Picking Pockets - by Marian Bron Chapter 1 - 10
Instead of the expected trip to juvie, partners-in-crime Taylor and Sam get a free trip to Paris as spies. But corporate espionage isn’t at the top of Taylor’s interests—it’s self-centered Sam. Bullets fly, hair gets straightened, stilettos are bought, jealousy pervades, but does she succeed? Is he even worth it? And how do the father and son staying down the hall know so much about her family? Just who is spying on who?
Tags chick-lit, coming-of-age, friendship, friendship-and-love, funny, high-school, mystery, spies-fiction, teen, teen-romance, teenagers, teens, travel, ya, young-adult-romance, " genre Romance
Chpater 1
Taylor
Okay, so maybe in hindsight I should have taken some time to think things through a little. If I had, I wouldn’t be hiding out in the public toilets right now. It’s just the mark’s wallet was screaming, “Take me!” There may as well have been a giant neon arrow floating over the guy flashing the words Easy Target.
I couldn’t not take it. So, I did.
But the Super Slicer kitchen gadget vendor at River Valley Farmer’s Market saw me. At least I think he did.
He looked right at me when he said, “I see you have your wallet out young lady. Step right up.”
It hadn’t been an inviting ‘Step right up’, it was more of a threatening ‘Step right up if you dare’.
My name is Taylor Amalie Ibsen. I’m sixteen years old and, by definition, Mr. Webster would probably consider me a thief, maybe even a criminal, but I’m not.
I’m just a girl trying to help her best friend, Sam, earn money for a university education. He’s a street busker who attracts a crowd with his juggling and magic act while I borrow from them. We take whatever cash is in their wallets, write an IOU, and then throw them into a post box so the people can get their ID and credit cards back. Does that sound like a criminal?
I calmly shook my head no at the kitchen gadget guy and despite my knocking knees tried to casually walk away. He didn't yell for the police so I’m beginning to think I’m just being paranoid.
But what if he did see me?
I text Sam:
Where are you?
This is so totally his fault. If he had been with me like he’s supposed to be then I wouldn't have had to wander around the market killing time but he went and made a guidance appointment even though he knows Thursdays are market days.
A reply pops up immediately:
At my locker. Be there in 15. Why?
I text back:
Hurry. Something came up.
The Super Slicer guy, if he did see me lift the wallet, will be looking for a brown haired ponytailed girl in a grey sweatshirt. I take it off and stuff it into my backpack. I can’t change my hair colour so instead pull the elastic out and undo my ponytail. With water, I tame the crazy frizz down into respectable curls. Would the guy still recognize me? I do have my glasses with me. I fish them and my contact lens case out of my backpack. Hardly a master of disguise but the glasses worked for Diana Prince and Clark Kent, here’s hoping they work for me too. I find a cafe out of the Super Slicer guy’s line of vision, order a coke to go and sit back to wait for Sam.
Just as I start to relax, a chair toppling over in a neighbouring café startles me. A frumpy little man is down on his hands and knees, crawling around under tables, trying to collect a bunch of flyaway papers, wreaking havoc in the process. He nearly trips a server before smacking his head on a neighbouring table, knocking over several cups of coffee. Apologizing to everyone, he puts the papers back into his briefcase, sets his chair upright and sits down. As soon as his butt’s planted, the wind picks up the loose papers and sends them sailing around the café again. With a sigh, he gets back up. Because of the briefcase, I’m guessing he’s some sort of businessman but from the look of his worn suit jacket and frayed pant hems I doubt that he’s very successful at whatever business he’s in. I stifle a giggle. If it wasn't for the lack of hair, the man could actually be a hobbit.
The chair next to mine scrapes back on the brick patio.
“Hey, sweetheart,” a voice purrs into my ear. The Super Slicer guy sits down.
Thankfully, the server comes back at the same time with my drink. I pay her and get up ignoring the man.
“Whoa, not so fast.” He grabs my arm. “Darlin’,” he says to the server. “I’ll have a cup of coffee double double.” To me he says, “Sit. We need to talk.”
I refuse to sit.
“No,” I reply. “You grab me again and I’ll have your ass in court for assault so fast you won’t have time to change your socks.” I don’t usually cuss but I’m hoping it’ll help me sound like a tough street kid.
He outright laughs in my face.
“There’s a cop sitting two tables over. Want me to make a scene?” he hisses.
It won’t hurt to hear him out.
Up close the man is super sketchy and it’s not just the creepy snake tattoo on his arm, missing teeth or the unfortunate pockmarked face. His black t-shirt and tight jeans look as if they haven’t seen a washing machine in weeks and he reeks of cigarette smoke. His badly dyed blond hair is feathered back the same way my dad used to wear his when he was in high school and, like my dad, the guy has to be in his fifties.
Where is Sam?
“The way I see it is you have a little extra cash and I still need to sell three more sets of Super Slicers to meet my quota. What’d ya’ think, baby? Wanna’ make a deal?” With a raspy cackle, he settles back in his chair, waiting for my reply.
Does he seriously expect me to be intimidated? So, I can’t cuss like a bona fide cusser but the street kid in me has developed a Teflon-like shell and it’ll take more than the threat of blackmail to scare me. The cop leaves. I run, letting the guy’s laughter chase me out of the square.
Who am I kidding? I’m a crap street kid. Pathetic, in fact. I have no Teflon veneer. Hands trembling, I text Sam to tell him I can’t work today. It’s not like he can fire me, a good pickpocket’s not easy to find. And I’m not going back to school for physics club either; I’m going into hiding.
Chapter 2
Sam
The two women ahead of me glance back with a look of concern; my groan must have been loud enough to carry the small distance between us. Taylor has that effect. Nothing about her is simple. Life would be so much easier if she just stuck to the plan. The sun’s brought out a ton of tourists. They’re everywhere. We could have easily made a few hundred dollars today.
“Taylor,” I say once she answers her phone. “What happened?”
“I got caught,” she replies in a panicked whisper.
“What happened? Are you at the police station?” If she tries to implicate me, I’ll deny it.
“No. One of the vendors saw me,” she pants. The connection’s jumbled; she’s either running or walking very fast. “He tried to blackmail me so I ran. I don’t think he’s following me but I’m still going into hiding until I know for sure that he’s left town. So, can you bring me my homework tomorrow after school?”
“Where are you now?” I really should drop her but if I did I’d have to find a replacement to—manipulate would be too strong of a word – so let’s say deceive into doing the actual stealing. I’d be stupid to do it myself. No way am I getting caught with my hand in someone’s pocket.
“Almost home,” she says.
I groan again.
“I’m coming over.”
