It had been one year exactly since Gerald Heathrow first visited the antique shop in a blue silk suit and brown loafers without socks. Usually the rich dressed the worst. Most of the time they weren't all that smart either. And if I was really lucky, they would be entirely too trusting too. To what I thought was my good fortune, Gerald had been all three.

He asked for an estimate on a Kleinz lantern from the early 1600's. It was a nice piece, Shastin, solid brass, never repaired, with only two pressure dings on its belly.

I quoted him a price of $9,000 and offered him the same, cash on the spot, if he wanted to let go of it. He politely declined, proudly saying it would compliment his growing collection. That was my cue. After we spoke at length of antiquities and he left, I photocopied the estimate and later that night made an entry in my black book with the date and the following notes: silk suit, sock less loafers, Gerald, growing collection, idiot.

You see, if you waited a year before you robbed a client, chances were their affiliations with your company wouldn't be scrutinized since police detectives usually only questioned more recent acquaintances - going back a full year was just too much to ask. In fact, there had been only a few instances where a sharp Detective actually backtracked all the way to the store where I worked. But as nerve-wracking as those times had been and as much as I had sweated bullets every time a cop car parked at the meters alongside our front window, their investigation never went beyond a few simple questions with a suit-and-tie police officer scribbling in a black notebook. Neither I nor my assistant Sandra had a criminal record either, which helped deter further snooping by the police. And the IRS, despite poking around in our books a few times, had never uncovered anything because there was nothing to uncover. The sales receipts and books added up. Every piece of inventory was accounted for; the store was clean. Besides, LA cops entered and left the department like it had a revolving door. And what newly appointed detective had time to pick up old, unsolved robberies when there were so many ruthless predators on the streets of Los Angeles?

Sometimes waiting a year wasn't a good thing. Sometimes the clients moved, changed phone numbers, or perhaps got out of the antique business altogether. That happened once. I broke into a fancy apartment in Brentwood to discover the owner had sold all his paintings and took up painting himself. He had a dozen unfinished pieces and several works-in-progress on pine easels with an elaborate colors palette. I wasn't impressed with his work. The easels were worth more money than his paint splattering and I almost took them, but instead I just headed home and made sure I researched a little more thoroughly before I broke into another place.

Gerald Heathrow's home was in Palos Verdes, a small suburb of Long Beach that most people had never heard of, including me.

I had been by his place a dozen times in the last week, studying the neighborhood rent-a-cops route, casually exploring the spacious lots, and locating the dimly lit areas between the infrequent streetlamps that might come in handy if I ended up getting in a foot pursuit with the cops.

Like most rich neighborhoods, it seemed to trust the outside world entirely too much, like it was impervious to theft.

At least that's what I thought.

Gerald lived in a two-story, wood-framed house painted white with blue trim. It had blue shutters over huge windows that overlooked a wide residential street. Seemed like rich neighborhoods always had extra wide streets that didn't allow overnight parking. Didn't make much sense to me.

A flower garden started on the front porch and continued down the sides of three brick steps and spilled onto a small, gated area with a fountain at its center. The fountain had a statue of a fat boy with curly hair in a very feminine pose. He held his finger to his lip in a whispering gesture and gazed at nothing in particular with an innocent and naïve expression on his face. When the fountain was on, which it was every time I staked out the house, it shot a steady stream of water out the top of his head. At night the lights in the water came on, casting a shimmering blue light up onto the young boy's naked body.

On either side of the fountain sat two simple garden benches painted green. Yellow and blue flowers in full bloom grew alongside and behind them. Twin palm trees, each about 10 feet tall, stood like sentries on either side of the entrance gate.

I ignored the front porch and headed for the side of the house.

The double-paned first-floor window slid open as if its rails had been greased an hour ago. I loved an easy entry. It was usually a good omen.

Three a.m. at a cozy cottage in a million-dollar neighborhood. Just me and my knapsack and high hopes for high stakes. I was dressed to steal in my black-on-black jumpsuit and my black sneakers and black socks. Even my knapsack was black.

Before climbing into the house, I glanced about the neighborhood to make sure it still slept. In less than a heartbeat, I slipped through the window and tumbled onto the living room carpet, rolling into a prone position.

