**Old Crimes, New Lessons**
Cobblestones dig into my knees. Prague at 3 am is all shadows and echoes. The alley smells of old rain and newer piss. I'm looking for something that shouldn't be here. Something I lost a long time ago. A small pink feather, out of place, catches my eye.
The streetlamp above me flickers. A moth dances in its sickly yellow light. Below it, a discarded newspaper, soggy and faded. The headline still legible: "Art Heist of the Century, 50 Years Unsolved."
I remember that heist. I was young, arrogant. I thought I could change the world, one stolen painting at a time.
- The Client
He finds me in Marianske Lazne, drinking coffee as black as my memories. Suit too crisp, shoes too shiny. Screams money, new and eager.
"You're Karel Novak?" he asks, sliding into the chair across from me.
I nod.
"I need your expertise. A painting, something old."
"They're all old, kid." I take a sip. It burns, just the way I like it.
He pushes a photo across the table. A familiar piece, one I haven't seen in decades. My stomach churns.
"I need you to find it," he says.
"Why me?"
"They say you were the best. Back in the day."
Back in the day. Before I got caught. Before I lost everything.
- The Past
I was part of a crew then. We hit museums, galleries, private collections. We were good. Too good.
The painting, a Klimt, was our magnum opus. We took it from a collector in Vienna. Clean, smooth, like a symphony. Then we hid it. Waited for the heat to die down.
It never did.
- The Search
I start with the old haunts. Places we used to hide, to plan. Most are gone now, replaced by trendy cafes and tourist traps. Prague doesn't stand still, even when you want it to.
I end up at the Charles Bridge. The Vltava flows beneath, dark and silent. I lean against the stone railing, watching the water. A memory tugs at me. Something about a key, a locker...
- The Key
I find it in an old jacket, tucked away in a box of mementos. Cold, small, nondescript. But it fits the locker at the train station.
Inside is a package, wrapped in cloth. The painting. Untouched by time. There's also a small plastic flamingo, a joke from an old friend. I tuck it into my pocket.
- The Complication
He's waiting for me when I get back to my apartment. Gun in hand, smile on face.
"You found it," he says. Not a question.
"You didn't hire me to find it," I realize aloud. "You hired me to lead you to it."
He shrugs. "Either way, you did good work."
- The Choice
I could fight. Try to take him down. But I'm old, tired. And he has the gun.
Instead, I offer him a deal. "Let me buy it from you."
He laughs. "With what? Your pension?"
"With information," I say. "With the truth about the heist. And the other paintings."
His eyes narrow. Greed flickers. He knows about the Klimt, but not the rest. Not the hidden fortune that never surfaced.
He considers. Looks at the painting, then back at me. Nods.
- The Truth
I tell him about the crew. About the jobs, the thrill, the fall. I tell him about the Klimt, about hiding it, about getting caught before we could sell it.
I tell him about the key, the locker, the waiting.
I tell him everything. Almost.
- The Lesson
He takes the painting. Leaves me with my memories and a few bruises. It's a fair trade.
I watch him go, then pour myself a drink. Look out at the city, the lights, the shadows.
Crime is a young man's game. But old men have their uses too. We remember. We teach.
We survive.
The cobblestones dig into my knees. The alley is quiet, the streetlamp hums. The newspaper, soggy and faded, flutters in the breeze. I reach into my pocket, pull out the plastic flamingo. A reminder of the past, of friends lost.
I stand up, brush off my pants. Leave the past where it belongs.
In the gutter.
I walk away, into the night. Into the city. Into the future.
After all, I've got a story to tell.
And a flamingo to feed.