Chapter 3
Taylor
Before turning into my cul-de-sac, I check over my shoulder one more time. I’ve already checked like a hundred times so I’m almost positive the Super Slicing guy isn’t following me but I need to be one-hundred and ten percent sure. No way am I letting him find out where I live. I dash up the front porch and let myself into the house, peeking out the door one more time before shutting and locking it. Quickly, I turn towards the stairs that’ll take me to my bedroom, my safe haven, but instead plow right into Pops, my grandfather. The impact knocks me back against the door. Of all the possible days for him to visit today is not a good one.
“In a hurry?” he asks as he tries to read my face.
I duck around him so he can’t see it. He’s not going to get the chance to use his creepy sixth sense to figure things out this time. I live with my mother while my dad lives in Ottawa, working for the government. She’s supposed to take care of me but has been doing a rather crap job of it lately. Not that I’m complaining. She has agoraphobia, which is an irrational fear of open spaces, so she never really leaves the house, except for shrink appointments, and it’s also the reason my parents split.
Dad had this really prestigious job offer but she refused to move so they had a huge argument that lasted a week before he decided to take the job anyways and move out on his own. He still comes home once a month to see if Mom’s changed her mind but so far it hasn't happened and since it’s been five years, I doubt it ever will. However, having a mother stuck at home and a father hours away works to my benefit. If they bothered to get involved in my life I’m sure they’d find out about the pickpocketing. Unfortunately, Pops is different, he likes to be involved and that’s a problem. Nothing gets by him to the point it’s almost like he has a troublemaker radar.
“Ton of homework but it’s great to see you,” I tell him before racing up the stairs.
“Since when do you do homework?” he calls up after me.
“Funny,” I shout back.
The truth is he’s right and probably knows it; I never do a lot of homework. I get marks in the high eighties without ever opening a textbook so why should I? It’s not like I’m Sam, who kills himself trying to get perfect marks. The time is better spent on my music.
I shut my door and flop down on my bed. But I can’t relax. Pops is lurking downstairs likely trying to figure out why I lied to him, the Super Slicer guy is on the loose in River Valley no doubt looking for me and Sam sounded mad. What if he dumps me as a friend? Who’ll I hang out with? Ugh. My heart’s beating like crazy and I’m a stinking sweaty mess. Sixteen years old and I’m having a heart attack. I need to calm down. I get down on the floor into the lotus position. Mind over matter, right? Meditate those worries away. Think butterflies. Super Slicer guy. Think tranquil music like a peaceful sonata. Jail. Serene meadows. Sam mad at me. Double ugh. I need my piano to bang away my problems. Beethoven’s Fifth should do the job. Can’t. Pops is down there. Where’s my violin?
The doorbell rings.
I freak. I knew it. The Super Slicer guy did follow me home. He’d been all stealth-like and hid behind bushes whenever I looked back over my shoulder. Or maybe even gone all H.G. Wells on me and became invisible. The heart’s back into overdrive. My head drops down onto my feet as I try to take some deep breaths so I won’t pass out but it’s impossible, folded in half like that. Just as I start to hyperventilate, it dawns on me that Pops or Mom can’t answer the door. They can’t find out about the pickpocketing. I tear down the stairs and into the living room to spy on whoever’s at the front door through the window before answering it. Pops watches from the recliner.
“Taylor? You okay?” he asks, his eyebrows bunched together.
“Great,” I grimace.
“You sure?” He leans forward to study me better.
“Awesome.” I give him a thumbs up.
The doorbell rings again. Parting the sheers a fraction of an inch, I peer out the front window. Sam’s there. A scowling ticked off Sam.
“Someone get the door,” Mom yells from the kitchen.
Sam raises his hand to knock. Before he can, I’m in the foyer opening the door, grabbing him by the forearm, pulling him into the house, scanning the street one more time before shutting and locking the door again.
“Since when do you guys lock your front door?” he asks.
“Neighbourhood’s gone to pot,” I reply. “Can’t be too careful.”
Sam follows me to my room. He sits at my desk with the same expression on his face as Pops had.
“What happened? Which vendor saw you lift a wallet?”
“Shh! Whisper!” I put my finger to my lips. “Pops will hear you.”
“What happened?” he repeats in a stage whisper.
I tell him about stealing the wallet and what the Super Slicer guy said.
Face palming himself, he moans, “Taylor! How many times do I have to tell you, you aren’t supposed to lift wallets when I’m not around?”
Okay, this is something I don’t like to admit but there’s problem with pickpocketing and it’s something I’ve never confessed to Sam. Pickpocketing happens to be very addicting. It’s such a rush. It’s got to be the same feeling a drug addict gets from shooting up. The fact that I can commit a crime and get away with it is incredible. I feel absolutely euphoric afterwards. A kid with straight A’s, working on grade nine piano, in a bunch of school music ensembles, co-president of the physics club, in all the other science clubs, the perfect kid. A harmless geek! Ask any of my teachers. But when I’m at the mall, on the street, or at the library, I can’t help it. Those extra wallets I keep hidden under a loose floorboard in my bedroom closet. Sam’d be majorly ticked if he knew about them. He doesn’t want us to get caught and ruin his chance at a university education. I figure if anything happens, my dad, the hotshot government lawyer, can always fix it.
“It was a onetime thing,” I lie. “The guy’s wallet was pretty much falling out of his pocket. I couldn’t not take it.”
He shakes his head in frustration. “Now what?”
“I’ll lay low for awhile. Hopefully he moves on and we won’t have to worry.” That’d be perfect.
“And if he becomes a regular?”
I glare at him.
He sighs again. “What about the rockets?”
Is he being deliberately obtuse? I can’t be seen in public. I’m a wanted woman.
The physics club is building rockets for an inter-scholastic competition. Today we’re supposed to check the younger kid’s designs for technical flaws so they won’t blow up on them and take out an eye or something but Sam can do that on his own.
“I’m staying here. You have to finish it. Tell them I’m sick or whatever. I think something’s wrong with my heart anyways.”
He rolls his eyes at me. “What makes you say that?”
Automatically my hand goes to my carotid pulse. “My heart sometimes races and I get really warm and short of breath. I think I may even have a fever.” I feel my forehead.
He does the eye thing again. “You are having a panic attack.”
“My mother has panic attacks. I don’t.” I may look like my mother but I certainly do not act like her.
“You make me tired,” he says as he gets up to leave.
“Taylor? Can I come in?”
Pops stands in my doorway with his hands shoved deep into his pants pockets. As he steps in, his gaze darts around my room, first scanning the ceiling then left and right until it rests on the backpack sitting on the floor next to my desk chair. The zipper’s open and the stolen wallet sits on top of my books. I should have given it to Sam.
“Lovely weather, isn’t it?” I say, getting up to zip the backpack shut before he realizes what he’s looking at.
He steps farther into my room, cornering me as I sit on my bed. There’s no way I can avoid the creepy brain-reading thing now.
“How’s school going?” he asks, studying me carefully as my leg begins to jiggle up and down.
