Run: 2026-03-09-01KKACCF9P6660R1PBRZ2QMSEE

“Tell me again,” said Molly, flattening a crayon-scribbled invitation on the table, “why we are robbing a birthday party instead of a nice respectable diamond dealer.” Bill adjusted his spectacles with the solemnity of a man reviewing battle plans. “Because, Molly, diamonds are insured. Birthday presents are emotionally insured. Entirely different department.” “That is the stupidest sentence you’ve ever said, and I’ve heard you explain cryptocurrency.” Bill tapped the invitation. “Observe. Saturday, two o’clock. ‘Princess Comet’s Galactic Pony Adventure.’ Twenty-three children invited. Which means, conservatively, thirty-one presents.” “Why conservatively?” “Divorced grandparents,” Bill said. “They overcompensate in plastic.” Molly leaned back in her chair. “All right. Let’s say I entertain this disgraceful low point in our criminal careers. What’s the angle? We can’t exactly stroll in wearing balaclavas and carrying sacks.” “Of course not. We stroll in wearing shame and carrying clipboards.” She blinked. “You want to impersonate professionals.” “Children’s entertainers,” Bill said proudly. “That is worse than the balaclavas.” “No one questions a man in a waistcoat with balloon animals.” “I would question him immediately.” “Yes, but children’s parents are distracted,” Bill said. “Half of them are taking photographs, the other half are wondering whether the hummus has gone funny. We exploit the fog of adult despair.” Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. “You have thought about this too much.” “I’ve made sketches.” He spread several sheets across the table. Molly stared. “Is that you dressed as a magician?” “It’s a flexible concept. Magician, puppeteer, perhaps a gentleman astronaut.” “And me?” “Face painter.” “Bill, I can’t paint faces.” “You don’t need to. Children will request a butterfly, and you give them an approximation of administrative error.” “That might start a riot.” “Excellent,” he said. “In confusion, the gift table becomes vulnerable.” Molly looked at the plans again. “There’s always a gift table.” “Exactly! A glorious mountain of unopened mystery. Board games no one wants. Cash in cards. Electronics bought by an uncle trying to be adored. We liberate the lot.” “How?” Bill flipped to another page. “Operation Present Panic. Phase one: infiltration. We arrive twelve minutes after the party starts. Not on time—professionals are late enough to seem busy, early enough to be paid.” “That’s annoyingly true.” “Phase two: rapport. I make balloon swords. You paint one child as a tiger and another accidentally as parliamentary corruption. They love it. Then phase three: extraction.” “With what?” “With this.” He produced a laminated badge reading PARTY LOGISTICS. Molly squinted. “You made that on my printer?” “Your printer yearned for greatness.” “And extraction means?” “I announce, in a tone of mild emergency, that the presents must be moved indoors due to an ‘unexpected glitter risk.’” “There is no such thing as a glitter risk.” Bill lowered his voice. “At a children’s party there is always a glitter risk.” Molly considered this. “All right, that might actually work. But where do we move them?” “To the van.” “We do not have a van.” “We borrow Gary’s.” “Gary reports things stolen out of principle.” “Then we tell Gary it’s for a wedding.” “That makes him report them faster.” Bill sighed. “You’re being very negative for a woman planning larceny in cat ears.” “I am objecting to the cat ears on strategic grounds.” “They make you approachable.” “They make me look like I’ve lost a custody battle.” Bill pointed at the invitation again. “Focus. We enter, charm, redirect, remove. Five minutes at the gift table, and we’re gone before the cake.” Molly was quiet a moment. “What if there’s a clown?” Bill paled. “There wasn’t one on the vendor list.” “You checked a vendor list?” “I’m not an animal, Molly.” She drummed her fingers. “Fine. We do it. But if a clown appears, I’m leaving you.” “That’s fair.” “And if one of the children asks me to paint a unicorn?” “Stall.” “How?” Bill straightened up and smiled. “Tell them true beauty is difficult and requires a deposit.” Molly stared at him, then laughed despite herself. “We are absolutely going to prison one day.” “Perhaps,” Bill said, folding the invitation like a general pocketing a map. “But until then, let us bring order to the lawless economy of birthday gifting.”