Run: 2026-03-06-01KK1HCE8NV1DFB4XBMT6ZZ5PD

Molly flattened the crinkled invitation on the café table between two untouched scones and a sugar shaker shaped like a goose. Outside, rain varnished the pavement; inside, Bill wore the expression of a man trying to look innocent in a room full of teapots, which was difficult because he naturally resembled a burglar in witness protection. “Look at it,” Molly said. “Balloons, magician, pony rides, gift mountain. It’s not a party, Bill. It’s a retail district with frosting.” Bill leaned in. “You’re sure?” “It says, ‘No child leaves empty-handed.’ That’s practically taunting us.” He adjusted his cap. “I don’t like jobs involving ponies. They can smell moral weakness.” “Then they’ll adore you. Focus.” She tapped the card. “Saturday, one o’clock, Willowbank Hall. Twenty-seven presents confirmed from the RSVP list, plus stragglers.” “Twenty-seven? Children get too much. In my day, you got a whistle and a firm orange.” “In your day, colour had just been invented.” Bill sniffed. “What’s the angle?” Molly smiled the sort of smile locksmiths feared. “I go in as the face painter. You go in as the children’s entertainer.” He nearly inhaled a raisin. “Absolutely not.” “You juggle.” “Badly.” “Perfect. Children love incompetence. They call it ‘relatable.’” Bill rubbed his forehead. “I can’t entertain children. They ask questions with no legal answers.” “You don’t need charm. You need distraction. Keep them facing the wrong way while I liberate the presents from the gift table.” “With what? A sack marked SWAG?” “With the pram.” Bill blinked. “What pram?” “The enormous vintage pram Mrs. Cresswell keeps in her prop shed. We borrow it, line it with blankets, stack the presents inside, and wheel them straight out the side gate.” “That is appalling,” Bill said, impressed. “What if someone looks in?” “They’ll see blankets. Maybe a doll. People never question a pram. It’s social camouflage with wheels.” The waitress arrived, set down tea, and left with the cautious speed of someone sensing future testimony. Bill watched her go. “And if the birthday child notices all her gifts vanishing?” Molly sipped tea. “That’s why you climax the act at one-thirty.” “I have a climax?” “You produce a live dove.” “I do not own a dove.” “You will by Friday.” Bill stared at the rain. “Every time you say things like that, my life gains a corridor.” “Good. In the confusion, I wheel out the pram. You follow five minutes later, claim artistic differences with a six-year-old, and meet me in the alley.” “And then?” “Then we sort the haul. Electronics for fencing, plush toys for resale, puzzles for your niece.” Bill frowned. “I haven’t got a niece.” “You will if we need an alibi.” He considered the invitation again. Tiny cartoon unicorns pranced around the edges with the confidence of creatures that had never met rent. “What about security?” “It’s a children’s party, not the crown jewels.” “Rich children,” Bill said. “Their parents hire photographers, allergy consultants, string quartets. One of them might have principles.” “Principles are decorative. Like parsley.” He laughed despite himself. “Suppose I agree. What’s my entertainer name?” Molly didn’t hesitate. “Professor Bananas.” “Cruel.” “Memorable.” He sat back, folding his arms. “I want fifty percent.” “You’ll get forty.” “I’m risking humiliation in oversized shoes.” “You always do.” “Forty-five, and no balloon animals. Last time a spaniel proposed marriage to me.” Molly extended her hand. “Done.” Bill shook it solemnly. “If I’m trampled by a pony, you clear my browser history.” “If you’re trampled by a pony,” Molly said, slipping the invitation into her coat, “I’m taking your share too.” Bill lifted his tea in a gloomy toast. “To crime.” “To birthdays,” said Molly. Outside, the rain eased, as if even the weather wanted a better view.