I can’t sit still. “Super. Great,” I answer avoiding eye contact. My hand has stopped my leg from bouncing around but now my palms are sweating. I wipe them dry on my jeans.
Pops does something weird with his mouth as he squints at me before looking back at my backpack. “How's Sam?”
“Fine. The same,” I reply. “How about you?”
“Is something wrong? Are you in some sort of trouble?” His eyes remain fixed on my backpack.
I consider chucking it out the window.
Did he see the wallet? It’s definitely belongs to a man—it’s very manly—there’s no way he’d think it’s mine.
“So how are you?” I prompt, faking concern in the hopes I can distract him. “Will you be staying with us for a few days? I was just telling Mom the other day that it’s always so nice when you visit.”
“No, I just need some advice from your mother,” he replies, his eyes never leaving my face.
I've stopped asking long ago what kind of advice because apparently it’s none of my business; neither of them will ever tell me what it is. It’s like it’s top secret or something.
However, I do know that it means a short visit. He’ll be out of my hair in a couple of hours. Sometimes he crashes at our house, that's what Mom calls it; we’ll open the door to find a frail, tired, stooped old man standing on the doorstep. Without saying a word, he’ll climb the stairs to the guest bedroom, collapse on the bed and immediately fall asleep, usually fully dressed. He’ll have very little if any luggage with him and can be dressed in anything from a designer suit to shorts and a Bermuda shirt. Mom’ll quietly tiptoe into the room to pull off his shoes and take his tie off if he’s wearing one. Once he crashes like that, he’ll sleep for days until there’s someone on the phone asking for him. He’ll take the call and perk right up—the frail, tired old man replaced by my tall energetic athletic grandfather. He’ll leave within the hour and we won’t see or hear from him again for months.
“Taylor,” he begins, “You’re a smart girl with a lot of opportunities. Don't ruin them by doing something stupid. What you do now can haunt you for the rest of your life.”
I nod but avoid his eyes by staring at my Beethoven poster over his shoulder.
“You guys aren’t planning on blowing up anything again are you?” he questions. He checks the bottles of nail polish and zit medication sitting on my dresser.
Annoyed, I roll my eyes. That was four years ago just after Sam moved to River Valley.
“No Pops. When Dad comes home, he always checks the household chemicals. Don’t worry.”
Those were fun times. I had this old chemistry set back in seventh grade and we made all the usual stuff like silly putty, soap, glue, gum, anything the instruction booklet suggested but when we got bored with all the tame stuff we turned to the internet for more ideas. That was really fun until my father came home for the weekend and took the chemistry set away. It was right after we blew up Peanut’s doghouse. It was unbelievably awesome! Totally epic. The house windows rattled, smoke filled the backyard and splinters of wood shot all over the place.
The explosion completely destroyed the doghouse. To this day, some bits of wood are still embedded in the garden shed. We’d forgotten to take Peanut’s water dish out so it went sailing through the backyard like a silver UFO, slicing my mother’s prize rose bush in half. The neighbourhood busybody next door called 911 so of course the police and fire departments came and were all over our property. They even brought in the bomb disposal unit. I don’t know why; seemed a little late to me. I couldn't really understand what the big deal was anyways; it’s not like Peanut was in the doghouse. Truthfully, she hardly ever used it. She lived in the house most of the time and slept on my bed. My guess was that my father was worried we were making weapons of mass destruction or something.
Working for the government makes him a little paranoid at times. Mom, however, didn't seem too bothered by the explosion in her backyard; she opened the backdoor to ask if anyone needed medical attention before going back to whatever it was she was doing. She's usually pretty chill about these kinds of things. Anyways, as punishment, my dad had us rebuild the doghouse, making me pay for the building materials with my allowance. Peanut the dog wound up with a very nice high-end ski chalet that even had wall-to-wall carpeting. But, surprise surprise, she still slept on my bed. I guess the doghouse explosion must have left an impression on Pops when he heard about it. It’s time he got over it.
Thank goodness, Mom calls up the stairs to let us know dinner is ready.
After supper, she leaves the clean up for me to do while she disappears with Pops into her office. They are in there for close to two hours talking about something. I can’t hear what even with my ear pressed against the door. You know, one of these days I’m going to invest in one of those little eavesdropping things they advertise on the sides of buses. Finally, chairs scrape against the floor followed by footsteps coming towards the door. As they near it, I hear the tail end of their conversation.
“Molly, I can really use your help on this one,” Pops says. “You’ve always had a way of charming these people into cooperating.”
“No Pops. You know I can't. Besides you don't need me; you have capable help.”
“But they're not you. I need you back in the business. I'm getting too old for this.” There’s a pause. “You know you can’t spend the rest of your life living through your computer.” My mother is addicted to internet shopping. He sighs the sigh of an old man. “Molly, how much time do you spend with Taylor?”
“What do you mean?” She suspiciously replies.
“Do you know what she does in her free time?” he asks.
“She doesn't have a lot of free time between helping Sam and her music,” she says. She thinks I help Sam with his act.
I don’t care for Pops’ questions either. I don’t need my mother snooping into my business.
“Do you know for a fact that she’s at her music lessons or what she’s doing with Sam?” He pauses. A floorboard creaks. “Do you physically check that she is where she says she is?” Pops grills. “How much do you really know about Sam?”
“You know I can't physically check on her,” she snaps. “I do call her a few times a day to make sure she’s okay.”
I can attest to that. She’ll call and text me so often it gets annoying. It’s never for anything important. In fact it’s usually just a text message asking if I’m dressed warm enough or if I can pick up one of her internet buys at the post office.
“You could call the school or have Khalid check on her? Why not take advantage of his connections and get him to check out Sam,” Pops urges. Khalid is a political refugee who lives in our basement apartment and drives a taxi for a living. “It would make me feel better. There’s something about those two that’s got my radar going.”
I don’t need every cabbie Khalid knows spying on me.
“She's a good kid. So is Sam,” Mom protests. “Kids who skip school don’t get the grades they do.”
“My daughter was also a good kid but she managed to get into a lot of trouble nonetheless.” He sighs again. “Although I suppose her grades did reflect her disreputable adventures.”
I perk up; Mom hadn’t been an angel and she hadn’t done well at school! This is news.
“She’s hiding something; guilt’s written all over her. It's obvious by her body language. And she didn’t ask me where I’ve been.”
For as long as I can remember, we’ve had this game going. Pops is an importer who buys for these multinational retail companies and gets to travel all over the world. When he visits I always ask him where he’s been and he’d tell me a place like, for example, Amsterdam. Then I’ll ask him what he did there and he’ll tell me he was there to buy albatrosses. If he went to Mongolia he’d buy mannequins, Brazil he’d buy bugles. Get it? It’s silly but it’s what we do. Today I’d been too stressed to think of asking him where he’s been.
