The Late Watch

Flowing flowers / 2022 / Photo by RS

I’ve got a ring of key, a flashlight, and a walkie-talkie. I’m a night guard. The museum is my hunting grounds. The big one up on Fifth Avenue. Metropolitan. One of the biggest. In the world, that is. It was a usual night. That is, grimy, dark, rainy outside, dry inside. We liked it that way.

On one of my regular runs through European paintings, I was eyeing the Vermeer, Rubens, El Greco. Damn, I thought, those old paint pushers sure had it in ‘em. Suddenly, my train of thought was rudely derailed. Someone flashed by in a dark raincoat. Hmm, I mused, one of my own men fooling around, or some poor thieving slob who’s about to find a shortcut to the Pearly Gates.

I had to act quickly. In my business you can’t take chances. Trying to anticipate the route he was taking, I made a beeline for the Rembrandts to head him off. But no go. He’d backtracked into early Italian. A real art lover, this one. But I still held the cards. The joker was on my turf, and I had every nook and cranny of this art thief’s wet dream memorized.

I hotfooted to the entrance of Italian paintings to set a big trap for this fly, one that would cool his buzzing for a while. Remembering the sliding door up ahead, I slipped behind it to hide myself and wait.

The door was open just a crack, but it was enough to take in the entire gallery. Didn’t have to wait too long before my pigeon walked into the trap.

You could’ve knocked me over with a plastic spoon. Under the black raincoat she wore a deep blue robe, and she softly smiled at me like the Virgin Mary herself, in person.

I stepped out from behind the sliding wooden door. “Pardon me Mary,” I said. “Going my way?”

She caught her breath. “Oh! You startled me.”

“You aren’t doing too much for my high blood pressure either, lady.”

“I can explain everything.”

“I’m listening,” I said.

“One of these paintings belongs to me.”

“I see. So, you just thought you’d sneak into the museum after hours and borrow it back.”

“No,” she said, “you don’t see.”

“Wipe the dust from my eyes.”

“What I meant to say is I belong to one of these paintings.”

“Sure, that makes more sense,” I said. “Now we’re getting somewhere, but if we don’t start getting there a lot faster, as in pronto, I’m going to make a well-placed phone call from the wall phone you see behind me, and the people on the other side are going to want the same answers I want, only they’ll want them yesterday.”

“Alright,” she said, “if you want to be that way about it.”

What happened next was a little flashy but effective. She turned on her heel, made a quick sideways movement and whirled through the air and into a painting, leaving only a thin train of stardust in her wake. A Madonna and Child by Bellini, to be exact. Just as pretty as you please. As pretty as a picture. As if she’s always been there. Just as if I’d somehow dreamed her up.

I blinked. I spun around in a circle. Walked right up to the painting. Looked at it closely.

For an instant, there could’ve been a crooked grin on those beautiful lips, but only an instant.

I turned and left her there, on the wall. It had been a long night. There were many more long nights to come. I lifted my walkie-talkie and placed it next to my mouth.

I said, “European paintings, all secure.”