Tobias Greenglass

I kissed the skin of my least favorite beetle, the taste of pennies sharp on my lips. After flicking the on switch, I set the hand-sized mech on the tiled floor and prepared to run across the hallway.

The security guard, suitably distracted, didn’t notice me as I lifted the painting from its place on the wall. I paused for a breath and listened for any footsteps behind me. The museum only employed human guards inside the vast building. Outside, I would also have to worry about the mech dragon guards.

I didn’t hear anything, so I quickly walked down the gallery, painting in hand. Now that the beetle was found, every guard would be on high alert. 

My getaway driver also happened to be my inside agent. He was one of the day-shift guards, and had told me about an ill-used back exit through a closet to an alleyway behind the museum. He’d wait for me there, in the nondescript carriage we’d purchased as part of our plans.

This heist had been months in the making. I spent hours poring over guard schedules and maps of the floors. My partner-in-crime got a job at the museum and worked there for months until he found a weakness, a flaw in the layout, which we will exploit tonight.

Our target? A rather large painting depicting a young woman standing in a dressing gown, looking straight at the artist. A gray parrot sits on a stand on the right side of the canvas. I don’t notice anything special about it; but our client certainly does. She’s rewarding us handsomely for our efforts tonight.

I managed to get to the back door without incident. As I walked through the museum, I noticed a few roving guards, but they didn’t see me. Taking care not to bump the painting on anything, I found the handle of the janitorial closet. The door, already oiled, opened and closed noiselessly. I slipped inside the closet, barely fitting with the large painting, and pushed aside the assortment of mops until I found the outer door. The knob was rusty. I carefully opened it and the chill breeze shocked my system. After stepping outside, I arranged the brooms and mops to their original positions and closed the door behind me. 

Then I turned and surveyed the alley. There was no carriage.

My heart doubled its already fast pace. There was no carriage!

I needed to leave this place. Soon enough the guards would find me. Thinking of the fastest way to my apartment, I turned and ran down the alley. But I wasn’t fast enough - a flash of light from the museum’s rooftop illuminates my face. I start to sprint, cursing Cale Pickford’s name with every step.

I managed to get to my apartment without any further incidents, and I stowed the painting behind the false wall in my room. None of my housemates even stirred.

The apartment, so subdivided over the years, held 6 tenants, including myself and Pickford. We were all low-class working men. I’d previously held a job maintaining a manor. But I was sacked a few months ago, and when the bills started piling up, I’d jumped at the chance to fulfill this Ruslanian princess’s request. And all would have been well, except that blasted Pickford’s no-show threw a wrench into the whole plan.

After spending a while pacing around the room, plotting revenge, I finally succumbed to the rage. I walked across the hall and knocked on the door, trying not to alert our housemates to the situation. “Pickford! Open up!” I growled.

Nothing happened. I knocked again, then tried the handle. To my surprise, the door opened - unlocked. My candle illuminated strange shapes on the wall.The room was in such disarray that I felt shocked. Pickford was typically so fastidious! He must have left in a hurry instead of helping me with the heist. What a coward.

The smell of cat assaulted my nostrils, and soon I spotted a box on the floor with sand in it. And there was the vile creature on the windowsill, its bright eyes reflecting the candle flame. How had Pickford managed to keep it quiet? How long did he have it hiding in here? What a blatant lease-breaker!

I gave up after poking around the clutter for a few minutes. No item gave any indication of Pickford’s whereabouts. So I put everything back where it was, shut the door behind me, and returned to my room. I quickly succumbed to my crippling exhaustion. I’d been awake all night, and even a for-hire museum thief needs his rest. I slept for a couple hours, content in knowing that Pickford would get his just desserts.

In the morning, after the other housemates left for their work, I hung the blue flag from my open window. Soon enough, the sound of flapping metal wings alerted me to the incoming presence of a messenger pigeon. It asked for my name and message. I used a fake name, and tried to keep my message discreet. “Begin message. Pickford, I really needed you last night, and I almost got in trouble because you didn’t fulfill your end of the bargain. I don’t mind not having to split the wages with you, but you’d better watch out because I’ll be angry when I find you,” I say, spitting out words like nails from my mouth. “All I’m saying is, watch your back, Pickford. End message.”

The bird sat for a moment, digesting the words, then repeated them. I confirmed the message and then told the bird where to look for Pickford. “He could be at his place of employment, the Metropolitan Museum. Or possibly the northern end of Central Park.”

“Estimated time of arrival is tomorrow. That will cost 75 cents. Will leave immediately after payment is made.”

I paid with a couple of my precious coins inserted into the slot, and with a whir of a motor, the mechanical pigeon lifted off my windowsill. I watched it fly into the smoky air of New Amsterdam and cracked my knuckles. Won’t Pickford be so surprised to hear that message…

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

My stomach grumbled, and I had no food, so I slipped on my jacket and left the apartment. Down the street was a little cart where a little lady sold little loaves of bread. 

“Good morning, Lorraine,” I smiled at her. She didn’t smile back, which was definitely atypical. “Could I just have a bun, please?”