“And since when does she come straight home from school to do homework. She lied to me—there were no books open in her room.”
Shoot! He noticed that.
“And doesn't she have the physics club on Thursdays? Why wasn't she there?” I never realized Pops had my schedule memorized. “She needs supervision. And why do you allow her to entertain boys in her room?”
“It’s Sam for Pete’s sake. He’s just a friend.”
Mom sounds more than a little disgusted with him. Sam has always been just a friend who happens to be a boy.
“You sure? He’s grown into a nice looking young man and Taylor’s not blind. While you’re down here locked away in your office buying shoes, they can get into some serious trouble up there.”
Even though I’m alone, the thought of Sam and me getting into ‘serious trouble’ makes me blush. Truthfully, I have noticed the changes in Sam and I’m not going to lie; I like them. He’s not the same scrawny boy who came to River Valley four years ago.
Mom mumbles something as the door opens. I jump out of the way to hide around the corner.
Pops walks over to where I’m hiding. “Take care of your mother,” he tells me as he kisses me on the cheek. “And stay out of trouble,” he warns before walking to the front door where Khalid is waiting.
Chapter 4
Sam
I’m more than a little P.O.-ed that Taylor bailed on me today of all days. I get that she doesn't want to run into that guy again, but seriously, how would she run into him at school? As usual, she’s overreacting.
I’d been hoping to finish early but without Taylor’s help, I doubt I will now. My social worker called this morning, asking if it’d be okay to move our meeting so now I’m seeing her at six tonight. On top of everything else, the chemistry teacher was kind enough to throw us a couple of hours of homework, homework I know Taylor won’t bother to do.
Quickly, I scan the freshmen’s plans for any obvious flaws, not having the time to be thorough and look for the technical faults. If they blow up, they blow up. Our school won’t do as well this year but it won’t be my fault. It’ll be Taylor’s. I make it to my appointment ten minutes late.
Laura, my social worker, is all right but a bit of a stickler for details. The rule book says we have to have these meetings even though nothing ever changes between them.
“How’s it going?” she asks as she opens up my case file, tipping it slightly to shield it from me.
She knows I want to read it. I want to so badly that I’ve thought about breaking into her office for it. It’s the official record of my life and I’m sure my parent’s names are in it.
Sinking into a chair, I mumble, “Fine.”
“Anything new?” she asks hopefully. “Any issues that need addressing?”
“Nope,” I reply. I am not bullied, abused or do drugs; nothing she can address.
“How’s school?”
“Okay.”
“Grades still up there?” She knows what my grades are. The school faxes her everything. I can’t ask for a bathroom pass without her knowing.
I shrug in response, slouching further down as I do so. This isn’t a social visit so why be sociable? She is paid to talk to me; I do not get paid to talk to her.
She takes a break from asking questions to go through her notes. “Still thinking about Oxford or Harvard?” she asks.
I nod. She knows I’m not going to change my mind about that. I want the best. I want to be known as Dr. Samuel Britton, Surgeon, not Sam Britton, foster kid.
Laura sighs as if the honour student sitting in front of her is a huge disappointment. “Your marks are excellent but I don’t think you’ll be able to get into those schools on scholarships. How are you going to pay for it? It’s my suggestion that you rethink this. You know you can get a full scholarship to any school in Canada. Do you seriously think you can afford to pay for Harvard by busking?”
Harvard is my second choice.
I stare out the window. This conversation is redundant; we have it every time we meet. She didn't go to a very good university but thinks the education she received is top-notch. It isn't. I’m working on scholarships. In fact, I've already started applying for anything that comes my way; I've even tried to get on a game show. There’s also that source of income that she doesn't know about.
Last spring I’d gone over to Taylor’s house to work on a biology assignment. Coming into the house, I heard her practicing her piano. I watched, amazed at the speed of her long fingers as they flew over the keys, barely seeming to make contact. Keeping her eyes on the music, she struck every key perfectly without once looking at the keyboard. If I hadn’t been reading Oliver Twist the night before, those fingers would not have made the impression that they did.
Taylor’s nimble fingers and the notion of a pickpocketing crew slowly evolved into a plan throughout the next week. A part-time job wasn’t feasible due to my commitments to clubs and other extracurricular programs at school but I needed money. I also needed those clubs and programs to beef up my university applications. Therefore, why not steal the money?
But, I didn't have quick fingers. Taylor did. Only how do you ask someone to steal for you? I thought about it for a few more days. What if I made it a challenge? It’s something she’s never been able to resist especially if there’s an added element of danger. I came up with a way to simulate a pickpocket target by hanging clothes up on the clothesline in the basement and fastening bells to them before inviting her over. Then took her downstairs past it on the pretense that we would be doing our homework in the rec room.
“What's this?” she asked when she saw the set-up. “What are the bells for?”
“Oh, that? I thought it’d be fun to see if I could pickpocket, you know, like they do in Oliver Twist. I wanted to see if I could do it without setting them off.” I motioned for her to follow me.
“Oh.” She was intrigued. “Could you do it?”
“Not really. My fingers aren't flexible enough.” I stepped towards the rec room. “Let's go.”
She stayed put, fingering the pockets of an old pair of jeans. “Can I try?” There was a sparkle in her eyes.
I shrugged. “If you want.” I pulled my wallet out of my back pocket and stuffed it into one of the pockets on the clothesline.
Taylor spent every afternoon that week practicing until she could do it without a single chime. “Let me see if I can take your wallet without you noticing,” she grinned.
My only worry had been that George and Anne, my foster parents, would find out what I was planning. I was surprised that they never questioned why Taylor and I were spending so much time alone in the basement or why those clothes were hanging there with bells on them. I’d expected George, a retired cop, would wise-up to what we were doing, but they must have thought the set-up on the clothesline was some sort of experiment.
I shoved my wallet back into my pocket. “Okay.”
“No, no,” she said waving her hands dismissively. “Not now. You're expecting it. Let's do something. Like take a walk,” she suggested.
We walked around River Valley for half an hour before she stopped in front of an ice-cream stand.
“Want some?” she asked.
“Sure.” I never say no to free ice cream.
She took my wallet out of her sweatshirt pocket and paid with my money.
I had to smile. She had fallen right into my trap and all it cost me in the end were two ice cream cones.
Next, I had to come up with a way to distract our marks so I set about polishing my juggling skills. I’d gone through a juggling and magic phase back in fifth grade and still had all my gear. If I could get an act together, Taylor could steal from my spectators. It sounded so easy.
Except, it wasn’t. I created a monster. Soon Taylor was picking pockets at school. I warned her about the security cameras. Then she started at the mall, security cameras there, too. Finally, I had her convinced that the Thursday and Saturday markets were the only safe places to steal wallets. Or, as Taylor liked to say, help herself to some wallets. Even so, the market is no longer as safe as it used to be; by the end of the summer there were “Beware of Pickpockets” signs all over and a few more policemen roaming the square on market days.
