Run: 2026-03-06-01KK1HCN90E9RBRF8V2WGB992D

“I’m telling you, Bill, a children’s party is the perfect target,” Molly said, flattening a hand-drawn map across the café table between the sugar dispenser and a damp ring left by someone else’s tea. “No one expects criminal enterprise near a bouncy castle.” “No one respectable, maybe,” Bill muttered. “I do. I hear the phrase children’s party and immediately expect chaos, screaming, and a man dressed as a pirate with the eyes of a hostage.” “Exactly. Camouflage.” “Camouflage is khaki,” Bill said. “This is balloons and jam.” Molly tapped the map. “Observe. Three o’clock: magician arrives. Three-fifteen: cake unveiled. Three-seventeen: every adult in attendance turns into a photographer with no peripheral vision. During that window, we lift the presents.” Bill stared at the drawing. “Why is the house shaped like a potato?” “That is architectural shorthand.” “It’s a potato with windows.” “It’s a detached potato,” Molly said. “Focus. The gifts are stacked in the conservatory.” “The what?” “The glass room.” “Ah. The greenhouse for cushions.” Molly leaned in. “French doors here. Side gate here. Escape route through the alley, over Mrs. Wetherby’s wall, into the car.” Bill frowned. “Mrs. Wetherby keeps geese.” “She keeps one goose.” “It has the spirit of seven.” “That goose and I have an understanding.” “That’s what worries me. Last time you said that about an animal, I spent twenty minutes in a hedge while a dachshund judged me.” A waitress set down their coffees. Molly smiled sweetly until she had gone. “We need disguises,” Bill said. “We cannot simply stroll into a child’s birthday looking like the tax audit of doom.” “We go in as entertainers.” Bill recoiled. “No.” “Yes.” “I refuse to balloon anything.” “You won’t have to. You’ll be my assistant.” “I’d rather be a pallbearer.” Molly ignored him. “I’ll do close-up magic. You carry props, look mournful, and say as little as possible.” “I can do mournful,” Bill admitted. “It’s one of my natural gifts.” “Good. We arrive with confidence, a large case, and vague accusations that the agency failed to mention the stairs.” Bill rubbed his forehead. “Suppose someone asks us to perform.” “Then I perform.” “Can you do magic?” “I can steal a wristwatch while explaining misdirection. That’s basically wizardry.” He sipped his coffee. “What about the presents? Children notice presents.” “Children notice sugar. Presents are decorative until the appropriate howling phase.” “And if one of them sees us?” Molly smiled. “Then we say, ‘Special delivery inspection.’” “That is not a thing.” “It is if you say it with a clipboard.” Bill considered this. “Do we have a clipboard?” “We will by noon.” Outside, rain slicked the pavement, turning the streetlamps milky in the window. Molly folded the potato-house map with priestly care. “There is one ethical concern,” Bill said. “Only one? We’re maturing.” “We are stealing from children.” “We are stealing from affluent parents who overcompensate with imported wrapping paper.” “That is a disturbingly smooth distinction.” “It’s accurate. Besides, children never remember who gave them what. Half those gifts could vanish and they’d blame an uncle.” Bill exhaled through his nose. “What’s the haul?” “Remote-control car, three dolls, one suspiciously enormous dinosaur, art supplies, two board games, and something labeled Deluxe Princess Fortress.” Bill looked up. “What on earth do we want with a Deluxe Princess Fortress?” Molly’s expression turned grave. “Bill, don’t be naïve. We fence the car, the dolls, the dinosaur. We keep the fortress.” For the first time all morning, Bill smiled. “With the little towers?” “With the little towers,” Molly said. He lifted his cup. “To larceny.” “To elegance,” Molly corrected. “To stealing from a party where someone will definitely vomit on a clown.” Molly clinked his cup. “And to getting out before the piñata. I have standards.”