I waited. I listened. And heard only the whispering wind and the soft tick-tock of what sounded like a precision longcase somewhere nearby.

The initial adrenaline rush subsided. My heartbeat and my nerves calmed. But the ears listened acutely and my eyes stayed sharp as a hawks.

Staying alert meant staying alive. It also meant staying out of the slammer. Except for a brief, one-night stint in County jail when I was nineteen for a barroom brawl, I hadn't spent any other time behind bars. Pretty good for a twenty-year veteran. I meant to keep it that way.

Click.

I swept the room with my pen light and found twin Gothic tapestries depicting castle warfare hanging on either side of what looked like a six-foot tall Willoughby eighteenth century walnut longcase clock. Or better described as about $25,000. Too bad it wouldn't fit in my knapsack.

A small Chinese showcase with carved posts and gold-capped feet sat in the middle of the room, the top of it a clear sheet of glass. I took a better look.

Under the glass and nestled on black satin was a set of American flintlock dueling pistols with ornate silver trigger guards and octagonal barrels. Circa mid 1700. They would easily fetch $5,000 if the serials matched and you could find a serious collector or a really good fence. I'd pick them up on my way out.

By day I worked at Century City Antiquities. I'd been working there most of my life and had naturally come to know a lot of people. Through these people, these friends and acquaintances, I learned where to work my night job. The combination made for a pretty good living.

From the other side of the room, from somewhere within the darkness, something pounded the carpet - thump.

In a split second I killed my penlight and hit the floor, lying face first with my nose buried in the shag of a Persian throw rug. Rough guess-in-the-dark: $10,000.

I lay stone still for a full two minutes before I dared move an inch.

I'd been in situations like this before. Made the job exciting. Kept my blood flowing and my heart young. Sometimes the homeowner came home right when I was pocketing their favorite string of pearls. Or they'd interrupt my attempting to crack the safe behind the family portrait. Their reaction varied from hysterics and a mad dash out of the house, to the silent, thoughtful reaction of cunning intelligence. I preferred the hysterics.

Without my penlight, I was practically blind. I opened my eyes, squeezed them shut, and then opened them again in a futile attempt to help my non-existent night vision. It didn't work. What did help was glancing around. By keeping my eyes moving, I felt a tad more secure.

Moonlight cut the darkness through the lone window, slicing the pitch-black living room in two equal parts. The light, which normally would be a blessing, made it virtually impossible to see the other side of the room. And just a moment ago something had gone thump-in-the-dark over there. Maybe it was just a cat. Or maybe the homeowner who lived here had dozed off in their love seat and dropped their rocks glass, spilling bourbon and water and sending ice cubes tumbling across the carpet. But my contact had told me the residents were out of town. And supposedly they didn't have any dogs. In fact, she had sworn they didn't have a dog. Never thought to ask if they had a cat. But what the hell would it matter if they had a cat?

Thump . . . thump.

There it was again. Shit.

I stared across that cursed moonlight, and I stared hard. But I couldn't see a goddamn thing.

Thump-thump.

I had two choices: split out the window or penetrate deeper into the house through an open archway. From there I could go upstairs and loot the bedrooms, or I could escape through the front door if I absolutely had to. Either way, I wasn't going to stay in the living room. Something else was in here.

I planted my palms down and steadied myself for a dash across the living room. Before I began my three count, a dark shadow shot across the moonlit carpet towards me, practically a blur. Once it cleared the moonlight, the darkness swallowed it up again but not before its shiny green eyes locked onto me and blinked once before they disappeared altogether. Now it was on my side of the room. And it had been fast, lightning fast. No more than a second had passed and it managed to cross the room and melt into the surrounding darkness. The worst part was that those eyes had been fixed on me.

One-Two-Three. I stood up and got the hell out of the living room.

I stopped just inside the foyer; my back pressed against the wall adjoining the living room, and waited to see if it would give chase. It was only a cat. Must have been. For sure, for sure.

I decided that going home empty handed wasn't such a bad idea after all.

Three silent steps later I grasped the steel doorknob of the front door. It spun freely in my hand, but the door didn't budge. I shouldered it. No good. Might as well have been a marble column. I reached for the top lock and felt the keyed side of a dead bolt. I wouldn't be exiting the front door.

I sprang for the stairs.