I created an internet bank account to deposit the money into, using a forged name that I had taken from one of the wallets, accessible at any ATM. By the end of the summer, I had a nice little nest egg started for college. Taylor refused to take her share of the money, said she didn’t need it because her parents always bought her whatever she wanted. I wondered what her dad, the high-flying government lawyer, would think if he ever found out about her criminal bent.
Of course, this is something I can’t tell Laura.
She sighs again. “At least promise me you’ll apply to Canadian schools as well.”
“Let’s make a deal,” I say leaning forward. “I’ll apply to Canadian schools if you tell me who my parents are and where they live.” I sit back waiting for her usual answer.
There’s something screwy about my background. The boys I live with know who their parents are and even visit them occasionally. Most of the kids I’ve lived with over the years remember living with their parents. If I’m an orphan, why was I never adopted?
“You know I can’t do that.”
She studies her notes some more.
“How are you getting along with the other boys?” she asks in an obvious attempt to sidetrack me.
There are three other boys living at the Fergusons. Jared, who’s fifteen, spends his free time poking around his vegetable patch and tending his assorted pets. After high school he plans on going to agricultural college to become a farmer.
Next is Reg who is his own unique person. George and Anne have quite a time with him, mostly because of his thing for hair. His girlfriends will come over and he will spend hours with them in the bathroom doing their hair and makeup. It’s weird that a fifteen-year-old boy is that interested in hair but then again, I guess, even Sassoon had to start somewhere. You’d think people would make fun of a kid like that but he isn’t, he has a ton of friends. His goal is to get a degree in chemistry then develop the perfect hair care product and make millions. In his bedroom, he keeps a binder full of hair samples clipped from the heads of his girlfriends with a note beside each listing the hair products the girl used and their ingredients.
Next, he makes notations, commenting on the quality and texture of the hair. He says this is for his university research thesis. It does gross Anne out to have a binder full of hair in the house but she sees the science behind his methods and allows him his collection—as long as there are no bugs in it.
Lastly, there’s thirteen-year-old Joseph, an accomplished athlete. Every Saturday night from October to June, he and Anne commandeer the rec room to watch hockey. If I had to come up with a complaint about living with the Fergusons it’d be the shouting and moaning that travels up from the basement on hockey nights; I like things to be absolutely quiet while I study.
I tell Laura they’re fine. Some of the other foster kids I’ve lived with over the years have been real hard cases, everything from emotional issues to drugs and theft. I lucked out when I moved to River Valley; Anne and George are great.
“Do you still have your girlfriend?” she asks.
This irritates me. I have explained repeatedly that Taylor is not a girlfriend, just a friend. I don’t even know if she classifies as that. She’s more of a business partner and study buddy. The thing is that Taylor is a little weird, always has been. She hasn’t changed much since we first met, four years ago, she’s all wire—wire hair, wire braces, crooked wire glasses, thin wiry build. Just all round wiry. In grade school, she never sat still and spent her recess time building contraptions like catapults out of sticks, stones, garbage, and other junk she found in the schoolyard. When she volunteered to be my partner for a science project, I was terrified I’d be labeled as the weird kid's friend but once we got that perfect grade back I figured having her around would be useful.
“She’s not my girlfriend,” I tell her, stressing the girl part.
“You sure? You spend a lot of time with her.” She watches my face.
How does she know that? “We do projects together. When I work with Taylor I know she won’t drag my mark down.” I hate having to work with slackers on group assignments who think a seventy is a good mark.
“How does she feel about you going away to school?”
I scowl at her. Taylor’s feelings have nothing to do with our meeting. The kids at school still haven’t gotten over the playing with garbage thing; they still think she’s strange so I’m really her only social contact. However, it’s not something I lose sleep over. My dreams are more important. To be honest she’s always been more of a convenience than a necessity; I know I’d do just as well without her.
“The reason I’m asking about Taylor is that the girl who picked you up last time we met, the girl who you said was Taylor, did not fit your description of her,” she says.
Taylor did pick me up in her mom’s car; we were going to work on our chemistry experiment at her house. Who is Laura talking about?
I’ve had enough. “Can I go now? I haven’t had supper yet and I have a lot of homework.”
Laura closes the folder and gets up. “Sure. We’ll meet again sometime in the summer,” she tells me as she leads me to the door.
I glance back at the folder.
Chapter 5
Taylor
Saturday morning I wake to the sound of wind and rain pelting my bedroom window. My hand snakes out from under my warm comforter to grab my cell phone off my nightstand. I speed dial Sam’s number.
“Hey, were you still sleeping?” I greet him. Pops comment about Sam pops into my head, complete with a vision of a sleeping Sam without a shirt on and tousled bed head.
He yawns and I can hear him moving around. “Not anymore.”
Forget the sexy bed head, it’s a market morning what’s he doing sleeping? Not that it matters since it’s raining but what if the sun had been shining? He would have been late. I don’t want to be in the square by myself again.
“It’s pouring,” I inform him.
A sexy sounding groan comes through the phone.
Get a grip, girl.
“What’s the forecast?”
Keeping myself wrapped in my comforter for warmth, I reach under my bed for my laptop. Like a clumsy caterpillar, my cocooned body slips onto the floor, head first. An involuntary “ow” escapes from my mouth.
“Taylor?” Sam asks.
“I’m good.” I call up the Environment Canada forecast. “Rain all day today and tomorrow. What do you want to do?” The market will be a wash out.
“I guess I’ll get started on my essay. See you Monday at school then,” Sam says and hangs up.
I stare at the phone in disgust. He didn’t even say good-bye or anything. Why does he never want to just hang out? It’d be a good day to go see a movie but no, he’s always too busy doing his stupid homework. Doesn’t he know there’s more to life? Why do I even bother to hang out with someone so boring?
“Go comb your hair!” I shout at the phone.
A whole weekend to myself. I crawl back into bed. Now what? I don’t see the point of working on my essay just yet; it’s not due until Wednesday. Taking Peanut to the dog park isn’t an option either thanks to the rain. I’d have to give her a bath afterwards and that never goes well. If I’d known the weather was going to be lousy, I’d have organized to see my dad in Ottawa. He’s always up for something fun. Anything would be better than nothing. Maybe I can talk Khalid into going to the movies with me.
Mom flings my door open and waltzes in without knocking. She ordinarily does not waltz or fling doors open; usually she has very good manners. “I’m going to do it!” she announces. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes have a sparkle in them. She’s incredibly pumped about doing whatever it is she’s going to do.
“Do what?” I ask.
“Go shopping.”
“Knock yourself out,” I tell her from my bed. My mother goes shopping every day. Like I said, she’s addicted to internet shopping.