Along with bread, Lorraine also sold newspapers. And I happened to see a familiar face right on the front cover of the New Amsterdam Times - there I was, with my broad forehead and equally broad mustache. “Good morning, Mr. Greenglass. I will get your bun for you. But first, you should see the newspaper.” She turned to reach a paper bag, and spoke quietly. “I would like to warn the person on the cover, especially if it is you, Mr. Greenglass. Whoever it is, they are famous now, you see, and it is not safe for them to be on the street. So maybe that newly famous person should stay inside for a while. The museum likes to keep their paintings, you see, and they do not take kindly to borrowers. Now here is your bun.” She handed it to me in a brown paper sack. When I tried to give her the coins, she waved me off and said, “Keep the money, Mr. Greenglass. You need it more than I do. Good luck.”

“Lorraine, I-” I tried to talk, but she interrupted.

“Mr. Greenglass, I can only pretend the picture is not you for a moment. The longer you stay here, you see, the more trouble it will make for both of us. I will not report you now because you have been so good to me, but if I see you again I will not hesitate. It is my civic duty now that I am in this country. So please go now, and good luck in your newfound fame.” She turned her back on me, and a cold wind blew up the street. I turned up my collar and tried to nonchalantly rush home. 

I ate my bread in my room and thought about the situation. I needed to contact the princess. I’d been instructed to do so through the Ruslanian embassy here in New Amsterdam.

A messenger pigeon flew up to my windowsill just as I put the blue flag out. “Message for Tobias Greenglass?” It inquired.

“Yes,” I replied, then noticed the royal family’s coat of arms on its chest. I showed it my identification card.

“Play message?”

“Yes.”

“‘Mr. Greenglass, this is Paul Leontiy Yakovich on behalf of Princess Eva Sofia Vladislavovna. She is very disappointed that you were caught on film and would like to know if you have a reason why. Because of this mishap, plans have changed. You must take the object with you to Constantinople. Her Highness will meet you there. This pigeon will give you your airship ticket. Be sure that you are not spotted at the aeroport. If you have any objections, now is not the time. Pack your bags and leave the city now. End message.’ Would you like to make a reply?”

“Yes. Begin message. Your Highness, may I extend my apologies. My partner did not come to the scene as previously planned, and I had to make an impromptu escape plan. The object is secure at my location, but I will now follow your instructions and see you in Constantinople. Thank you for your generosity, Your Highness. End message.” Its chest hatch opened, and I took the airship ticket out.

New Amsterdam to Constantinople? What a drag. Previously we had planned to just drop the object at the embassy, but Pickford’s disappearance threw a wrench into everything. I fumed while I stuffed my meager belongings into my carpetbag. It was my father’s until he passed. Because neither of us travelled much, it was still in good shape despite its age.

After packing, I opened the false compartment in my wall and removed the painting. The woman and her parrot stared at me balefully as I carefully removed the nails that held the canvas to the wooden frame. I made sure that nothing ripped or broke - I’m no barbarian!

I rolled the canvas into a long tube, then wondered how I could disguise it. The tube was about my height.

My heart skipped a beat when I saw the embassy pigeon still sitting on my windowsill. “Can I help you?” I asked it.

“I was instructed to ask if you need anything,” it replied.

“Well, I need some way to disguise this canvas.”

“I will inform my supervisor of your request. Is there anything else?”

“Well, some money would be nice. For the trip.”

“Your expenses will be paid by the princess. Do not worry. Is there anything else?”

“No, that’s all.”

“I will inform my supervisor of your request,” it repeated as it spread its wings and flew away. 

Stars, I hate talking to those mechs. The tinny voices are just so… strange. And trying to get my point across can be frustrating. This one didn’t seem as stupid as the others I’ve spoken to. The embassy must shell out for a better model. 

I double-checked my carpet bag. There’s nothing else that needs to be packed, but it’s strange to think that all my belongings can fit into this little container. I can’t believe that I have to go all the way to Constantinople. Pickford is such a joke.

My ticket said my flight would leave in just a couple hours. But it wasn’t a luxury aeroline. That would make my job a little harder. More people would be on the airship, and the more eyes on me and my cargo, the greater risk it would be to my safety. 

So Princess Vladislavovna can pay for a fancy messenger pigeon, but not a simple airship ticket? Hmph. I’m not complaining too much. With the amount of money she’s paying me, I could buy myself a first-class airship ticket every month without feeling the strain.

I bet that the princess will give me Pickford’s wage as well - I’ll make twice as much as I thought I would. Then I can start over, in a new life. Maybe I’ll do it right this time.

After hearing shouting outside, I peeked out the window. It was a crowd of rich people, their clean clothes shining in blatant disregard for the trash scattered on the sidewalk. They held signs above their heads - the signs had my face on it!

Well, an approximation of my face. Enough that someone would look twice if they saw me. It was the mustache, I decided. A well-cultivated mustache distinguishes a face. And my hair is slightly longer than your average dandy. Quickly I knew what I needed to do; but I could barely bring myself to do it.

I cursed Cale Pickford’s name as I shaved off my illustrious hair, leaving my head and face bald.

Over these uncharted waters

We pass over the sea

And I keep wondering

Will you come home to me?

The sky is so vast

But I am so small

This is why I ask

Do you miss me at all?

Sometimes I think

I should come home

Though the ocean welcomes me

With a crown of foam.