The job marked the point where my brother and I started to wonder if Dad was out of control. He thought we that we could take down The Jewelers Building in Downtown Crossing, one jeweler at a time. If you've seen it, you know security's tighter than Fort Knox.
But we had inside info that an errand boy emerged every day and carried an armload of boxes three blocks, to the Fed Ex store.
A week before Christmas, the streets bustled with shoppers. Dad and I chatted back and forth on walkie-talkies, about to give up and go home when suddenly, the errand boy passed by. I signaled Dad and moved in behind him. I checked the gun secured in my waistband. Ahead, I saw Dad but not my brother. His blood sugar had dropped. Dad sent him to get food. Too late to abort, Dad lunged and shoved his gun into the kid’s side. The top boxes tumbled. I scooped them up as the kid squawked, Hey! Hey!
Dad snagged the remaining boxes and we ran to the car parked three blocks away. My brother continued to stuff hot dogs into his mouth after we picked him up. I tore open the box that was supposed to contain fifty grand in diamonds. Instead I pulled out a catalog. The chewing ceased. The car fell dead quiet.
Six boxes. Six catalogs.
We didn't know the jewelry store owner owned a police scanner. He heard our random transmissions, the catalogs were sent as a precaution.
Christmas was ruined for us, and possibly anyone expecting a catalog. Another job was planned and soon enough the catalog incident was forgotten. A few days ago while in Boston to take a class, I bumped into the Jeweler’s Building. It was like bumping into an old classmate whose friendship had turned sour. I reminisced quietly while the building continued to shun would-be robbers.
Which begs the question: If a crime falls in the middle of Boston, and no one profits, is it still a felony?
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