RICHARD ELLIOTT - THE ACCOMPLICE

Richard Elliott currently splits his time between Fanwood, New Jersey and Stone Ridge, New York.  He is a fulltime student at Full Sail University studying for his Bachelor’s in Creative Writing for Entertainment.
     He has been writing recreationally for over 20 years.
     He is an avid reader of both novels and graphic novels, a movie buff and a video game enthusiast.  You can reach him at his email, richardelliott4242@gmail.com, with any questions or critiques.
 
 

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​THE ACCOMPLICE

​     “My man, after tonight, you’re gonna be set,” Morgan said to himself.  No one heard him.  The museum was vacant.  
     He rested his sneakers up on the desk.  A little plastic nametag on his T-shirt read “Security”.  “It’ll be sex, drugs and rock and roll from now on.  Easy street, bro, easy street.”
     He craned his neck to the corner of the room where the walls and ceiling converged.  The little security camera hung there like an ever-aware bat tracing his every movement.  Morgan could see the glare of the lens.  It was like an unblinking glass eye.  “Didn’t catch me in the Blue Room, did you, you little bastard?”  He turned and looked in the opposite direction.  The painting leaned against the shadowed nook of his station.
     “You’re too smart for that uppity bitch.  You’re the man,” he said, “the lord of this house.”  He thumped his chest with a fist, creating a hollow thud.  “And they didn’t say I couldn’t start the party early so why not use my noodle and get a little extra?”
     He looked to the painting.  Some guy with a top hat and a moustache painted by some French dude named Mannix or Mancow or some other stupid name he couldn’t remember from the little gold placard under it.  “People actually pay for this crap?”  He shook his head.
     Somebody knocked.  Hard.  Morgan slid out of his relaxed position and sauntered to the door.  “I’m coming, I’m coming,” he said in a lazy tone.  He pressed the code to unlock the door and swung it open.  “Welcome, my friends, to the show that never ends.  Come inside, come inside.”
     There stood Will and Chuck dressed in Boston PD uniforms.  They looked calm if a bit annoyed.  They pushed past Morgan, who was the smallest of the three.  “Funny,” Chuck said.
     “What’s funny is you guys in those uniforms,” said Morgan, eyeing their ill-fitting getups.
     “Security cameras and motion sensors?” Chuck asked, looking around the room and ignoring Morgan’s little joke.  There was wood paneling, crown molding and dust caked on the edges of the paintings’ frames.  “Jesus, just like every other friggin’ house on the block.  What’s Boston’s problem with new things?”
     “Chuck, we aren’t here for new things.  It’s the old things we’re after,” Will said.
     “Yeah, yeah.  I know.  And once we got the old things, we get the new things,” said Chuck.
     “Damn straight,” said Will.
     “I’ll take down the cameras and sensors,” said Morgan. 
     “Yeah, you do that,” said Chuck, still looking around.
     Morgan moved to his station, positioning himself between the painting he helped himself to and the other two men in the room.  He leaned over the computer keyboard and, using one finger, typed for a minute.
     “Today, Morgan,” Chuck said.
     “It’s done, Chuck.  The sensors are down and the camera is on a loop I created,” Morgan said, beaming.
     “Good.  Will?” Chuck said.
     Morgan turned his head and was met with a straight jab to the nose.  “What’s going on?” he said, tears coming to his eyes.  Blood started to trickle down over his lip.
     “You’ve served your purpose,” Chuck said.  He motioned to Will.
     Will produced duct tape from the inside of his jacket and started to pull a strip of it off the roll.
     “But I was your way inside,” Morgan said.
     “Yep,” said Chuck.  He turned to Will. “Mouth and eyes.  I don’t want him to see where we’re going or hear what we’re doing.”
     Will wrapped up Morgan’s head and, for good measure, used the duct tape to tie his hands behind his back.  “Don’t want you calling the real police, do we?”  Will patted Morgan on the head.
     “Grab the painting under the desk.  The little moron thought I wouldn’t see it,” Chuck said.
     “What about the patsy?” Will asked, ruffling Morgan’s wiry brown hair.
     “Dump him in the nearest closet and let’s get to the business at hand, Will,” said Chuck, pulling a box cutter from his pocket, “after tonight, we’re gonna be set.”