Alex, Approximately

A rush of cool museum air blows across my arm, and my daydreaming is cut short when I have to step to the side to avoid the buffalo that is Porter, charging the ticketing booth.

“I’m going to rip out your large intestines, sew this key to the end of them, and then stuff them back inside your body.”

Porter opens Pangborn’s hand, shoves down a key, and closes the man’s fingers on top of it. “Don’t. Lose it. Again.”

The older security guard smiles. “You’re a good boy, Porter. Thank you.” Pangborn pats him on the shoulder, completely unfazed by Porter’s bad attitude. He’s a better man than most. “Come along, ladies. Freddy’s got ants in his pants. Let’s bust up this line and sell some tickets.”

Team Grailey—I win the name game—kicks butt, per usual, and we do bust up that line, because we are the best. Our shift supervisor remarks on the good work we do, and when Mr. Cavadini drops by to check on us, for once, he even gets our names right. It’s a good day, right up until about four p.m.

Museum foot traffic has slowed. My break’s almost over and I’m nearly ready to power through my last couple of hours, but I’ve still got a few minutes, so I’m strolling through Vivian’s Wing. I’m in the San Francisco Room, which has a Golden Gate Bridge that visitors walk beneath and a fake Chinatown street, where you can peer inside staged storefront windows that look like they did in the late 1800s. As I’m gazing at a Chinese tea shop, I notice two kids, maybe thirteen, fourteen years old, acting a little weird. They’re standing a few yards from me, in the nearby 1940s San Francisco film noir display, eyeing a replica of the Maltese falcon, which is sitting on the desk of famous fictional detective Sam Spade—played by Humphrey Bogart on the big screen. One of them, a blond boy in a white polo shirt and Top-Siders, is experimentally touching the statue, while his friend, a drowsy kid with a backpack, keeps a lethargic lookout.

I can guess what they’re planning. Morons. Don’t they notice the security cameras? The backpack kid does see them, though, and he’s inching around, blocking his Richie Rich friend with his body, looking up at the camera and judging the angle. I don’t know what they hope to accomplish. Everything in the museum is glued, nailed, screwed, or locked down.

Only it’s not.

Polo shirt touches the falcon, and it jiggles. Just a little. But enough.

They’re going to rock it off its mounting. The jerks are planning a heist.

I glance around. Only a few museum guests in this room. I keep my head low and casually walk to the other end of the room, where I know from memorizing the stupid employee map that a call box is hidden in a wall panel. Making sure I’m not seen, I duck behind a potted palm, pop open the panel, and hit the button for security. Porter’s voice booms over the old line.

“Talk to me.” He’s on his radio doohickey. I can tell by the click and static.

“It’s Bailey,” I whisper. “I’m in the San Francisco Room.”

“That’s a long way from ticketing, Rydell. And speak up. I can’t hear you. Or are you trying to come on to me? Is this your sexy voice? I like it.”

I groan and seriously consider hanging up. “Shut up and listen to me. I think some kids are trying to steal.”

“I think you have the wrong number, sir.”

“Porter!” I grind out. “They’re stealing the Maltese falcon.”

“Keep your pants on. I’m two rooms away. I’ll be right there. Don’t take your eyes off them, but don’t approach. They might be dangerous or something. I’m being serious right now, in case you can’t tell.”

The phone goes dead. After closing the panel, I casually step from behind the palm and pretend to be looking at some paintings while keeping an eye on the kids. They’re still rocking the falcon statue. A couple is passing under the Golden Gate Bridge, and the two boys see them, so that halts their thieving for a moment. I disappear behind the potted palm again.

Come on, Porter. I know the falcon’s not actual movie memorabilia, much like most of the rest of the stuff in this place; only two statues were used in the original film, and one was auctioned off for several million dollars. But it’s the principle of the thing, and it makes me mad.

“Where are they now?” Porter’s warm breath grazes the hair around my ear. My neck and shoulder involuntarily clamp together, and for some reason, he finds this amusing. “Ticklish, Rydell?” he whispers.

I ignore that comment and lower a palm branch to show him the boys, who are now rocking the statue again. “There. White polo shirt and backpack.”

“Dirty little pigs,” he mutters incredulously. “The falcon?”

I won’t lie. A little thrill goes through me that Porter’s as mad as I am. I like that we’re on the same page about this. “What are we going to do?” I whisper.

“Rule number one in apprehending thieves and shoplifters according to the Cavern Palace guidelines is that we absolutely do not make a scene. No chasing. No nasty blowups. Nothing that causes the other guests to feel uncomfortable, so that means we’ve got to smoke them out, nice and easy.”

“I don’t follow,” I whisper.

Porter drops his head to speak in a lower voice. “We let them steal it.”

“What?” My face is near his face, so close I can see all the golden flecks in his brown eyes. Did I know they were brown? I never noticed until now. “We can’t do that.”

“We can and we will. Then we’ll follow them to the exit and bust their asses in the parking lot.”

“Oh,” I say, more than a little intrigued by this prospect.

“Now, they might split up. I’ve had this happen once before with a pair of Jay’s cuff links last summer. Bastards got away with a thousand bucks’ worth of gold while my ass got chewed out by Cadaver. So I might need some help. Will you?”

“Me? I don’t know . . . My break’s over.”

“Bawk, bawk,” he whispers back, cawing like a chicken. The tip of his nose touches mine, and we’re so close, I can now see his chest lifting up and down . . . and the jumping pulse of a vein on his neck. Were his shoulders always this broad? Mother of Mary, he seems bigger up close. And instead of wanting to punch him in the stomach, which should be my normal Porter response, I’m starting to want something else that makes my breath come faster. My clothes suddenly feel too tight.

Oh.

God.

So what? He’s attractive and has a certain damaged charm about him. It’s just chemical attraction. Perfectly natural. Means nothing.

And because I’m on my break and it’s cold in the museum, I’m wearing the cardigan, and that covers up the majority of the headlight problem that is now happening in my breast locale. Disaster averted. And the thought of it being a near miss is enough to throw a proverbial bucket of cold water onto the situation. God, this is ridiculous. It’s just dumb old Porter. What am I afraid of? Nothing.

To prove it to myself, I move back and lift my head, meeting his gaze and his challenge. “Radio Grace and tell her I’ll be late.”

His smile could power a lighthouse. He quickly radios Pangborn and briefs him on the situation, giving the older guard a description of the boys and instructions to track them on the security monitors. But before he can notify Grace, our thieving boys are on the move.