Molly hunched over the blueprints spread across their dingy motel table, her red hair falling into her eyes as she traced a path with her chipped nail polish. Bill paced behind her, his mustache twitching with every third step like some nervous woodland creature. "I'm telling you, Bill, this is our easiest score yet." Molly tapped the paper emphatically. "The Johnson kid is turning five. Five! Do you know how many presents a five-year-old gets these days?" Bill stopped pacing and peered over her shoulder, his cologne—something that smelled suspiciously like pine air freshener—making her nose wrinkle. "I dunno, Mol. Something feels wrong about hitting a kiddie party." He scratched his balding head. "We've done banks, jewelry stores, even that weird rich guy's yacht. But this? It's a new low." Molly spun around in her chair, eyes flashing. "New low? Let me remind you about the economic implications here. Parents spend an average of thirty bucks per gift. Twenty guests minimum. That's six hundred in merchandise we can flip for half-price, easy." "When you put it that way..." Bill mumbled, reaching for the half-empty bag of cheese puffs. "Plus," Molly continued, snatching the bag away before he could orange-dust the blueprints, "they're having it at Pirate Pete's Pizza Palace. The place is a chaotic nightmare. Parents zoned out on their phones, kids screaming like banshees, underpaid teenagers manning the ship. Nobody's watching the gift table." Bill flopped onto the bed, springs protesting loudly. "What's our in? We can't exactly blend in without kids of our own." Molly grinned, pulling out two garish t-shirts from her duffel bag. She tossed one at Bill's face. "Party staff. I called yesterday pretending to be from corporate. They're short-handed and desperate." Bill held up the shirt, grimacing at the cartoon rat wearing a pirate hat. "You're joking." "Three-hour shift. We work the gift table, directing people where to put presents. Then during the cake ceremony, we disappear with everything into your van." Molly folded her arms, looking smug. "In and out with minimal contact with sticky children." "Fine," Bill sighed, "but I draw the line at face paint." "Already accounted for. You'll be wearing the mascot head for part of the shift." "The what now?" Molly pulled out a massive rat head with an eyepatch from under the table. "Say hello to Captain Whiskers." Bill's face fell faster than a safe they'd once dropped from a third-story window. "I hate you sometimes." "You'll thank me when we're counting our loot." Molly rolled up the blueprints with a flourish. "Think about it—video games, action figures, maybe even cash in those cards. It's the perfect crime." "Perfect until some five-year-old has an emotional breakdown because Captain Whiskers stole his birthday." Molly patted Bill's shoulder consolingly. "That's why we're professionals, Billy. In and out. No tears. Just a mysterious disappearance of presents that'll be blamed on teenage staff or confused parents." Bill sighed heavily. "The things I do for money." "For art," Molly corrected with a wink. "And maybe this time, don't eat any of the cake. Remember the wedding disaster?" "That was one time!"