9

My name is William Baker, but on the streets, I was known as Flint Marko. I was something of a legend in downtown New York. When I got bored, I'd steal gold and silver jewelry, sell it for cash, and then visit Jenny, a trainee nurse who was a kind soul.

Truth be told, despite being a crook, I was timid and never harmed anyone.

Life's more about coincidence than drama. Good or bad, things just happen.

Because of my exceptional skills, a tough guy took notice. He promised a worry-free life if I passed a simple test: sneak into a villa in New York Parish at a set time and access the safe. As a thief, it sounded like a breeze.

At the appointed hour, I drove out of the city, enjoying the sights of wildflowers on the roadside.

Living downtown, I hadn't felt this relaxed in ages. I even sang loudly in the car—a sign, perhaps, that I was going soft.

Arriving at Wisteria Street in Meijing Town, it was still daylight. I strolled leisurely, taking in the warm, sunny community atmosphere. Neighbors warmly welcomed a newcomer with delicious treats. Hungry myself, I bought an ice cream cone near the community park and sat on a bench, soaking in the afternoon sun.

In the distance, children and a few dogs rehearsed Shakespeare's tragic scene from "Romeo and Juliet." A boy in a purple beret directed the play—a stark contrast to my own upbringing.

I recalled my childhood game of watching out for police cars. If one passed by, I'd tap my steel pipe in exchange for a piece of bread.

Night fell, and after a full day of relaxation, I confirmed the villa was empty. Easy pickings. Except... there was a giant stuffed toy on the first-floor table that startled me.

In the dimly lit study on the second floor, I found the safe quickly. With a small flashlight, I had it open in minutes. It wasn't top-of-the-line.

Inside, not jewels but a bundle of documents caught my eye. One sheet detailed a treatment plan for congenital motor neuropathy. The rest was gibberish beyond my elementary school education.

I completed my task smoothly, anticipating a rich payday. Maybe I'd buy a modest house here. Jenny would love it. Perhaps our future children would rehearse Shakespeare in the park.

Daydreaming made me careless.

"Oh no! Why? My little Jimmy..."

A heartbreaking cry erupted from the neighboring house, where Romeo from the park lived during the day. Don't ask how I knew. It's professional curiosity.

I did something reckless, crossing the lawn and entering the villa's living room. The scene inside, despite my Hell's Kitchen upbringing, shocked me.

"Who are you? Why are you breaking into my home? My child... he..." the woman shrieked, grabbing a knife near the child.

"It's you! It's you!" she accused.

Instinct kicked in, and clad in my "work clothes"—black attire, gloves, and pants—I defended myself against the frantic woman. In the scuffle, she got nicked, and I fled in panic, driving back to the city.

The nightmare began the next morning with news of the incident and a description of a violent intruder. Me. Thankfully, my professional gear—a full set of black attire—kept me unidentifiable.

But worse, the tough guy who sent me on the job was hunting me down, all for that blasted bundle of documents.

Back in the city, I realized I'd lost my briefcase. I couldn't return home or contact Jenny. Only in the black community was I safe from the tough guy's eyes; he'd killed his own men for less.

With nothing to eat from dumpsters today, I was exhausted. Papa Papa kindly took me in, but nothing changed. The tough guy was relentless, and the police were hot on my trail. Sleep had become a luxury, and I was on the brink of madness.

Then, a thin young man walked in one day. He asked about my troubles, urging me to spill the details.

I was at my wit's end, so I poured out everything. His questions—about the layout of the house that night, the state of the child and dog, and the presence of the woman—forced me to relive the horror.

"The dogs lay bleeding on the floor," I recounted. "The boy sat nearby, a knife at his feet. And then the woman lunged at me..."

"They were watching TV," I added nervously, "an opera, Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet."

The young man fell silent, deep in thought. Anxiously, I awaited his next move. Papa must have sent him to help.

After a tense silence, the young man beckoned me to follow him. He said it was my chance to clear my name. He led the way out, and I, with no other options, followed.

The sunlight outside was blinding. I hadn't been out in days.

We drove together to a tavern in Central Park—a haunt for the rich. Even the glasses on the bar could fetch a pretty penny. The waitstaff dressed better than Jenny did on her wedding day.

"Relax. Have a drink," the young man gestured, settling in a corner with a glass of brandy.

I downed the drink in one gulp, losing myself in the luxury of it all.

Half a bottle of fine wine and two exquisite pies later, a handsome blond man entered the chilly bar. He joined us, clearly in need of a drink.

"So, great writer, what's this urgent call about? I've been swamped at the office since morning," the blond man said, downing his drink.

"This unfortunate soul is your Halloween gift this year, George," the thin young man said, eyeing George with disdain. "He's the one Lillian accused."

"Tsk, no signs of intrusion, no outsiders. I interrogated Dick this morning; guilt was written all over his face," George scoffed at the thin man's words.

I realized then my situation wasn't as dire as I thought. The police didn't even believe I was there that night—thanks to my professional attire and dedication.

The only issue remaining was that bundle of documents the tough guy wanted. Under the influence of high-end spirits, I recalled where it had ended up: in the living room. Now, I just needed to retrieve it.

No matter where it was, I'd find a way to get it back. Thanks for your help, young man Papa Papa brought here. I'd find a way to repay him.