Spoonbenders

Frankie parked on the street, about fifty feet from the mouth of the alley that ran behind Mitzi’s Tavern. It was out of sight of any video cameras Mitzi might have up, yet within a hundred yards of the back door. Not far to run, even with a bag of money. His tool bag would do for that.

The thought of video cameras reminded him of his disguise. He reached under his seat and pulled out the White Sox baseball cap he’d bought at Osco. Nobody would suspect it was Frankie Telemachus in a fucking Sox cap. He went through his mental checklist again. Disguise, tool bag…and what else? Right. The keys to the kingdom. He turned on his Bumblebee-issued Maglite and checked the slip of paper he’d been carrying with him. There were two sets of numbers on it: one for the door alarm, and one for the safe. Matty had provided them both.

He addressed the area above the van. “You on overwatch, Matty?”

There was no answer. And that, in a nutshell, was the major defect of remote viewing; it only worked one way. Somebody needed to invent a mobile phone for clairvoyants. You could call it—

A 1960s Chevelle passed him, going slow, and turned at the next street.

Too slow?

No, he thought. The paranoia was messing with him. Making him procrastinate. And worse, the name of the clairvoyant phone service was gone. A really good pun had been right on the tip of his tongue, and he’d lost it. He sat for a moment, trying to recall it. It was a company name…

Damn it! Procrastinating again.

“Okay, Matty,” Frankie said to the ether. “I’m going in. If I get in trouble, do not call the cops! Go find Grandpa Teddy. If he won’t get up, find Uncle Buddy. Last resort, your mom.”

He really should have said all this before he left. Stupid nosy Irene.

He pulled the cap low across his eyes, grabbed his tool bag, and marched down the alley, flashlight off. The alley grew so dark that he was afraid he’d trip and impale himself on something. Finally he switched on the flashlight. So bright! Burglar bright. He hurried to the back door of the tavern and aimed the light at the lock.

This was the diciest part of the plan, the step that gave him the terrors. He took a breath and gripped the doorknob.

Stealing from Mitzi required three things: the alarm code, the combination of the safe, and a way past the back door lock. When Matty confided in him about what he could do, the first two pieces of the puzzle were solved. All Frankie had to do was get past the door.

He spent weeks practicing in his garage, just like he had before the Alton Belle.

He focused his mind on padlocks, concentrated on the innards of door locks, stared down doors of all kinds. He summoned every ounce of psychokinesis in his body.

And failed. Every fucking time.

Buddy Telemachus, in that one night in the casino, had destroyed his last shred of confidence. And without confidence, he was nothing. But if Buddy had taken that from him, at least Frankie could take one thing from Buddy.

He opened the tool bag and brought out his brother’s gigantic drill. The drill bit looked like a World War II artillery shell. He pulled the trigger, got the metal spinning at maximum velocity, and jammed it into the lock.

The shriek nearly made him let go of the drill and run, but he knew if he stopped now he’d never get another chance. He held the shaking device with both hands and bore down. With a clunk the drill bit punched through.

Fuck yeah. If he couldn’t depend on his power, he could at least depend on Black & Decker.

He reached into the hole with two fingers and pulled the remains of the lock bar free of the notch. Then he tugged the door toward him.

The door didn’t move, until suddenly it did.

And there was the alarm console. Two feet from the door, the keypad was lit up and beeping.

He threw himself inside. The bar was dark, but he knew this hallway well. And the alarm code was simple, so simple he’d memorized it. Or thought he had.

On the console a countdown was showing: 28, 27…

Where the hell was the slip of paper? The paper was gone. It began with a four, he thought.

Then he found the paper in his other pocket and held it under the flashlight. 4-4-4-2. Seeing it, he remembered.

He punched in the numbers. The box considered his entry, then blinked twice. He aimed his flashlight at the LCD panel. The countdown continued: 18, 17…

“Shit,” he said. He looked at the paper again. 4-4-4-2, just like he’d typed. He punched the number again, going slowly.

He stared at the alarm console, panic blinding him. What the hell was wrong?

“Jesus, Matty!” he said aloud. “Did you fuck this up? Did you fuck me?” The console showed 8, then 7. So many God damn numbers!

Then he noticed the enter key.

He pressed it.

The countdown was replaced by the words READY TO ARM.

He collapsed against the wall, breathing hard. Then he lifted his shirt and mopped the sweat from his face.

“I’m in,” he said to Maybe-Matty. “I’m sorry about the swearing.”