Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8X533Q27YR5JJYYV843X72

The fluorescent light in the back booth of the Greasy Spoon diner flickered, giving Molly’s detailed schematic of the Henderson backyard an unsettling strobe effect. Bill stared at the crayon diagram, a forkful of pie hovering in mid-air. “The mark is one Timothy Henderson, age six,” Molly said, her voice low. “The haul is estimated at twenty-three gift-wrapped items, varying sizes. Party kicks off at two PM Saturday. Our window is between the piñata carnage and the cake serving. That’s when adult vigilance drops by approximately sixty percent.” Bill slowly put his fork down. “You’re telling me our big score is a pile of action figures and picture books.” “It’s a soft target, Bill. Low security, predictable patterns. The perimeter is a waist-high picket fence. The primary obstacle is a hyperactive golden retriever named Butterscotch.” “And the guests? A swarm of sugar-fueled six-year-olds.” “Precisely. Perfect camouflage. We go in disguised as caterers from ‘Happy Clown Pizza.’ I’ve got the hats.” Molly tapped a corner of the drawing. “We enter here, by the inflatable dragon slide. We load the gifts into empty pizza boxes. We exit via the side gate. Clean. Simple.” Bill rubbed his temples. “What about the parents? The… maternal units.” “Distracted. They’ll be comparing stroller brands or drinking lukewarm chardonnay. The real wild card is the entertainment. A magician named Zoltan. He’s a pro, could be observant.” “A children’s magician is our rival crew?” “Every variable matters. Now, the cake is a three-tier chocolate fortress. Its serving represents ‘go-time.’ The sugar rush that follows creates a beautiful, chaotic diversion.” Bill studied the diagram again. “Extraction route?” “Down the alley, into the waiting ice cream truck. I’ve rented one. It’s genius. We drive away slowly, playing ‘Pop Goes the Weasel.’ No one suspects an ice cream truck.” “What about the loot? Fencing it’s gonna be tricky. My guy, Fingers, doesn’t do stuffed animals.” “We’re not pawn-shop amateurs, Bill. Online marketplace. Vintage toy collectors. Do you know what a limited-edition ‘Galactic Guardian’ goes for? This isn’t petty theft. It’s a highly specific redistribution of wealth.” “I still don’t like the dog.” “I’ve procured countermeasures.” Molly slid a Ziploc bag across the table. It was full of greasy meatballs. “Butterscotch’s kryptonite. His mom makes them vegan. These are eighty-twenty beef. He’ll be in a food coma for forty minutes.” Bill sighed, a long, weary sound. “The hats. Are they non-negotiable?” “The hats sell the bit. You’ll be ‘Cheesy Bill.’ I’ll be ‘Pepperoni Molly.’” “I hate this. I absolutely hate this.” “The take will be clean, untraceable. Better than another museum alarm system. So, are you in?” Bill looked at the meatballs, then at the ridiculous clown-hat diagram. He imagined the sound of children screaming. He picked up his fork and stabbed his pie. “Fine. But if I have to sing the pizza song, I’m taking an extra percentage.” Molly smiled, a sharp, triumphant thing. “Deal. Now, let’s go over the pinch points. The main one is gift-opening time. We have to be gone before that. The emotional fallout is… intense. It’ll lock down the whole area.”