Mickey - The View From Here PART TWO - Gallavich

Nighthawks

One morning we woke up to find a new painting hanging above the mantle in the living room. It wasn't anything special to me, just an image of four people in a diner at night. 

"It's supposed to be romantic," Ian smiled to himself. "I guess I kind of see it. They look miserable, but at least they're miserable together."

Kinda like all of us.

According to the news, some people thought this thing was a big deal. The news said it was called Nighthawks and was painted by Edward Hopper. What I took away was that it was famous and expensive. The anchor also stated that it was missing from the Art Institute of Chicago, stolen from the protection of a state of the art security system, and leaving authorities clueless. They had no idea how it was done, let alone who had taken it.

The male Gallagher siblings and I looked from the news to the painting on the wall. It couldn't be the real thing, could it?

When Frank woke up, he descended the stairs in awe of the painting. "Is that the real thing?"

66-year-old Frank Gallagher had pulled off an almost impossible art heist the night before and couldn't remember a second of it. Even with severe dementia, the man knew his shit when it came to heists.

Of course, the Gallagher's all panicked, even pitching the option to burn the painting. Carl was a cop for fuck's sake. We couldn't be caught with this. But I knew a guy who'd been able to move stolen dinosaur bones without drawing heat, and I was sure, no matter what Ian or Lip said, that my guy could sell this painting for us.

We left the painting with Lip and headed to the Alibi. Kev and V were out of town and we said we'd run the bar that day.

Ian slung beer to Kermit and Tommy, the usual barflies, while I focused on my phone. I couldn't get that painting out of my head. With our cut, we could afford to go anywhere. Maybe I could finally get Ian on a beach, though he would need a sunbrella lest he burn or turn to dust. We could go on vacation. We could expand our business. We could finally get our own place. I supposed that was the best place to start. Home.

"How 'bout this one?" I asked Ian, showing him a property listing on my phone. "Close to the freeway, so quick escape. It's got a big backyard. We could get a couple pit bulls in there. And a basement to store guns and stuff."

Without looking away from the listing, he wondered, "is it a home or a safe house?"

I made a face, unsure what he meant because I couldn't see the difference. "Same shit," I told him before I snapped at Tommy to pay for the beer he was now pouring himself.

"Well, how about this one?" Ian said, showing me a listing on his own phone. "It's got a heated pool, gym, garden—I always wanted to grow tomatoes."

Ian could be adorable sometimes. Here I was worrying about protection; guns, dogs, and escape plans, while my husband was fantasizing about starting his own vegetable garden. How the hell did we end up together?

"That's the gayest shit I ever heard," I mocked before grinning. "Hey, a pool would be dope, though. I'd love an underwater blowie. How much?"

Ian seemed uncertain. "900 bucks. It's cheap. Maybe it's a scam?"

"A lot of those condos are empty. A deal fell through or some shit. Good time to rent," Tommy told us as he sat on his stool next to Kermit.

"Ah, this won't work," Ian grumbled with disappointment. "It's on the West Side."

He let me look at the map so I could see. "Fuck."

"Too good to be true, I guess."

"Hey, we should go check this out anyway," I suggested, intrigued by the idea of cannonballing into a heated pool.

"I don't wanna move to the West Side," Ian complained peevishly.

"No, me neither. I just want to see what a West Side heated pool looks like." All I wanted was to go for a swim. Little did I know, we were looking at the listing for our future home.