“Alright, Bill, focus. The schematic is laid out on the napkin.” “This is a napkin from a place called ‘The Greasy Spoon,’ Molly. And you’ve drawn a bouncy castle with a dragon on it. That’s not a schematic, that’s a child’s nightmare.” “That, my dear Bill, is our primary obstacle. The T-Rex of Terror. According to my intelligence—which I gathered by eavesdropping on a mother named Brenda—it’s the epicenter of the party. All the presents are piled high right next to its rubbery maw.” “We’re stealing presents from a seven-year-old’s birthday party? I thought we were professionals.” “We are professionals. Professionals who understand that high-end security is a nightmare, but a dad in a ‘World’s Okayest Griller’ apron is an open door. The real threat isn’t lasers, it’s snot-nosed kids with sticky fingers. Our window is precisely three minutes. That’s how long it takes Brenda to get the ice cream cake from the car.” “Three minutes? To clear out an entire pile of presents? What are we using, a series of large burlap sacks?” “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re using gift bags. We’ll blend in. I have a dozen empty ones, each tastefully adorned with a non-specific ‘Happy Birthday!’ message. We walk in, looking like distant relatives with terrible gifts, and walk out looking like distant relatives who are leaving early. It’s perfect.” “And how do we get past the parents? They’ll see us.” “No, they won’t. They’ll be too busy arguing about whether the potato salad is supposed to have raisins in it. It’s a classic diversionary tactic, albeit an unintentional one. You, Bill, are the master of the subtle approach. You’ll create a secondary diversion.” “What am I supposed to do, trip over a poodle?” “Better. You’re going to ‘accidentally’ pop the bouncy castle. Right by the air valve. Just a little pin-prick. A slow, sad hiss. The sound of deflating joy is our cue. Every adult in a ten-foot radius will turn into a grief counselor. While they’re all consoling little Timmy over his flimsy castle, I’ll be bagging the loot. It’s foolproof.” “I don’t know, Molls. This feels… beneath us. Stealing a Lego Death Star from a kid who’s about to have the best day of his life?” “Bill, look at the manifest I compiled.” She pointed to the corner of the greasy napkin. “One of those boxes is a ‘Build-Your-Own-Robot-Kit.’ Do you know what’s in that? Servo motors. High-torque gears. A tiny, but powerful, processor. We’re not stealing a toy. We’re stealing the components for our next big job. The kid is losing a robot. The city is gaining two very wealthy thieves with a brand new grappling hook launcher. Now, are you in, or are you going to keep questioning the napkin?”