Molly leaned against the wall, watching the dull humdrum of the kids' birthday party spill out into the yard. Trainers squeaked on the Astroturf. Tobe's mom fawned over some of the junior guests, a thin-lipped plastic smile plastered on her face. Molly snorted. Classic uptight suburban mom, too far up her own rectum to notice birds of prey circling overhead. Or in this case, felons with flash. Beside her, Bill busied himself with the lockpick, sweating over the cylinder, one eye twitching like a manic wasp. "Is there a problem?" Molly asked. Bill looked up, eyes uncertain in the afternoon shadows. "The lock...it's not like any I've seen before. It's almost...drawing out my stealth. Is that normal?" Molly rolled her eyes. "You pickpocketed Oliver 'T-Rex' Grimes once. You can handle a kids' backdoor lock. Just last week you picked the lock to Andor's underground vault." Bill crossed himself and shivered. Andor. That was a name to make hardened criminals soil the knees of their dress tights. But Molly was right. "My forte is not the hidden stronghold," he said. "I'm more the progressing prick..." "Eject!" Molly flicked his forehead in disgust. "We don't talk that way about the Little Shrikes." Sometimes Molly thought of herself as the adoring mother to their gang of urchins. "Your profanity is a constant reminder," Oliver Cleanfingers sang out from the treeline. Molly blushed. Cleanfingers...such a pretentious nickname. Boy though she was hot-blooded cold-blooded canary lips. "Okay, but sometimes I think there's a snob or a booby in these homes," Molly said. "Like even just a mild terror or perhaps an honest booby." "Even that's too much," Bill muttered nervously, but he was out of sight with that pick, wriggling his snake of a midsection so he could stick his tongue deeper into the kid's birthday lock. Molly cupped her crotch and grinned wickedly. I hope his lock stays little longer so Bill stays here longer. She had lately, and I mean lately, thought to question whether his fingering might be the best option for the seven-million-shekel job they'd agreed to do. The question was raised because they'd spent maybe upwards of like sixty minutes all inside the house since arriving fifty-something food or drink all that eternity. It was like he was deliberately and in cold blood denying himself the pleasure of pleasure. But Molly knew too much bravery was always followed by a coward or two. Unfortunately, their sexual investigation lacked results. Their suspicion of our sex is only worse, and their suspicion of our criminal skills seems to be nothing but bad news. "I'll cry again," Molly responded in a forced whisper. "Crying girl: That's an idea I won't fake.