“To a real bricks and mortar store,” she clarifies. “A store with aisles and people.”
My mother has flipped. She chooses a Saturday morning to reintegrate into society, the busiest shopping day of the week.
“Why today?” I ask.
“Dr. Hughes said I was ready so I've decided that today is the day.” She’s already dressed, wearing a pair of Seven jeans, a silk shirt, and her new Steve Madden flats. Her hair’s been styled into soft waves around her face. She is physically ready.
“Where are we going?”
“To the grocery store to do our weekly shopping.” She holds up a list for me to see. It doesn’t just read milk, bread and eggs; there are at least forty items on the list.
She needs talking out of this. Wouldn't a trip to the corner variety store for a bag of milk be a better choice? What about a drive in the country? We could have lunch somewhere.
“You do know it’s Saturday, don’t you?” I ask. “It’s the grocery store’s busiest day of the week. There’ll be a ton of people there. It’ll be a zoo.”
“Precisely. This will be trial by fire, so to speak.”
Since my mother is obviously psyched to go, it’s time to be supportive.
“Okay Mom. I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes. This will be a good thing,” I say, secretly hoping it won’t be a disaster and set her back even further. It is time for my mother to have a life again.
Khalid’s up for the adventure, offering to drive us to the supermarket. He drops us off in front of the store before going to find a parking spot for his cab. When he comes back to find us, we’re still standing in the same spot. Mom has started to waiver.
“Mom,” I encourage, “you can do this. Remember trial by fire?”
She gives me a stiff smile. “Fire hurts.”
Her hands nervously begin working the grocery list, twisting it into a paper rope. I drag her through the doors before she can change her mind. I take a shopping cart from the corral and put it in front of her. She doesn’t move, appearing possessed, like someone in a horror movie. Her eyes zoom from right to left and back again repeatedly, taking in the crowds and noise. If her head starts to spin, I’m out of here. The colour has left her face and the sparkle is gone. Even the soft curls have gone limp. This place terrifies her. There are just too many people.
I knew this wasn’t a good idea.
“Let’s go. We're in the way. What’s the first thing on your list?” I ask taking it from her and smoothing it out.
No sooner have I said this, when an over-weight, over-coiffed woman dressed like a floral sofa bumps my mother with her shopping cart.
“Move it!” she demands. “What do you think this is? A rose garden?” The woman rudely shoves past my mom, smacking her in the back with the purse slung over her shoulder.
Khalid hustles Mom out of the store before she has one of her panic attacks but I stay, trailing behind the human sofa waiting for an opportunity to get revenge for what she did to my defenseless mother. No one is rude to my mom and gets away with it. With her back to the shopping cart, the woman bends over, searching the shelves for a can of creamed corn, leaving her open purse in her cart.
Bent over like that, her back end looks like it belongs in the garden center not the canned goods aisle. How can she seriously think that a floral print would flatter her butt? I know my baggy hoodies and faded jeans aren’t all that styling but that floral print’s way too much of a good thing. I help myself to her wallet and car keys. It’d serve the old biddy right if the store manager made her put everything back on the shelves. I shove the wallet deep into the pocket of my sweatshirt and head for the exit, tossing the car keys into a trash can as I pass.
Chapter 6
Meanwhile…
It’s nearly eleven o'clock before the small man sitting in the café gives up. The kid’s not going to show. If he is as smart as they say he’s most likely still in bed, staying warm and dry under a mountain of blankets. The man pulls the damp lapels of his overcoat around his neck, hoping for warmth. The walk from the parking lot two blocks over had thoroughly soaked him. With his luck, he’ll probably catch pneumonia and die in this god-forsaken town. He wasn’t looking forward to the walk back to his car.
The early morning drizzle had turned into a steady downpour by nine driving away all but a few brave souls in raingear. The vendors huddle miserably under their canvas awnings getting what warmth they can from small space heaters set up on crates. The man pays his bill and checks his watch as he leaves. If he leaves River Valley now he can be home in Ottawa just in time for the start of the second period of the hockey game. The Senators are playing the Leafs tonight and he knows it’ll be a good game. Nothing better than a good grudge match.
He takes out his cell phone and makes a call. “Hey, it’s me. Nothing’s happening here so I’m going home for the weekend. I’ll see you Monday morning back at the hotel.” Climbing into his car, he wonders if his mother made pie.
Chapter 7
Taylor
By the following Thursday the weather has dried up and warmed up; perfect for the market. Sam sets up in his usual spot in front of city hall; the best spot really, because I can see the entire square from where I’ll be working the back of his crowd. It doesn’t look like the Super Slicer guy is around; his concession trailer is not in the square. I breathe a sigh of relief. He's moved on.
Since it’s taking awhile for a crowd to form, I go get something to eat at the bakery across the square, the one that sells the tastiest cinnamon buns in town. Sitting in a café is the ridiculous little man again. Today he’s wearing a ball cap with his suit, his overcoat draped over the chair next to him.
Saturday’s sunny but chilly. I’m in a café waiting for Sam to get started, sitting with my hands wrapped around a paper cup of hot chocolate for warmth. The Saturday morning market is a little different from the Thursday market. There is still food, crafts, t-shirts, and the other regular market stuff but down the side streets are separate markets.
One street has a flower market, with bedding plants this time of year, in another side street there’s an antique market while in a third there’s an art show. The tourists flock to these markets and carry way more cash in their wallets seeing as most of the vendors don’t take credit cards, and since furniture and painting can be expensive, they need lots of cash. Some Saturdays Sam and I take in as much as two thousand dollars.
Sam sets up in front of city hall again. He drops the gym bag he lugs his juggling equipment around in onto the cobbled surface of the square, unzips it and pulls out an old top hat we found in a charity shop. It goes on the ground next to the bag.
It will hold his legitimate proceeds. Sam always keeps a little seed money in it, a few five-dollar bills and a collection of loonies and toonies, to encourage his audience to donate. Then he plugs his iPod into a small speaker, starts his music and begins juggling. I smile as I watch him work. To those who don’t know him, they’d think he’s just a typical teenage boy. The blue jeans sit low on his hips, his shaggy dark brown hair curls over his ears and flips up at the back of his neck. Every couple of months Anne will force him into a chair and take the clippers to him. His appearance is just something he can’t be troubled to take time for; school, clubs and money making take precedence.
Now I’m thinking about Sam and trouble again. Crap, focus Taylor.
A few people stop to watch but not enough for me to pickpocket. I glance around the square. The fat little hobbit businessman is sitting in a café with his briefcase open just like before but today he’s wearing his overcoat and a toque. He doesn’t seem to be working on anything; in fact he’s just gazing around the market square with a steaming mug of coffee in front of him. The remains of a plate of bacon and eggs sit to the side of his briefcase. There isn’t a breeze today so his papers stay put.
