Try Harder

June 28

That morning, Buff waited until his sister left, and then called in sick to work. He grabbed the most masculine T-shirt he could find from her closet and threw it on. After spending twenty minutes gently tidying up her apartment, hoping it would help him get on her good side, he left.

He took a bus north up Highway 10 for an hour and half to the small town of Primose. He was dropped off at a greasy diner named Super Burger. It was a venerable place with a funky orange and brown decor, and wall-to-wall glass. There was an old TTC streetcar sitting out front, which was used as a dining room.

It was a familiar place to Buff. There was a man he consulted with before every big job, and Super Burger was where he always found him.

Buff ordered the cheeseburger combo with onion rings and a bottle of water. He grabbed a booth in the corner and started eating. The burger was delicious.

Less than ten minutes later, an old bald man walking with a cane came into the diner. He was wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt. Buff watched him hobble up to the front counter and ask for a burger and a pop.

"That will be six twenty-five," said the girl taking his order, smiling.

The old man reached into his pants pocket. A pile of crumpled American bills tumbled out onto the counter.

"D'ya take American money?" he asked, speaking with a strong, distinct Newfoundland accent.

"Well, we don't normally..."

He immediately interrupted her. "Huh?" He adjusted the hearing aid buried deep in his ear. "Sorry 'bout that, b'y. Had the thing three weeks and already the arse fell out of 'er. What'd ya say, me ducky?"

"We don't normally accept American money," she repeated, emphasizing every word.

"Oh," he said, looking despondent. "I'm sorry, me dear, but this is alls I got. I been down in the States gettin' hip surgery." He droned on for what felt like ages, detailing every inane part of his trip. The girl grew more exasperated with every anecdote. She looked past the old man and saw a lineup forming behind him, growing longer with every minute this coot wasted. She was hitting her breaking point.

"You know what?" she said, sharply. "It's fine. You can pay with your American money. Six twenty-five, please."

"Come on, hurry up, man!" shouted a voice from the back of the line.

"Me girlie, d'ya mind if I change some of this for Canadian money, too?" asked the old man.

"Fine, whatever," she said impatiently. "Just make it quick. There are other people waiting to order."

The old man smiled. His trap had been carefully set, and the young server had fallen right into it. Over the next minute, Buff watched him pull over thirty dollars out of her with a simple short counting and change-raising scheme. That's why the old man had insisted on using American cash; it's an easier con to pull when every denomination looks the same.

Buff was impressed. The old man still had some skills.

His name was Marcus, and he was the reason Buff was here. Marcus had been his mentor a decade earlier, introducing him to the art of safe-cracking. He was originally a fisherman on the east coast, but took up thievery after his boat sank in a rough storm. He used the few unsavoury connections he had, learned the trade, and quickly gained notoriety among the criminal underworld for his brazen robberies. By the time Buff met him, he was one of the best cat burglars in the country.

He was in his sixties now. His best days were long behind him. Time had waged a vicious war against his features, and mostly won. He had wrinkles, liver spots and a round potbelly. The cane and the hearing aid were new since the last time Buff had seen him.