Читать книгу The City Man - Howard Akler - Страница 7

One level up. Light from clerestory windows cuts a series of pale lines through the crowd. A gaggle of hats and torsos gone lucent. Mona Kantor keeps watch. In all the comings and goings she can see shades of possibility. A sucker who fumbles with a street map, another dickering with smash. Her eyes all over these men, her sense of the grift roving under footfalls and around a farewell hug before hitting her mark. Six-footer in a tilted homburg, reading the frieze of destinations on the north wall of the station. Port-Arthur, North-Bay, Sarnia. His lips on the move. Mona looks to the opposite wall. Chesler, in the arranged spot, offers only hat and hands around an open newspaper. His eye rises over the corner in silent accord. He folds the paper, buries it in his armpit and steps away from the wall.

Through the bodies they move, scissoring the floor of the station. Two thieves in step with the mark, appearing casual despite the practiced footwork. A shuffling celerity. Passengers from all directions slowly clog the ramp of the departures concourse. Chesler slides in behind the tall man, a signal to Mona. She positions herself in front of the pair, just off to the left. The pace becomes languid now, each movement huddled around another. Mona removes her hat and wipes her brow. The felt hat dangles in her hand, a good grip on the brim. Her elbow in a hard angle almost touches the wrist beside her.

Chesler keeps one eye on the loose collar of the mark. The jacket is an ill fit, with a noticeable sag down the back. He coughs a gentle back-of-the-throat cough.

Mona drops her elbow, her hat shading Chesler’s fingertips as they scurry along the left-hand pockets of the mark, coat and pants, fingertips so sentient they are in fleet accord with all the geometries of scratch. There is a roll of bills in the side pants pocket and a wallet in the back pants pocket. Chesler is set to cop.

Eyes forward, Mona manoeuvres the mark into a vulnerable position using her back and elbows and buttocks. Plants her prat with gestures incidental but calculated, small moves so ordinary they are overlooked. Her hip brushes the side of the mark’s hand and Chesler gets his duke down, fast, hidden behind Mona’s hat. With only the first two fingers, he takes pleat after pleat from the lining of the pocket, money rising into his hand with amazing speed. He reefs an easy kick, a small wad of money in his palm. Once more he coughs. Mona shortens her stride. Each step is smaller and smaller, so small the trio is both fluid and inert. The mark is dull to rhythm and he moves into her. A slight swivel of the hips for misdirection. The surest way to get a man’s mind off his money is to focus on the space between the pockets. Just for one priapic moment, a sucker’s epoch. Chesler unbuttons the back pocket with a flip of the first joint of the index finger and the ball of the thumb. He pinches the poke and slips out beyond the jibing bodies. The touch has come off without a flaw, a thing of beauty in twelve seconds, in a whiz.