Up I went, silently bounding three steps at a time. I had cleared half the stairway when I heard it scuttling through the archway below; its thick hide scratching the hardwood floor.

Thump-thump-thump!

Moonlight shone through the stained glass above the front door and exposed the creature as it chased after me. It shifted its chubby body side-to-side as it raced towards the stairs, impersonating a small gator.

It was far too large to be a cat. And it lay low and squashed to the ground, as if it sneaked everywhere it went. The thumping sounds came from a square tail that smacked the floor as it ran. More than anything it resembled a beaver. A fat beaver that had reached the base of the stairs before I had reached the top.

I didn't dare look back.

That tail whacked the stairs at an alarming pace - Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!

I bolted up the last few steps and ducked inside the first door I found and slammed it shut behind me. On impulse I locked it. Then I sat down on the toilets reservoir, put my feet on the lid and my hands on my knees and stared at the gap beneath the door.

The bathroom smelled of potpourri. How nice.

I watched that gap under the door for a abit but nothing stirred on the other side. No more thumping sounds either. I laughed in spite of myself, for I had locked the door, as if the thing had hands. What was I thinking?

Then the doorknob turned. It spun as far it's locked mechanism would allow then snapped back to its home position. Whoa.

Still safely perched atop the toilet, I leaned over and slid open the small bathroom window in hopes that I might be able to escape. But the drop was a 20 foot neck-breaker.

Thud.

My eyes shot back to the gap under the door.

Whatever it was, it had just dropped to the floor again. It must have somehow scaled the door and tried the handle. Tried the handle? Good God!

One hour . . . two hours . . . three hours later I continued to flex and stretch my arms and legs in small, short movements. Being a thief not only taught you patience but also tricks to keeping your body poised for action. Nothing worse than sprinting for home with one foot asleep.

Bored out of my mind, I admired the bathroom. The white tiled tub had a single shower rod that spanned wall-to-wall. A shower curtain, with deep blue and yellow daisy print and white shower rings, hung neatly from it.

The fuzzy toilet seat cover, the folded towels beside the sink, and the throw rug with decorative stitching all matched the deep blue of the shower curtain. A fat glass vase internally streaked with green and coral-red and patterned on the outside with gold trim, sat beside the sink. That's where the potpourri was. Looked like a Loetz. A $3,000 dried flower holder. How quaint.

The thing outside the bathroom had been silent since its failed attempt to open the door. Maybe it had scaled the wall, sunk its claws into the drywall ceiling and hung suspended in bloodthirsty anticipation to pounce upon my head and scalp me. Or maybe it had taken a nap at the top of the stairs, content knowing that I had to go past it to escape. Knowing?
I shook my head. Rolled my eyes. Blinked. My imagination was running amok. Hell, the thing might be friendly, might even let me pet it if I stuck my hand out. Like a dog - all I needed to do was let it sniff me and then we could be pals.

I left the elevated safety of my toilet and got down on all fours, lying my head upon the linoleum, peeking under the door, trying to locate the creature. I saw nothing but darkness and a vague outline of the railing for the second floor landing.

Where, oh where, had my little friend run off to?

With sudden compulsion I found myself trying to bait the creature with my right-hand index finger. I made a fist, then uncurled the digit and stuck it under the door. "Here kitty-kitty-kitty," I said, inviting my thick-tailed adversary to some finger food. I listened intently for any movement, wiggling my naked finger back and forth, but it didn't take the bait.

Downstairs the clock chimed six times. My night had officially become pre-dawn. I should have been home asleep with cash and jewelry under my pillow. But instead I was trapped in a bathroom staring at the gap underneath the bathroom door.

Again I felt a rush of foolishness. That thing most surely was a cat, or maybe a pet raccoon, or something with enough curiosity to chase me. Maybe a ferret?

The early stages of dawn peeked through the tiny bathroom window and I actually laughed out loud at my crazy imagination. It was a cat dammit. It had to be a cat. After all, it hadn't bit me, or growled, or made any aggressive behavior towards me. All it had tried to do was get closer to me - to touch me, smell me, possibly give me affection. Was that so dangerous to warrant locking myself in a bathroom? Maybe.

