Blake had always considered Alice Brown to be at least a little paranoid for installing the bulletproof glass. Sure, he didn't doubt that she probably made good bread as a forger and counterfeiter, but she was low-profile and careful about who she dealt with. Hell, Alice couldn't be high-profile if she tried. She was a mousy, plain little woman with brown hair and brown eyes and a brown dress that looked like she'd bought it from an industrial burlap supplier. Blake wasn't sure if "Brown" was her actual last name, or just a description that stuck.
She even managed to sound brown when she talked. She just droned on in a dull monotone about the technical end of her work, pointing out little details and explaining her techniques and generally boring everyone stupid until they could hand over the cash through the little hatch below the glass, get their goods the same way, and dart off. She was the sort of woman who probably had no life except for her work and maybe a half-dozen cats or so. Who the hell would care enough to kill Alice Brown?
He would, today. He sat in the padded chair opposite Alice and stared through the glass, noticing tiny scratch marks where someone else must have felt exactly like him and feeling the weight of the gun at his side. His fingers itched to pull the gun out of its holster, put a bullet between Alice's eyes and snatch the key from her dead hands and run.
It wasn't even that he didn't want to pay her. Twenty grand to make the key was pocket change compared to what he stood to make. No, Blake just wanted that key and everything it represented. He wanted it more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life. It made his fingers twitch and his breathing quicken at the thought of getting it, and even the thought of not getting it made the sweat trickle down his back, made him willing to pull a double-cross and shoot an unarmed woman. He knew he was being irrational, and that Alice was going to slide the key across to him in a few minutes and let him walk out the door, but that knowledge didn't quiet the irrational fear and the urge to violence that went with it. Maybe that was why Alice had installed that bullet-proof glass. Because she'd dealt with someone before who felt like he did right now.
"An impressive piece," Alice said in that quiet, studious tone of hers, holding the key up to the light and letting it dangle loosely from its chain. "I have to admit, when I first looked at the specifications you gave me, I expected this to be more of a technical challenge than an artistic one; but form definitely follows function in this particular case. Just look at it, Blake. Really look at the way the light catches on the edges. I had to polish that with seven grades of silk to make sure that it precisely matched your demands, but I think it's all worth it for the way it catches the light. Do you see what I mean?"
Blake didn't care about the way the edges caught the light; his eyes were fixed on the key, but he wasn't really seeing it. He was imagining it in his hand as he walked into the Delacourt Building. He was picturing himself reaching out, inserting the key into the lock and watching it slide in perfectly, turning it and feeling that satisfying click as the tumblers fell into place...and then swinging the door wide open, the shivery anticipation of the rows and rows of gems just waiting for him... "Yeah, it's swell," he said, without much enthusiasm. He didn't care what she was saying, really. He'd just keep agreeing with her until she got bored with talking and gave him the key.
"Yes, that fine polish perfectly reflects the light, almost focuses it to a mirror brightness," Alice said. "Each and every sparkle is a sign of a job well done, Blake. It's a sign that the key is everything you want it to be, everything you asked for. Honestly, I could just stare at it and watch it catch the light forever."
Blake definitely couldn't, but he didn't want to antagonize Alice. Not while she still had the key, sitting there tantalizingly out of reach. "I, um...I've got the money," he said, clearing his throat a little. "Right here."
"That's good, Blake," Alice said, still staring at the key. "I know it cost you quite a bit, but I think you and I can agree that this is some of my finest work. The shape of it is so perfect, the detail work on the surface so fine and intricate. The closer you look, Blake, the more impressive it seems, really."
Blake nodded, not really caring about what Alice had to say about impressive detail work. He just wanted the damned key. "Yeah," he said, trying not to give away exactly how much he wanted it. "I'm sure you did great, Alice. You always do." He opened the little hatch set into the wall, and slid the satchel full of money into it. "There you go, twenty grand."
"Of course, Blake," Alice said, her acknowledgment of the money not even causing a momentary twitch of excitement in her droning voice. "Look closely at those teeth, Blake. They're very small, so you'll need to focus your attention completely on them. They're so very tiny--that took real expertise, filing down the metal with such precision. You might need to squint to see them, Blake, but that kind of fine detail is so impressive. You're so happy with it, aren't you, Blake?"
That was it. Any other day, any other job, he'd have humored Alice for a while longer; but today, he couldn't hold it in anymore. Before he even realized he was speaking, he'd already shouted, "Goddamnit, Alice!" Noting the expression of irritation on her face, he took a deep breath. "Sorry," he said. "I'm just, um, a little edgy. Didn't sleep well." Inside, his gut clenched up. She wasn't going to buy it, he told himself. She was going to realize how much this meant to him, up the price, fuck up the bargain...no. She wouldn't. Alice Brown was too dull to double-cross someone. Right?
"Honestly, Blake," she said, twisting the chain slightly in her fingers so that the key gently spun at the end of it, "I'm not really sure I want to part with it. Of course, I'll happily refund your twenty thousand dollars, but...well, just look at it. It's a work of art, not just a work of craft."
Blake felt like he'd swallowed a brick. "We...we had a deal," he stammered out, fear and anger fighting for dominance in his head. "Look, if it's the money, I...I can get more." He was talking too fast, he knew, betraying his nervousness, but the key was too precious to let Alice keep it. She had to know he was desperate now, but she'd never suspect how much money he was willing to part with.
Unless... "Oh, it's not about the money," she said. He heard just the tiniest trace of smug satisfaction in her voice, barely even noticeable if you weren't looking for it. "It's about the pride. Really, I've outdone myself. An absolutely perfect, precise duplicate of the original. I daresay there's not another forger in the world who could do it."
It wasn't fair! The job of the century almost within arm's reach, literally, and now... "You know, don't you?"
"Of course I know," Alice said. She wiggled her fingers a bit for emphasis, the tiny motion sending the key on a swaying dance at the end of its chain. "It might not be particularly well known to the general public, but the Delacourt Company's showpiece is a legend to those of us in the trade who admire precision craftsmanship. As soon as I saw the specifications, I knew exactly what you wanted me to make...and exactly why you wanted me to make it."
The brick that was sitting in Blake's stomach felt like it had grown legs and started jumping up and down as Alice continued to talk. "I admit, I'm very impressed with your deductive skills, Blake. The key--if you'll pardon the pun--to the Delacourt Box and its legendary unpickable lock is the exact and precise nature of its craftsmanship. No key has ever been manufactured to such perfect tolerances, designed to fit so...intimately with its lock. Even the best impression couldn't pass muster, let alone the clumsy tools of a thief. That's the key--again, I'm sorry, I seem to have keys on the brain at the moment--to their guarantee."
Blake gaped at the key in numb, despairing fury. The Delacourt Box, an unguarded safe filled with tens of millions of dollars in jewels, secured only by the finest lock ever made and the personal guarantee of Charles Delacourt. The perfect publicity stunt for a security company for the ultra-rich, a dare to thieves everywhere. And he'd been so close to opening it... "It was very clever of you to realize that a key that perfect couldn't last," Alice continued. "The normal wear of using it, handling it, even carrying it would wear away that perfect surface despite the care taken in manufacturing it. Naturally, there would have to be specifications stored somewhere for the inevitable replacement key, specifications you could copy. Specifications I could use to make a duplicate."
