The fluorescent lights of the diner's kitchen hummed above, casting a sterile glow on the cracked vinyl booth where Molly and Bill huddled. They sipped on lukewarm coffee, the only patrons in the deserted eatery at this ungodly hour. Their discussion was hushed, with furtive glances around the empty diner, a holdover from years of clandestine meetings. Molly pushed a dog-eared map across the tabletop, the crude layout of the Smith-Jones' estate highlighted in yellow marker. "Alright, Bill, here's the plan: we get in through the catering entrance during the clown's magic show. By my count, there'll be upwards of fifty sugar-addled kids shrieking over balloon animals. No one will notice us slipping in." Bill scratched the stubble on his chin, eyes scanning the map. "And what about the nanny-cam security system? I don't feel like starring in the next America's Funniest Surveillance Videos." "Already taken care of," Molly said, tapping her pen on the tabletop. "Their IT guy's kid is in my Pilates class. It's a five-buck-an-hour job. I slipped him a twenty to 'accidentally' forget the system's password." Bill chuckled, low and gravelly. "Only you, Molly, could bribe a preteen with a sum total of his allowance." Molly smiled tightly. "Hey, the art of persuasion is all about understanding your mark's pricing tier. Besides, this haul's going to be worth it: rich parents, competitive gift-giving, and an open bar for the adults. I overheard the moms at Starbucks – there's a diamond-encrusted Barbie with an iPhone already wrapped under the tree." "Ooo, now that's the definition of fiscal responsibility," Bill snickered, lips curling around his coffee cup. "Rich people, man. They're the reason we'll never have to work real jobs again." Molly arched a brow, inspecting her fingernails. "Don't get too cocky, partner. This party's probably crawling with Secret Service types. One misstep and we're playing keep-away from cons in a real-life game of The Breakfast Club." Bill raised his hands in mock defense. "Easy, no adrenaline high for me, thanks. I just want the high-res 4K TV and maybe some trashed kid's barely used art supplies to augment our eBay store." Molly crinkled her eyes at her partner's unbroken string of optimistic felonies. "Keep the pilfering to a minimum, okay? I swear, if we get caught, I'm citing a brain tumor as the cause of our temporary larceny relapse." "I love a good team-building activity, don't you?" Bill said with a sly grin. She stared at the ceiling fan as it whirred into motion, dust motes swirling like the loose ends of their operations. It would be fine, though. Molly ticked down the to-do list, mentally rehearsing each sequence and accounting for all potential exits, hideaways, and diversions. Forthcoming would be the time-honored dance between them and the party's authorities: grab and dodge, the high-octane ballet of opportunism.