It was time to leave. If I didn't get out soon, I might be caught inside when the residents came home. They weren't due for a few hours yet, but there was no need to push my luck. No amount of explaining to the police would help either. I'd be locked up as a mental case or as a dumb burglar. Neither sounded acceptable.

I stood safely elevated on the tiled sink countertop, knees bent, crouched and ready to spring into action if that thing so much as lifted a paw. Then I edged open the door, my body alert and ready for battle.

The hinges creaked quietly until the door swung completely open and I poked my head around the doorway, spying the ceiling in case the thing waited to pounce on me but it wasn't anywhere in sight. My eyes settled on the second-floor landing and the railing next to the stairs: empty. The hardwood floors were bare. No kitty-cat in sight.

The rising sun light lit up the vaulted ceiling in the foyer, softening up my tension considerably. Again, I shook my head in silent laughter. What had come over me last night? Never in all my years of thieving had I wrestled with such fears.

I lowered my body down from the countertop and stood in the open doorway of the bathroom. The top of the stairs, much to my relief, was empty. So was the wood floor directly in front of the bathroom. It seemed safe enough. So I tiptoed out, peering side-to-side for any sign of the little beast.

On my immediate right was a bedroom with its door slightly ajar. Beyond that door, darkness.
To my left was a corridor, bare except for a few picture frames lining the walls. Three doors with shiny brass knobs were farther down the hallway. Probably more bedrooms. I paused, looked down the stairs, looked down the corridor, and eyeballed the bedroom door. I had a clean shot to get out of here, but I would be leaving empty-handed.

The bedroom door swung inward with ease and I stepped into darkness. The drapes were pulled taught against the window, snuffing out the rising daylight.

My eyes adjusted to the dim lighting and I began to take in the lay of the furniture. It was nothing special, pretty bleak really, when compared to the living room rich with antiques. A queen bed, two nightstands, a dresser. Must have been a guest bedroom. Except for a throw pillow on the bed, the room was bare. It felt like a hotel.

I decided to check the nightstands first. Atop the nearest sat a small desk lamp. I pulled the chain. Click. Nothing happened. I pulled it again. Nothing.

Thump.

That last thump wasn't quite like the others. No, this one was muffled. Quiet. Like it was hitting something soft, like carpet, or maybe . . . a comforter?

The thing was real after all. And whatever it was, it was in the room with me.

The bedroom door was only six paces away but it might as well have been ten miles.
I bolted to the open doorway.

As I passed the bed, the throw pillow blinked green eyes and sprang to cut off my escape. I screamed like a little girl.

The thing shot by my feet, made it through the door before I did, and stopped at the top of the stairs, effectively blocking my escape. My momentum carried me to within inches of the beast before I stopped on my tippy-toes, my arms wind milling, barely keeping myself from toppling over. It hissed at me with its twitching tail raised high.

The creature was a pink, fleshy mutation of several animals. The head was cat-like but with a stretched snout and more teeth than nature should allow. I had correctly guessed that it had a beaver tail.

The thing was fat, and I mean fat; picture a pissed off fifty-pound cat-thing crouched at your feet and ready to spring at your neck and rip out your throat.

Before I could blink, it thumped the wood floor with its tail and launched a mouth full of fangs at my face.

I half-stepped, half-fell aside and barely dodged it.

The creature turned and squared off a yard from me, eyeing me and sizing me up with glossy green eyes.

Thump! Thump!

This time when it charged, I had nowhere to go. I stumbled back in sheer terror, eyes squinting, and arms out before me trying to protect my face. I toppled backward over the rail and managed to save my life by grabbing one of the rail posts with a flailing hand. I dangled in air for a moment, my legs kicking awkwardly for balance, and then I grabbed another post with my free hand. I tried to look up onto the second level, but I dangled too far below the landing to see the creature. Then I strained and twisted, trying to see just how far down it was to the first floor. Maybe I could just let go . . .

Right about then its teeth ripped into my index finger, the same one I had teased it with when I was hiding in the bathroom. I screamed again, only this time it was not a kid's scream but a terror-stricken adult with full vocal capacity. I didn't give a shit if the neighbors heard either.

I strained and pulled my body up higher so that I might be able to grab and squeeze the life out of the fucker with my other hand.

