The Fool's Run

armpit. With the tuxedo jacket covering it, the camera would be invisible. Satisfied, he turned out the light, picked up his alligator briefcase, and rode the elevator down eight floors to the lobby.
    The guard at the front desk was watching an Orioles—White Sox game on a grainy black-and-white television. He turned his head at the sound of the elevator.
    “How are we doing?” the thief said as he crossed the marble floor.
    “Down three to two, but we’re coming up in the eighth.” The guard pushed the sign-out register across the desk. “You going to the big party?”
    “Yes.” The thief glanced at his watch. Right on time. The guard checked his briefcase, deferentially opening the half dozen file folders inside. They contained routine personnel papers. Nothing technical.
    “S’okay, and have a good time,” the guard said. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”
    “I’ll be careful,” said the thief, with a quick, pleasant smile. His teeth were white against his dark face. Sharp dresser, the guard thought as the thief went down the steps and out the door, though his tux was a little too full in the shoulder.
    The guard looked at his watch and sighed. Five hours to go. He opened the drawer that held his lunchbox where a package of Hostess cupcakes waited. He knew if he ate them now, he’d regret it at lunch time. He opened the box and took out the cellophane-covered cupcakes and stared at them. Chocolate frosting with pink squiggles. God, it was a lonely job.

Chapter 1
    S HE WAS TALL and lanky and wore an expensive white summer suit with a complementary cream-colored shoulder bag and jet-black wraparound fuck-you sunglasses. Her ash-blond hair just touched her shoulders.
    She would fit in nicely with the Concorde crowd. On the river, she was wildly out of place. Her business heels dug into the side of the levee as she came down. The summer suit, light as it was, clung to her thighs like wet paint. At the base of the levee she brushed through a screen of head-high willows, took a few steps out on the sand, kicked off her shoes, and scooped them up with one hand. She walked like an athlete, like a long-distance runner.
    I was working on a sandbar below the St. Paul Municipal Airport, where the Mississippi curls away from the Twin Cities. It’s a rough river off the bar, deep and muddy brown. It smells of dead carp, rotting wood, and diesel fuel. A half mile upstream, the St. Paul skyline soars over the river, the buildings more impressive for the hundred-foot bluffs beneath them.
    A gravel road ran behind the levee, so it was possible to get in by car, as the blonde had. I’d come by water. The boat was tied off on a driftwood stump, and the easel sat out on the sand, facing the bluff across the river.
    I work in watercolor and sometimes pastel. A newspaper critic once wrote that “Mr. Kidd paints in a colorful representational style borne of the Second Generation of New York School Abstract Expressionism.” One of the basic rules of life is that artists don’t question favorable newspaper reviews. But I brood about that borne when I’ve had too much beer or gotten stuck on a tough painting. Did he mean born? Or did he really mean borne?
    I had to give up on the day’s painting. This bluff was a monster. The rock was mostly a golden yellow, crossed halfway down by a band of pink. Weedy little saplings sprouted from crevices on the rock face, and the mix of green leaves and pink rock set up uncontrollable vibrations. Then too, I’d made a couple of bad moves. I said “shit” and stopped. The painting was gone.
    “Mr. Kidd?”
    The only other person who ever came to the bar was a snuff-chewing catfisherman with a plastic drywall bucket for a seat, a half-pound of spoiled chicken livers for bait, and a face like an English walnut. He’d sit and spit and never say a word.
    “Yeah.” She’d looked good coming down the levee. Up close, she looked even better.
    “I’m Ann Smith.” She took off her sunglasses with one hand and stuck out the other. I shook it. Her hand was cool and soft, a business hand with short squared nails, no polish, no rings. We have an abundance of good-looking blondes in Minnesota. Even so, she was a head-turner. Green eyes with gold flecks. Square chin. A few freckles on her too-tidy nose. Surgery? Maybe. The most delicate scent floated about her, a mix of iris and vanilla. “A woman at your apartment building said you were working down here. I hope you don’t