.

“This was some of Tesla’s early work before he was paired with Thomas Edison. He never drew his own blueprints, so the hand here is that of Petrovic.”

“This device of yours is a bit beyond me,” he says, looking it over. “But I’ll bet it would make your ancestor proud. I can almost make heads or tails of it. Listen, my fascinating masked friend, I think you should take this bouillon, some of these certificates, and these blueprints. Make it out of here without breaking your neck, you’re free. I want you to send me a letter, to the address on this card, with a picture of you and your father when you take him home.” He places the card in her hand, pressing it into her palm. Now...this bit is not quite necessary, but I would like a kiss from you.”

She stares at him, perplexed, her jaw dropped open.

She leans forward, smelling sweetness on his breath, like a peach. She waits before touching her lips to his, feeling their warmth. His hand, which she caresses, lightly touches her silk scarf mask. She reaches back with her tongue and touches his, as a flood begins in the core of her. She invites his weight, slowly on top of her, this man she has never before met. “Does he plan to have me,” she thinks, “as his price to let me go? Always, several steps ahead, as I act with my feelings,” she thinks. His sinewy hands comb her hair that protrudes from her red mask. He balances on his knees, whispering, “may I please just bite...?” into her ear, as he lightly nibbles her ear lobe. “Yes,” she coos softly.

He begins to exhale his hot breath onto her ear, as his fingertips outline the jugular vein on her throat twice. “I feel your heart pounding from here,” he says of the blood racing through her veins. “Please, before you go....” She nods her assent, and his lips begin to brush her neck in light strokes, subtle arcs that mirror the rhythm of his breathing. Then he puts his mouth on her neck, pressing his tongue against it again and again as she writhes, making soft sounds.

“Is your leg comfortable?” he stops to ask.

“My butt is going to sleep,” she laughs.

He lets her move into a more comfortable position. Having won some of her trust, she lets his finger drag across her chest, hardening her nipple. He gives her breast a light squeeze, as he meets her tongue with his own.

With a final sigh, he raises up on his well-defined arms, muscles flexing beneath his sleeves. “And now.... I’d invite you to take the elevator, but you wouldn’t want to be recognized.”

With a mix of anticipation and relief, she gets up from the couch, taking up the documents.

“I have to thank you for an evening I won’t soon forget,” he says, picking up the painting as he walks with her to the balcony. There, he opens the moonlit door, to the torrid Miami night.

Of her own accord, she gives him a kiss; his hand climbs the front of her as her legs squeeze together, and his hand pets her beneath her top, before his fingers curl away as though waving good-bye.

Then, he hops up on to the ledge, looking out over the city as the breeze blows in from the harbor.

“Lucia di Lammermoor is not too long an opera,” he says, “Unless the patrons have stopped for a sherry with friends first, they will be winding their way home. Careful on the way down.”

She pulls out her grappling hook; as she secures it, she watches in disbelief. With the painting strapped to his back, her mysterious paramour begins to ease down the balcony, gripping the side with his hands. In shock, she remembers that, she, too, must depart, setting herself up to rappel, watching the extraordinary athleticism of her fellow thief. He lets himself down the side of the building to the next ledge, depending only upon his arm strength to secure his perilous way, handhold by handhold, gradually descending to the street below.