Now I could see the paws. They were little clawed hands, shaped much like a human's. It started to dig at my fingers like a dog digging for a bone; but instead of digging dirt, it was digging flesh, tearing into the adjacent fingers, ripping the skin from them and forcing its mouth down further over my index finger. I screamed again and again, and tried to knock the thing loose with my other hand but it thrashed its body from side-to-side, effectively avoiding my pitiful swipes.

Enough was enough and I let go completely, thinking my body weight would pull the little bastard through the railing. But I didn't fall. Not even an inch. The beast refused to let go and was holding my entire body weight by my one finger.

I screamed some more.

Blood ran freely down my arm and onto my face, mixing with sweat and stinging the hell out of my eyes. I felt my body slip lower, and consequently I pulled the head of the creature through the railing. I tried to shake its teeth from my finger; but it would not relent no matter how much I twisted and pulled against it.

I heard a sharp pop! sound and then I fell. Down, down I plummeted until my head finally smacked the hardwood floor.

I awoke moments later, staring up at the creature's head poking through the second floor railing high above me. It still had my finger in its mouth, gnawing violently on it while at the same time it tried to free its head from the railing. Its tail still thumped madly upon the wood floor.

I noticed then, much to my delight, the oil on canvas painting on the wall beneath the struggling beast. It was of The Duchess Of Windsor. I couldn't remember the artists name though. But if it was real it was worth close to $200,000. Maybe not now though, as my blood had been dribbled all over it.

I closed my eyes and tried my best to focus my mind. I knew I had to get up and get out of here fast, but my body was numb. I opened my eyes to make sure the creature had not escaped from its own trap. It hadn't. High above me, it still struggled to free its fat head.

My senses came back to me ever so slowly. Soon I felt the cold wood floor beneath me and the throbbing in my right hand where my finger had been. I slowly rolled over and eased myself up on outstretched hands. There, where my finger used to be, was an empty socket, pumping blood at an alarming rate. If I didn't get out of here quickly, I'd pass out from blood loss and become that thing's chew toy.

I crawled painfully towards the living room. My body ached all over and I was sure I had broken numerous bones. But at least I could still crawl, and crawl I did.

I prayed that I did not hear that thumping noise upon the stairs. If that thing got free in the next few seconds, I was a dead burglar.

The living room was well lit from the new day.

As I drug my broken body onto the thick carpet, I noted the clock. I was right. It was definitely a Willoughby. If they could afford a longcase like that, there was no doubt in my mind they had a stash of jewelry and cash somewhere upstairs. But they could keep it. As long as I got out of the house missing just one finger, I'd be happy.

I swore then and there I would never break into another house on Hudson Street. And from now on I'd be packing my revolver. Maybe a bazooka too.

I left a bloody trail behind me, soaking their carpet and no doubt staining the hardwood floors. Not only was my blood everywhere, but my fingerprints were on everything. Bloody fingerprints. Hell, my finger would still be here long after I was gone. What a botched robbery this had turned into. I didn't care though. Jail would be better than getting shredded limb-from-limb by some vicious little animal.

I crawled desperately towards my exit not daring to look back, thinking only of the window and escape. I managed to get myself back up onto my own two feet and hobble the last few steps to freedom. From behind me I heard an awful splintering, wood-ripping sound. The little beast was furiously tearing through the railing to free itself.

Run, you idiot!

Easier said than done. The pain bore down on my consciousness, threatening a blackout. And my left arm had gone numb from the elbow down. A shard of bone poked through at the wrist. Wonderful.

Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump! . . . it was flying down those stairs.

I reached the window, exhausted and dazed, and gingerly sat upon the sill, trying to figure a delicate way to get out without busting up my body any more.

Into the living room it charged full throttle; wobbling back and forth; tail thumping madly; maw snapping; green shiny eyes glaring hatred at me.

So much for a graceful exit. I leaned back and fell out of the house. After a brief freefall, I landed on dew-covered grass.

It was blinding bright outside, the sun in full force upon my face.

Someone, perhaps the neighbor next door or the one across the street, had a lawn sprinkler going. I could hear the soft clicking as it rotated along its spray pattern.

I lay there on my back and stared up at the deep blue sky, grinning, bleeding towards death, exposed for the entire world to see. But I didn't care if anyone found me at this point. I was just happy to be alive.