What can he be doing in the square? Doesn’t he have an office to work in? Who sits outside on a cold morning for the heck of it? My nosy gene kicks in. I have to see what he’s doing. Picking up my hot chocolate, I head towards his table but just as I reach it, my cell phone rings. The man sees me and quickly shuts his briefcase. I move away to take my call.
“I just stepped out to get the papers and realized how cold it is. Are you dressed warmly enough?” It’s my mother.
I’m sixteen, I know how to dress. But, if she has to worry, I guess it’s better done through a phone and not in person. She wouldn’t sic Khalid and his buddies on me, would she? I scan the square for his cab. It’d be a disaster if she actually followed Pops’ advice.
“Yes, Mom,” I tell her. “I have lots of layers on.” I usually do, wearing any shirt I have with pockets since my pants’ pockets can only hold so many wallets. “Do you need me to pick up anything from the market while I’m here?” I ask, wanting to move the conversation along.
A larger crowd has gathered near Sam so I go over to start collecting the proceeds and forget about the weird little man again. Sam works for a few hours before we decide to call it a day. He once told me that his arms start to feel like noodles after a couple of hours but I personally don’t think they do. Since last spring, he’s developed some nice muscle in them. They actually look pretty good.
The following Thursday the square is full of theatregoers. Because it’s opening night at the Performing Arts Center, Sam isn’t drawing a very good crowd. The theatregoers are sticking around the shops, having dinner inside the cafés and restaurants so I go try my luck around the shops figuring Sam doesn’t need to know if the wallets come from his spectators or not. Every wallet is profit and profit’s profit. Right?
I’m ready to relieve someone of his wallet when I see the briefcase man again. This time he’s at a different café very near to where Sam’s working. It’s too bizarre. This man’s been sitting in the square for two weeks doing nothing. He sits there with an open briefcase, has no laptop and doesn’t write anything down. I haven’t seen him move except of course for the day he chased his papers around. Where’s his office? Is he a briefcase hobo? I don't know; is there even such a thing?
He’s there no matter what the temperature almost as if he’s on a mission. Sneaking up behind him, I peer into his open briefcase. Samuel Timothy Britton is printed on a label stuck to the top right hand corner of a file folder. He’s been watching Sam. Who is he? A cop? A private investigator hired by Sam’s birth parents? Could they finally be searching for him? The hobbit doesn’t look like a cop. Of course that doesn’t mean he’s not. Is he on to us? I don’t see a folder with my name on it but it could be under Sam’s folder.
The man’s phone rings. I stick around to eavesdrop.
“No, I don’t think the kid is the College Pickpocket. He never gets anywhere near the crowd,” he whines into his phone.
Holy crap! Holy crap! I panic, he is a cop! I open my phone and frantically start texting Sam, telling him about the man with the briefcase but wait to hit 'send'. Sam usually keeps his phone on vibrate in the front pocket of his jeans and we’ve learned the hard way that juggling pins and vibrating phones don’t mix. Anne hadn’t been impressed with the giant goose egg on her charge’s head, especially considering it had been a day he had to see his social worker. He gets so focused on catching whatever he’s juggling that something as minor as a vibrating phone jolts his concentration. When the pins are all safely back in his hands, I hit send. I snap a picture of the guy with my phone.
No way am I hanging around. First the Super Slicer guy, then Pops’ questions and now this guy. It’s time to rethink this whole pickpocketing thing. My nerves can’t handle it anymore. Sixteen is way too young to go to jail. Sam’ll figure out where I’ve gone and show up at my house soon enough.
Chapter 8
Sam
A professional does not check his messages in front of an audience. It took too long to get this crowd; I’m not going to antagonize it. However, Taylor’s disappeared. If the text’s from her it will be because of a problem. I have no choice but to check. Despite training myself not to look around the market after reading one of her texts, I do. I have to see who the man is.
Over to my left he’s staring at me. He meets my gaze, blushes, then guiltily turns away fiddling with something in his briefcase, spilling his coffee in the process. The man doesn’t seem like a threat. Taylor had to be wrong about him being a cop. I thank my audience and pass the hat one more time before packing up to leave the square.
I find Taylor sprawled out on her bed, staring up at the ceiling, muttering, “I don’t want to go to jail. I’m a good person,” repeatedly. “I can see the headline in the River Valley High School Blurb. STUBBIE President Caught with Hands in Pockets.” With her hands she demonstrates a news banner flying through the air. STUBBIE is an acronym for Students Building Better Engines that Taylor thought up. It’s dumb but the rest of the club members voted in favour of it. Sometimes democracy really sucks.
I grab her by the shoulders, pulling her up into a sitting position. “Get a grip!” I command. “Why exactly do you think the guy’s a cop?”
She tells me what she heard.
“Okay. It doesn't sound like he thinks I’m involved,” I say. “And there was no mention of you. I think we’re safe. But maybe we should cool the money making for now.”
“What about college? You need money,” Taylor reminds me.
Is she seriously more worried about me not being able to go to a decent college than going to jail?
“Well, I guess I better start looking for a real job then. I can drop some of my after school clubs. In the mean time, let’s see if we can find out more about this guy. He didn’t look like he’s with the city police force; he wasn’t in uniform.” I consider the possibility.
“He could be undercover,” Taylor counters.
“But why the briefcase? Wouldn't his paper work be left on his desk at the station?”
“What if he’s not local? Maybe he’s a Fed. Maybe he’s from CSIS?” She’s grasping at straws.
I do a mental eye roll. “A pickpocket is not a threat to national security. Be realistic.”
“Revenue Canada?”
As we walk back to school together, we decide to go to the square tomorrow and see what we can find out, especially what’s in that folder. We usually aren't at the square on Fridays but if the guy hasn't figured out our modus operandi yet, he’ll be there sitting in a café. Taylor and I agree to meet in the foyer of the Performing Arts Center across from the city hall after school the next day to snoop on the snoop.
Through the glass doors we can see into the square and sure enough, the man is sitting in the same spot as yesterday with his briefcase open in front of him. Crowds of well-dressed people fill the café around him. In his threadbare overcoat and toque, he’s an ugly duckling compared to the theatregoers in their swan-like finery. A few stray tourists wander in and out of the shops.
It’s decided that a distraction is needed so Taylor can grab the file. I go into the café where the man is sitting to buy a bowl of chili and a milkshake. When combined it should make a disgusting mess and enough of a disturbance for Taylor to do her thing.
“Can I throw it on the guy?” Taylor asks with a glint in her eye.
It would make her day to do something like this and with her tendency to overdramatize things; she would put on a good show. However, is it worth the risk? “He doesn't know about you. Do we want to jeopardize that? ”
“Please, it'll be so much fun,” she pleads, the palms of her hands pressed together. “Please, please, PLEASE!”
I look at the drama queen.
