23. Yegg

There was a quick snip in the breeze that night, the air frigid as the ice box in a Frigidaire brand refrigerator. The skin on his hands was fraying, most of the top layer was starting to peel in places, and it was white as the snow that fell upon the old yegg as he circled the house. No light shone through any window. “Gently snoozin’, eh?” He giggled the words that floated out on the little white clouds of his breath. It was uncertain – even to him – as to whether he was referring to the house itself, or the old walnut tycoon who was certain to be somewhere inside, dreaming of youth.

Entrance to the house was easily gained through a routine motion of jimmying the lock on the back door – a not-so-tasking task whose burden was shouldered primarily by muscle memory. It would have been entirely possible that he could have even forgotten have done it already were the moment not grounded by such a stern gust of wind, which temporarily crippled his fingers, causing the bones to stiffen and the skin to bleed from the deep cracks.

A flashlight’s beam scanned the walls on the rooms, stopping only on potential decoys. The safe was found behind a painting of a large walnut. He propped the flashlight on a nearby end table to keep the safe spotlit as he went to work. He could immediately determine the year and make of the safe: a simple stethoscope job.

The inside of the house was warm, heated by a wood stove, which chewed on embers during the night. It was located not four feet to the snake-theif’s left. The contrast was initially a welcome surprise, but it was such a stark one that his hands were involuntarily shaking and shivering, trying to rid itself of he cold that remained deep inside.

It was easy for him to identify the combination with his sensitive ears, but his once-steady hands couldn’t stop the dial at the precise digits.

In all of his anti-career he had been in and out and on his way home, whichever roadside motel that may be for the night, but his hands – under the embrace of the elements – were failing him, and fast, which slowed his process down and called for it to be repeatedly repeated. An attempt to rub his weary hands stemmed a sensation of dry skin brusquely brushing other dry skin triggered a series of cringes.

On the verge of crying and admitting defeat, he breathed with depth and tried once more.

Left, right, left, left, right.

On the final turn to the right, he held his breath in and pulled the reigns on the pace, hoping to hear that divine click.

The door swung open, and the old yegg let himself weep the painful tears of miserable accomplishment. He gazed upon the loot, and his eye lids met their limits as they revealed the size and shape of his eyeballs to no one.

Inside lay waiting a pair of thick wool gloves, a do-it-yourself home manicure kit, and a five tube assortment of hand creams and botanical ointments.

He knew then and there that this was the big retirement score.

 

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