Criss cross.
We're both out.
— Beanie
After lunch, Beanie and I headed to Homewood, where Charles Gunderson had a house at the far end of a cul-de-sac.
Charles? Charlie? Surely not Chuck. He was the mark for my trial run with Beanie. He was a cul-de-sac of shit: a generic tech-bro, living a generic life, with nothing but a generic house to show for it.
I don't understand the desire to live in a neighborhood where every house looks the same. They all look nice enough, if you only take a glance, but look again and you'll realize every house needs work.
When we got to Charlie's place, two of Foke's goons were already there, waiting. They didn't know me, but thanks to my prior incident with Amir and the hose, they knew what I'm capable of. I could tell they had doubts about Beanie though.
Didn't matter.
The first goon went in to check for cameras and security before giving the all clear.
Just as I suspected, everything inside Charlie's house was even more generic than the outside. Falling apart, too. And of course, the TV was mounted way too high. Why do guys do that?
The inside muscle man rolled his eyes when Beanie walked in, but his attitude changed as she got to work. God, she sliced and diced her way through that house like a surgeon. He tried to hide it, but I could tell he was impressed. Hell, I was impressed.
It took her an hour to find the mark's Bitcoin seed words, but she did it without disturbing a damn thing. Everything she touched went back exactly as it was, and she worked fast. Quietly too. Almost eerily so. And the only word she spoke while we were in the house was a whisper. "Boom," she said, almost silently, as she slid a piece of metal the size of a credit card out from the underside of the couch. She snapped a pic with the Polaroid and dropped it in the envelope I gave her, and she put the metal thingamabob back where she found it. Then she waved a finger, as if to say, "Not done," as she laid on the floor. She wiggled around, reaching to make sure there wasn't another one hidden too.
When she got up, she ran her fingers across the carpet, making sure there were no clues that she'd been there.
After we left, she said, "Not bad. I'll get better once I'm used to being watched. Usually, I'm all about not being seen."
I was trying to keep my enthusiasm in check, but finally, I had to say it.
"Goddamn!"
"What? Was I sloppy?"
"Bitch, you handled that house like you were defusing a bomb. Feather-light touch. Absolute precision. Jesus."
"Thanks."
"Are Owen and Yaz as good as you?"
"Yeah, I guess. We're all different. I'm probably more clever. Owen is methodical. Give him a job that's really complex, and he'll remember every step. I'm pretty sure he's OCD, but in a good way. Good for this, anyway. Sometimes, I'll see him tapping his finger, and I'm pretty sure he's doing a count."
"A count?" She said it like it was a thing.
"A count of details he filed in his head somewhere, like he's checking off a list or something."
"Oh.
"Yaz is different. He wants you to think he's flashy, so he'll make a show of whatever he's doing if he knows you're watching. But he's slick and I've never seen him get rattled."
"And if I ask them about you, they'll say..."
"They'll say I'm a bitch, but we're cool. I'm not a bitch though. I just have standards. I don't tolerate sloppy and I don't tolerate fools. Vic's both. Yaz is great, but he expects a partner to work for him, not with him. No thanks. I work with Owen sometimes."
"Seriously. What's your name."
"It's Sharon, but don't call me that. I'm good with Beanie. The other lifters call me Drops."
"Drops?"
"It's a thing."
"I hope that doesn't mean what it means in my world."
"I'm pretty sure it doesn't."
"What's it mean, then?"
"Hang on. I'll show you."
She walked away and then turned to face me.
She said, "Put the mark's keys in your left hand. Now count to five, but not out loud. Blink on each number so I can see the count. On four, pass the keys behind your back from your left hand to your right. On five, drop 'em. Got it? Walk toward me. Blink the count. Pass the keys behind your back on four. Drop 'em on five. Ready?"
"Sure..."
"OK. Go."
We walked toward each other while I counted to five. I felt weird, blinking as I counted, but on the fifth blink, I let go of the keys. She caught them without making a sound. I didn't even hear her feet.
"Wow, Beanie, that was good."
"You were off," she said. "I almost missed it. When you're counting, you've gotta do it like rhythm. Like music. Put it to a beat so the time between each number is the same. It's like... Blink one, pause... Blink two, pause... Blink three... If your partner's good at timing, you both hit five at exactly the same time. The blinks make it easier for the person on the drop. Anyway, it's a thing a few of us do."
"As a joke?"
"As a two-man drop on a mark."
"Oh, right."
"Yeah. Owen's usually on the count. He spots a mark from behind and I nod to say, 'Start the count.' Blink one, blink two. We both walk toward the mark from opposite directions. On four, Owen lifts the wallet with his left hand and swaps it to his right. On five, he drops it and I've got it. Criss cross. We're both out, with Owen in the mark's line of sight, empty handed, and I'm headed the other way with the wallet. Being short means I catch the drops."
"Got it."
"Anyway, don't call me Susan, and we're not doing drops, so... Beanie works."
"Fuck that. Who do you wanna be?"
"Honestly, I like Beanie. It's already part of my shtick. I mean, look at me. I'm 21 years old but 4'10" and I've got the tits of a teenage boy. I blend in anywhere. With my hair tucked up in a hat, it's like I'm invisible. That's why I'm good at this."
"No, it's not."
"Huh?"
"Talent is why you're good at this. But you're smart to work with what you've got. Too many people spend their whole lives fighting it, like they're waging a war against themselves."
"I guess."
I spent too many years fighting a war against myself. I've always known what I am. I've been robbing people since I was six.
In first grade, a kid named Cole snatched my sacked lunch and threw it over my head, to another kid, who threw it back. They thought this was hilarious. The second time it got thrown toward Cole, I kicked his leg and he went down hard. I left my lunch on the floor and snatched his backpack instead. I knew if I could make it to the door, I could slap it shut. I got a head start down the hall, so he couldn't catch me. Once I turned the corner, he didn't know where I went.
A teacher found me in the gym, under the bleachers. I got punished, but his lunch was in his backpack, and it was better than mine. He had five bucks in there too. I remember staring at it, wondering if it was bad to take the money. I was halfway through eating his lunch when one of the teachers found me. "Ask him where MY lunch is," I said.
Cole was an asshole, but somehow, being a boy made that OK. Even at age six, I knew the world wasn't fair. I also knew the five bucks I hid in my shoe was a nice score.
I didn't know it yet, but Charles Gunderson turned out to be a good score too. The Bitcoin in his wallet was probably worth more than his house.
"So, Beanie... this was supposed to be a trial run, but I'm sold. Let's go celebrate a job well done. Are you a drinker?"
"I am, and I'm buyin'."
"Hell no, you're not buyin'!"
"You're right. Rico Suarez is. What kind of idiot goes to a meeting of lifters with eighty bucks in his wallet? Come on. That's dumb."
"Guys are dumb."
"So dumb."
Giiiiirl.