IBIS COOK: Molly and Bill scurried down the tree lined path. The looming gables and ivy clad eaves of Number 17 were nearly in sight. Molly's incognito clothing, a flouncy pink tutu and a chiffon blouse, tickled like a snare drum as she walked, each step resonating a "twinkie, twinkie little twinkie" kind of beat. She had felt adamant about the costume, desperate for a distasteful disguise. When they reached the entrance, Molly paused for a nervous swoon. Her mouth felt like cotton swab. This was to be their biggest job yet, stealing from a house during afternoon tea. Bill condensed his reply into a simple hand gesture, a manic gesture really, one she had grown accustomed to over the years. His first finger punched the door's brass knocker. The door wings wheezed in surprise. It fell away, revealing a cherubic Filipina housekeeper. Molly plowed through her words, "Buffy! I'm your friend, Buffy, from the neighborhood...remember?" The woman nodded spastically. Bull's eye. They slipped inside. Once past the heavy oak doors, Molly's mind flashed back to the surprisingly calm week they spent relentlessly casing the home, watching for routines and vulnerabilities, looking where to hit first. Welcome to the home of four-year-old Bridgewell Bright junctions's darling, Meadow Specson. Right on cue, from above, Bridgewell's voice called down, "Mama, someone is down there right now!" Her mother appeared with a frown, swallowed by widow's weeds. "I have two very special guests, Bridgewell," Bridgewell's mother called with a discernible coo. The little girl scampered downstairs in clumps of guilt, sickly for what she must have done. Bridgewell studied her two "friends" muffinlessly. She would have noticed an alien. Over at the gigantic pile of presents inscribed with festive stickers and bows, Bill stifled a snicker. In three more sweeps, they'd have her presents in their bags and be out the front door before Bridgewell could scream, "Stand and deliver!" Molly looked to Bill for approval and he gave it with a nod of ascent. They shuffled to the drawbridge. The pile of gifts was at Bridgewell's height, easy to pick off. They burrowed into bags, bonnet mouths bushing with each gift. With one last mousy sigh, Bridgewell stifled a wanting purse of her lips. They scampered out the doorway, which closed with an exaggerated sigh of relief. As they kayaked through the convoy of black cabs and platinum Land Rovers waiting outside for Bridgewell's parents, Molly let out a loud cackle. "That's what you get for having such an insires!" she said to Bill. "Next time, leave the little twerps alone..." the convoys roared and clanked like so many metal bags.