Free Bender at the Bon Parisien (A Novel) by Pres Maxson Page B

strong suits, nor was staying sober enough to properly perform.
    Still,
history proved that he was good at it. The pickpocket imagined the expression of
the mayor’s wife when she realized her diamond earring was gone—a crowning
moment in his career. He loved the deception almost as much as the money.
    His
sense of humor was evident in his work. He could steal belts or shirt buttons. Pennies
tucked in loafers were often targets. The pickpocket enjoyed giving the coins
back to their original owners for luck. Victims rarely realized that the pennies
were actually theirs.
    Pistache
had been anticipating the party at Peukington Manor for weeks. He traveled to
this posh neighborhood in Paris for one simple reason: to take something from
Lavaar Peukington himself. Given the man’s fortune, surely he must be a walking
goldmine.
    The
pickpocket had received a fresh martini when another partygoer sauntered up to
the bar.
    “Evening,”
the stranger said.
    “Good
evening,” Pistache replied.
    “What
a night, no?”
    “That’s
right,” the pickpocket smiled. “A fantastic party.”
    “Yes,”
the man replied as he stuffed a euro into the tip jar. “He sure knows how to be
a host!”
    “He
does,” Pistache agreed, casually brushing the man’s tuxedo pocket with the back
of his hand. Nothing.
    “Did
you have trouble with the valet?” the man said. “I thought the young man was
difficult.”
    “Well,
I didn’t think he was bad,” Pistache lied. The pickpocket had hired a taxi to make
the drive. Few people arrived at this party so unceremoniously.
    “Just
think twice before you tip him,” the man said as he lifted his two drinks from
the bar.
    “Oh,
I will.”
    “You
just never know if those guys are working for you, or against you.”
    Pistache
nodded as he sipped his drink. “Have you been to one of Monsieur Peukington’s
parties before?”
    The
stranger nodded as he took the first sips of his drink.
    “When
can we expect the host?” Pistache asked, lightly touching the edges of woman’s
dress behind him.
    “He’ll
be down any minute. Did you see the seafood spread?”
    “I
did.”
    “Well
enjoy yourself. The dance floor calls,” the man said, raising his drink as he
left.
    “Nice
meeting you,” Pistache answered.
    “Nice
meeting you,” the man said, slipping away into the crowd.
    In
that exact moment, Lavaar Peukington entered with much pomp. From where he
stood at the bar, Pistache did not have a direct line of sight. In fact, his
back was turned to the scene. Still, the pickpocket could see everything happening
through the large mirror behind the rows of bottles of booze.
    Peukington
walked like a wealthy man, hard jawline lifted and shoulders relaxed. Jacques
could see the perfectly pressed breast of his tuxedo, the flash of a bright
white scarf, and the glint of gold cufflinks. The pickpocket would love to have
a closer look at those.
    As
one entire section of the room seemed to gravitate toward the gentleman, Pistache
remained stoic with his back to the action. His instincts yearned to go
straight to Peukington, but he knew better. He waited at the bar to watch the
man move, casually exchanging a few words with the bartenders.
    Finally
seeing his moment of opportunity, the pickpocket entered the crowd, leaving his
drink behind. He slipped between shoulders, involuntarily noticing prizes
buried under thin fabrics on either side. A watch passed on his right, a wallet
on his left. The pickpocket resisted the urge, hoping for a larger payout.
    Did
Peukington’s cufflinks have diamonds? Would there be a key to a safe in his
pocket? Did he wear an heirloom watch? As questions swirled in his head, he saw
the host truly for the first time as the crowd briefly parted.
    Tall
and slender, Lavaar Peukington was in top shape. He sported a neatly trimmed
mustache and a full head of hair. Bright eyes were framed by crow’s feet, surely
earned on the beaches of southern France. The man was charmingly happy