Page 91 of Trailer Park Billionaire

Of course, it’s Pat.

Our security guard. Pasta enthusiast, pickleball captain, and, (possibly) long-time piner, who once compared my eyes to‘the sad part of a violin solo.’

“Oh, hey, Pat,” I say, trying not to look like Edvard Munch’s‘The Scream’.

“Burning the midnight oil again, are we?” He holds his flashlight under his chin like we’re sitting around a campfire.

“Figured better the midnight oil than our lovely museum.”

Pat laughs out loud and leans against the heavy door. “Good thinking. That’d make my job a lot harder.” He smiles as I grab the bag with the contraband, and make my way over to him.

“You know, you still owe me that dinner,” Pat says.

Dinner?

“That dinner,” he repeats. “You said we’d grab pasta sometime. I haven’t forgotten.”

“Oh, right, sorry. Scatterbrained today,” I explain, sliding the bag over my shoulder hiding it behind my back from him. Actually, that might be a good idea. We could use that dinner to distract Pat during the big swap. “How about we do that once I’m done prepping for the exhibit? I’ll have more time then.”

Assuming I’m still alive and un-incarcerated.

Pat nods enthusiastically and moves aside to let me pass. We say our goodbyes, and he strolls back to his little office, while I slowly walk to the exit.

On my way, my heartbeat finally begins to slow.

Until I hear another sound—coming from Elaine’s office.

30

BEN

If I had a nickel for every time I’ve pulled off a distraction like this, well, I still wouldn’t be a billionaire, but I’d be a few nickels richer.

Usually, it’s easy. Just charm, deflect, misdirect. Smile like I’ve got a trust fund and absolutely no outstanding warrants. But usually, it’s Alexei in the backroom doing the stealing—not Helena.

Today, I’m sweating through my tailored suit. Granted, it was a rather cheap one that I tailored myself. If only I would have had those extra nickels to choose a different fabric—or at least a less body-hugging cut.

Elaine pours wine from the bottle I brought as a gift. It’s a nice vintage—one Alex and I swiped from a former client. Then she begins talking about a painting hanging on her wall.

“It’s a masterpiece, isn’t it?” she concludes after a bit.

I let my eyes wander from Elaine to the painting. Itisa striking piece. One of those rare paintings that, despite all the noise, actually gets quieter the longer you look at it.

“It’s a little-known work from a—for now—little-known artist. I’m sure Helena has told you all about it.”

My Helena, who’s hopefully in the archive right now, swapping out priceless art like it’s just another Monday. My Helena, who absolutely cannot go back to pri?—

“In fact, we should get her in here. She’s the real expert on this.” Elaine gets up, spurred by her own idea, and heads for the door.

“No!” I blurt, just a little too loud and a lot too fast. “She can’t come here. I mean—not now. She’s… busy. Probably. Covered in… varnish and… dust.” I wave vaguely at the nearest painting like that helps make my point.

Elaine continues toward the door. “It’ll only take a second?—”

I get out of my seat, and jump in front of her like a human roadblock, pushing the door shut behind me. I don’t slam it, just shut it, firmly. Like someone trying hard not to panic.

She blinks. “What are you doing? Why are you being weird?”

Okay. Think fast. Lie fast. Or…