“No.” I stand by my decision. I’m the one in charge of our moneymaking enterprise. I’m the boss. “Besides you’re the one with the quick hands. You can grab the file faster than I can.” She doesn’t need to know I’m lying, as a juggler and magician my hands are quick. Moreover, if the plan backfires I prefer that it’s her hands caught in the briefcase, not mine.
I carry the food outside on a tray in the direction of the snoop. Taylor follows me but keeps to the other side of his table. I fake a stumble, spilling the food all over him.
“You!” he shouts as he jumps up to wipe up the mess before it soaks through to his suit. The man is livid. Taylor grabs the file and hurries back to the Arts Center, leaving me to apologize and help clean up the mess. A server brings out a stack of serviettes and starts patting the man’s coat, trying to help.
Chapter 9
Taylor
Five minutes later Sam rushes into the building with a silly grin on his face. My heart gives a funny little thump, as if it’s skipped a beat.
“That was brilliant! Let’s see it.” The triumph glitters in his eyes; the rare full-fledged smile is heart stopping.
I feel myself blush as I hold up the folder.
He takes it as he drops down next to me onto the upholstered bench. In his excitement, he slides close, pressing his leg and arm up against mine. Weird little shock waves ripple through my stomach. Nervously, I shift away from him.
“I can’t believe we got away with it. He never once checked is briefcase. He was too worried about his suit.” He flips the folder open.
Everything about Sam is in the folder—transcripts, a copy of his driver’s license, yearbook photos, custody agreements, and amazingly information about his parents. Pictures included.
Sam’s quite as he studies the pictures. The smile is gone.
“She looks so normal. I always pictured my parents as stoners or something.” He touches his mother’s face as he reads her information. “Why didn’t she want me?”
It says she was still in high school when she had him. A copy of Sam’s birth certificate states his father as unknown but there’s a picture of the man suspected of being his father. Sure enough, Sam’s eyes stare at us from the photograph. His name, Timothy, matches Sam’s middle name. By doing the math I figure the father and mother would have been classmates. The mother died in a traffic accident three years ago but Sam’s father is still out there, living in North Bay.
Giving his eyes a quick swipe, Sam closes the file. His shoulders tremble as he exhales. “I’m going home.”
It’s heart wrenching to watch him try to hold it together. How could someone abandon her child like that? I reach over and give him a hug.
People start drifting into the Arts Center for the next performance so I pick up my knapsack and follow Sam out of the building. He doesn’t look back as he heads for home. Before I do, I need answers. I catch up to the man as he’s leaving the square with his briefcase in hand and the wet overcoat draped over his arm. No amount of cleaning will ever restore the coat to its former condition. I trail him through a crowd of people getting off a tour bus, using the crush of impatient bodies as cover, to help myself to his wallet.
Ducking into the nearest cafe, I head for the washrooms, locking myself into a stall before risking a look at the wallet. A driver’s license tells me the man’s name is Bernard Eldoon, age thirty-eight and that he lives in Ottawa. An insurance certificate lists him as the unfortunate owner of a Chevy Impala. Figures he’d drive an old people’s car. In the billfold there’s a ten-dollar bill, which goes into my pocket, and receipt from the Beauty Rest Inn out on the highway just outside of town. A business card tucked in next to his credit card describes him as an investigative accountant for International Accounting Investigations or IAI for short.
At home I scan everything and email it to Sam.
IAI’s homepage worries me. Their website makes them sound like they’re up there with CSIS, the CIA, the FBI and all those other lettered top-secret organisations. If that’s the case, why is an international group of crime-fighting forensic accountants based in Ottawa investigating a small time pickpocket in River Valley? Surely, there are bigger criminals a company of their caliber could investigate than me. If they’re so good, wouldn’t an average citizen like yours truly have heard of them? What about my dad? Would he know about them?
And do you know that Eldoon spelled backwards is noodle? That’s too funny.
Chapter 10
Meanwhile…
The parking attendant holds his hand out waiting for the required parking fee, impatiently giving it a shake, hoping to prod the human disaster into action.
“I can’t find it,” murmurs Bernie, the disaster. “I had it. I know I did.”
He pats his pockets again before squatting to set his briefcase down on the parking lot’s asphalt surface. He clicks it open, frantically rifling through it, discovering that not only is his wallet missing but also the College Pickpocket file. He had both at the café.
He remembers taking money out of his wallet and paying for his sandwich and coffee. The server gave him a ten and some change back. The change went into his pocket and the ten-dollar bill went into his wallet. He put the receipt in the College Pickpocket folder so he could claim it next time he was back in the office. Bernie hustles back to the café.
“Excuse me.” He interrupts his server while she’s taking an order. “Did you find my wallet? I left it on the table over there.”
Smacking her gum, she gives him the once over, taking in the stained suit and frayed hems. “Didn’t see it. Check at cash, hon’.” She dismisses him.
It’s not there.
Bernie groans in despair. He’s been pickpocketed. How did the kid do it? Did he take the file too? With his heightened observation skills, he’s confident he would have noticed someone’s hands in his briefcase. Wouldn’t he?
He drags his feet back to the parking attendant.
“Someone stole my wallet,” he tells the attendant.
“So? Not my problem. It’s your own fault.” The attendant points to the “Beware of Pickpockets” sign fastened to his booth. “If you can’t pay I’ll have to impound your car.”
“Give me another minute,” Bernie says as he pulls his cell phone out of his pocket. “Lois, it’s me.”
“What is it Bernie? I’m a little busy,” she replies.
Bernie explains the situation.
“Oh, Bernie,” she laughs. “Seriously?”
“It’s not funny. My credit card is gone. My debit card is gone. So is my driver’s license. I’m almost out of gas and what am I supposed to eat? Can I even replace all that stuff in this god-forsaken town? I’m going to starve.”
Lois rolls her eyes as she agrees to meet him at the lot.
“Idiot,” she yells at her phone after Bernie’s disconnects. The guy is on the look out for a pickpocket. Wouldn’t it make sense to keep ones wallet in a safe place? Once again, she wonders what she ended up saddled with Bernie, Len’s half-wit nephew, as a partner. No one wanted to work with him so she literally drew the short straw.
In the mirrored doors of the hotel room’s closet Lois gives her appearance a final check before leaving the room. Her hair’s started to wilt so she teases it back into shape and spritzes it with hairspray. After finding her jean jacket, she heads out the door to rescue Bernie.
As he waits, Bernie can’t help but fall into one of his depressions. Life is not going the way he hoped it would. It’s not the job he expected. When Uncle Lenny first offered him the job at IAI, he had pictured himself flying all over the world looking for lost millions. He saw himself going over the Queen of England’s account book and shouting “Eureka!” when he discovered where two billion missing British pounds went. He saw the Queen knighting him and giving him a seat in the Britis
