The map on the greasy diner table was drawn in orange crayon. It depicted a suburban fortress guarded by a terrifying beast labeled Fluffy. Molly tapped a manicured fingernail against the drawing of a bouncy castle. This is the drop zone, Bill. Are you listening? Bill adjusted his fake mustache, which was currently drooping into his decaf coffee. I’m listening, but I’m telling you, clowns are a variable we haven't accounted for. They have oversized shoes for concealment. Do you really think a guy in a rainbow wig is going to out-muscle me? Molly hissed, leaning over her cold fries. We are talking about thirty-two wrapped boxes of pure unadulterated loot. Legos, Bill. The high-end kits with the motors. Do you know the street value of a motorized Star Wars set? I’m more concerned about the sticky fingers, Bill muttered, wiping a drop of brown liquid off his lip. Kids are basically biological weapons. If one touches my suit, I’ll compromise the entire perimeter. You’ll be wearing the tactical camouflage, Molly reminded him. You mean the dinosaur suit? It’s a velociraptor, Bill. It provides psychological superiority. No child suspects a prehistoric predator of grand larceny. They’ll just ask me for a balloon animal while I’m lugging a heavy-duty sack of stolen goods to the van. That’s why you carry the distraction pouch. What’s in the distraction pouch? Mini-marshmallows, Molly whispered, her eyes gleaming with avarice. They’ll be too busy scavenging the floor to notice us making a break for the fence. And the mother? Mrs. Higgins? She’s the real threat. She has the eyes of a hawk and the temperament of a drill sergeant. I’ve programmed a series of automated robocalls to her cell phone regarding her long-overdue library books. It’ll keep her occupied in the kitchen for at least six minutes. Six minutes isn't enough time to clear the gift table, Bill argued, finally fixing his mustache. We need a distraction for the father, too. He’s a hobbyist woodworker. He’ll notice if the gift table's structural integrity changes. I’ve planted a rumor in the neighborhood that a rare species of woodpecker has been spotted three houses down. He’ll be in the backyard with binoculars. You’ve thought of everything, haven't you? Practically. Did you remember the non-slip socks? For the hardwood floors? Of course, Bill. I’m a professional, not a birthday magician. Good, because if I slip on a stray juice box and end up in a body cast for a pile of plastic building blocks, I’m snitching on you. Just get in the dinosaur suit, Bill. We have a party to crash. Fine, but I’m not singing the song. You’ll sing if it’s the only way to reach those gift receipts. Now let's go move some freight.