Run: 2026-03-09-01KKAC8SZ5WQ923Z13R831SMMP

Molly spread the blueprint across the sticky café table with the solemnity of a general unveiling a battle plan, though the blueprint was actually the back of a pizza flyer and the battlefield in question was Number 14, Sycamore Close, where at precisely three o’clock tomorrow a six-year-old named Alfie would be hosting a pirate-themed birthday party. Bill leaned in until his nose nearly dipped in the sugar bowl. “I’m just saying,” he murmured, “we’ve robbed a jeweler, a racehorse owner, and that man who sold ornamental swords on the internet. Are we really at the stage of battling for loot with children wearing paper hats?” “They’re not wearing paper hats,” Molly said. “They’re wearing pirate bandanas. I’ve done my research. Also, we are not battling children. We are relieving inattentive parents of unsecured assets.” Bill sat back, wounded by the correction. “You say that as if ‘stealing presents from a birthday party’ is what respectable criminals call a growth industry.” “It is seasonal,” Molly replied. “Look at it sensibly. Twenty children arrive carrying brightly wrapped parcels. The adults are distracted by juice spillages, cake logistics, and whether Hugo has bitten anyone. The gifts are stacked in one convenient location. It’s practically a warehouse, if warehouses had balloons.” Bill drummed his fingers on the table. “And the moral dimension?” Molly blinked. “Bill, last Thursday you stole a bronze heron from a nun.” “That was art,” he said. “This is Lego.” “The Lego alone could fund us for a month.” Outside, rain clicked against the café window. Inside, Mrs. Vickers behind the counter was pretending not to hear them with such theatrical intensity that she nearly steamed her own thumb. Molly tapped the flyer. “Entry point: side gate. The entertainer arrives at two-thirty dressed as Captain Crumbbeard. You will intercept him.” “Intercept him how?” “With charm, deceit, and possibly a mild ankle distraction.” Bill stared. “A what?” “You’ll make him late. Buy him a tea. Tell him you’re from the council and his parrot is in violation of a parking restriction. I don’t care. While the children are staring at an emergency substitute attraction, namely me, you slip in through the conservatory and remove the presents.” Bill’s eyebrows climbed. “You are the substitute attraction?” Molly gave him a patient smile. “I happen to possess excellent balloon-animal instincts.” “You made me a balloon dachshund once. It looked like a ruptured clarinet.” “That was under pressure.” He folded his arms. “And what exactly are you wearing to charm a roomful of sugar-crazed minors?” Molly reached into her bag and produced a crimson pirate hat with a feather so large it seemed to have ambitions. Bill recoiled as though she had drawn a weapon. “Good Lord,” he said. “I know. It’s authoritative.” “It’s haunted.” She settled it on her head at a jaunty angle. “Children love commitment.” Bill rubbed his face. “Suppose one of them asks you a pirate question.” “I answer confidently. Children can smell hesitation.” “And if the parents get suspicious?” “Parents at parties only have two settings: overhelpful and spiritually absent. I will thrive between them.” Bill considered this, then nodded despite himself. Molly usually sounded most alarming when she was correct. He lowered his voice. “How many presents are we talking?” “Conservative estimate: eighteen. Optimistic estimate: twenty-four, plus the possibility of a bicycle if someone’s grandmother is feeling extravagant.” Bill let out a long whistle. “This is indecent.” “This,” said Molly, folding the flyer into a sharp square, “is logistics.” Mrs. Vickers finally approached with their tea, set it down, and said, without expression, “If either of you lays a finger on little Alfie’s dinosaur wrapping paper, I shall personally introduce your heads to this kettle.” Molly smiled brightly. “Noted.” Bill waited until she’d gone. “You see? Even civilians are developing standards.” Molly lifted her cup. “Standards are for people without side gates.” Bill clinked his teaspoon against hers like a man toasting the collapse of his own better judgment. “Fine,” he said. “But if I end up wrestling a six-year-old for a remote-control helicopter, I’m retiring.” “You said that after the nun.” “Yes,” Bill said, glancing at the pirate hat with despair. “But this time I mean it.”