Criss cross.
We're both out.
— Drops
After lunch, Beanie and I headed to Homewood, where Charles Gundersen had a house at the far end of a cul-de-sac. I know Claire didn't want him to be a mark, but he had classes at U of Chicago all day on Thursdays, and I didn't want to waste a better mark on a trial run with somebody new.
Charles? Claire called him Charlie, but he looked more like a Chuck. He was a generic guy, 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. 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?"
"You handled that house like you were defusing a bomb. Absolute precision. That was amazing."
"Thanks."
"Are Owen and Yaz as good as you?"
"I guess. We're different. I'm probably more crafty. Owen's more methodical. Tell him something complicated. 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 can tell he's doing a count."
"A count?" She said it like it was a thing.
"A count of details he filed in his head, and he's checking off a list."
"Oh."
"Yeah, he's scary smart. Yaz probably is too, but he's 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 needs you to know how good he is. He's good though."
"Do you work with them?"
"I prefer to be on my own, but I'll work a crowd 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?"
"It's easier if I show you. Stay there."
She walked maybe thirty feet away and then turned to face me.
She said, "Put the mark's keys in your left hand. When I say go, stay where you are and 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, reach toward me, but don't hand me the keys. Just drop 'em. Got it? Walk toward me. Blink the count. Pass the keys behind your back on four. Drop 'em on five. Ready?"
"Sure."
"Go."
She walked toward me 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 head toward the mark from opposite directions. By four, Owen's got the mark's wallet in his left hand and swaps it to his right. On five, he drops it and I catch 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."
"Why not just hand it to you?"
"That puts the responsibility on both of us to match hands. It's easy to fuck up. This way, Owen's job is to snatch, pass, and drop. I catch and get out."
"Got it."
"Anyway, don't call me Sharon, 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."
The first time I went into Chicago with Claire, she said I was at war against the world. But she didn't know, the biggest battle I ever faced was against myself. I spent years trying to be normal as if that's something anyone should aspire to be. I've always known what I am. Why fight it? I've been robbing people since I was six.
In first grade, a kid named Cole snatched my sacked lunch and threw it 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 okay. 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.
Charles Gundersen turned out to be a good score too. When I checked his seed words, I found a wallet with 14.2 BTC. It was worth more than his house.
I'm not saying what I did was good, but I'm good at it. And, more than that, it's what I am.
"So, Beanie... this was supposed to be a trial run, but I'm sold. You're a thief. Are you a drinker too? Let's go celebrate a job well done."
"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.