Sweet Revenge

against the bricks for support and balance. Even ankles had to be well tuned, flexible like a runners or a dancer’s.
    The body and mind of a thief were as important, oftenmore so, than the bag of tools required to open a lock or foil an alarm.
    There was little activity on the streets, an occasional gypsy cab scouting for a fare, a lone drunk who had wandered over from a less affluent neighborhood. Even New York could be subtle at four A.M . If there had been a parade with marching bands and floats, it would have made no difference. For the figure in black there was only the reality of the rope. A missed grip, an instant of carelessness, would have meant a nasty death.
    But success would mean … everything.
    Inch by cautious inch, the narrow terrace with its abundance of potted plants and sturdy railings came closer. The pores and cracks of the bricks, the tiny flaws in the mortar, could be seen clearly. If the drunk had looked up and been able to focus, the black figure would have appeared tiny, an insect crawling along the face of the building.
    No one would have believed him. In the fuzzy-headed morning after, he wouldn’t have believed himself.
    It was tempting to hurry, to give in to cramping shoulders and aching arms and just take the last few feet in a leap. Steady, patient, the figure hung in the air, letting instinct guide the final descent.
    Black sneakers skimmed the railing, swung back, and found purchase, stood poised there, slim and dramatic. No one heard the laugh, but it came, quick and satisfied.
    There was time, now that feet were firmly planted on the terrace floor, to look out at New York, and the odds that had been beaten. It was a great city, a favored city, almost a home for one who had never really found a home. It had grit and glitter, and what it lacked in compassion, it made up for in possibilities.
    Central Park was a patchwork of color, majestically rural from this height and in this season. Trees were gold and bronze and scarlet, triumphant in their final burst of color before the cold and the wind swirled down from Canada to sweep the leaves aside.
    This stretch of Central Park West was quiet. It was a street for doormen and dog walkers, for doctors and old money. Though it was part of the city, the true frenzy, the rush of reality, was a cab ride, and a world, away.
    Beyond the trees, beyond the reservoir, buildings sprangup, taller and sleeker than this elegant old apartment house, They were the future, perhaps. They were certainly the present. In the dark they were shadows looming, or perhaps promising. Anything that could be bought, sold, traded, or desired could be found within those buildings or, a bit grimier, on the streets. There was a price to any facet of luxury or lust. New York understood that and wasn’t coy about it.
    The city was dozing now, resting up for the day only a few hours away, but its energy was still in the air, pulsing. There could be great victory here, or miserable failure, or every sensation in between. Some, like the thief, had experienced it all.
    Turning from the rail, the figure walked quietly across the terrace and knelt by the doors. There was only the lock to deal with now, and locks were only an illusion of safety. From a dark leather bag came a small tool kit.
    It was a very good lock, one the thief approved of. It took just under two minutes to pick it. There were some who could have done it in less, but they were few.
    As the latch clicked open, the tools were carefully replaced. Organization, control, and caution were what kept thieves out of jail. This one had no intention of going behind bars. There was still too much to be done.
    But tonight the future would have to wait. Tonight there were ice cold diamonds and red hot rubies for the taking. Jewels were the only booty worth stealing. They had life and magic and history. They had, perhaps most important, a kind of honor. Even in the dark a gem would flirt and flash and tease, like a lover. A painting, however beautiful, could only be stared at, admired from a distance. Cash was cold, lifeless, and practical. Jewels were personal.
    For this thief every heist was personal.
    The sneakers were silent on the gleaming floor. There was a light, homey scent of paste wax that lingered from the morning’s polishing and competed against some spicy autumnal bouquet. Because it appealed, the thief smiled and took a moment to draw it in. But only a moment. In the generous shoulder bag was a