Loot Page 7

  They swung onto the train with a few sleepy commuters. They paid for their tickets with the cash they’d pooled and crashed back against the seats, exhilarated at the sight of the miles put between them and Polestar House.

  Izzy stared out the window, wide-eyed. “It’s such a big world. I forgot.”

  “That’s a good thing,” Darius said. He leaned back against the seat. “How much is a yacht? I think I’d like to buy a yacht for me and you. We’ll sail away.”

  Izzy leaned her head against him. In just minutes, she was asleep.

  “You and Izzy?” March asked. “You’re …”

  “Girls aren’t my thing, Marco. She’s like my little sister,” Darius said. He looked down at Izzy. “She looks like she’s ten or something, but she’s thirteen. Her parents didn’t pay much attention to her. Hackers with gambling issues. They decide to take a trip to Atlantic City, and they lock her in the apartment while they’re gone. They leave her with enough food for two days and they’re gone for five. She was four years old. They took her away then. She saw them on supervised visits for a while. Then they stopped showing up. She hates small spaces. Wound up in a hospital once when a foster family locked her in a closet. That’s why I watch out for her. My dad was in the secret service. She knows I can protect her, I’ve got it in my genes.”

  Darius yawned. “Gotta catch some winks. When I wake up, point me the way to Easy Street.”

  Within seconds Darius was snoring lightly. March watched town after town go by, a sense of dread beginning to build inside him. He’d been so cocky! They needed a place to sleep, a place to plan the heist. Between the three of them, they had only about thirty dollars. They needed more. Money for food, for better clothes, for equipment. They needed cell phones. Alfie had given him a direction, not a plan.

  They needed a warm-up con.

  He gripped the I LOVE NY key chain. What had Alfie left him? Could there be a place in New York somewhere, a place Alfie would call a bolt hole, somewhere already set up for a hideout, a small apartment in a boring neighborhood where no one would notice them?

  Alfie must have bought the key chain at Grand Central Terminal. There was a picture of the grand columned building on the other side of the I LOVE NY logo. He worried it between his thumb and index finger in anxiety. He felt something pop. He’d broken it.

  Sighing, March studied the cheap key chain. It hadn’t taken much to break it.

  Not much at all …

  He worked his fingernail into the gap, and it split open.

  Inside was a small folded piece of paper. He unwrapped it.

  Written in Alfie’s handwriting was:

  Track 61.

  They stood in the enormous waiting room, beneath the clicking schedule board that supplied its heartbeat. Commuters rushed by them, juggling briefcases and bags of bagels.

  “There is no track sixty-one,” Darius said.

  “Yes, there is,” Izzy said. “It’s an abandoned track that was used by President Franklin D. Roosevelt. He was in a wheelchair, so they’d drive his car straight out of the train and onto an elevator that went right up into the Waldorf Astoria Hotel.”

  She held up a smart phone. “I looked it up on secretivecity.com.” She saw March’s expression when he saw the phone. “I found it on the train. People really need to watch their stuff.”

  “I should mention that Izzy has certain … talents,” Darius said. “We met when I found her hand in my pocket.”

  “We’d better ditch it,” March advised. “It has a tracker on it.”

  “It’s okay. I already know the way to the platform.”

  Izzy didn’t break stride as she dropped the phone on the counter by the information booth. She continued into a corridor and led them to an unmarked brass door. She handed March a paper clip. “Your turn.”

  Darius and Izzy stood in front of March as he worked the lock. He pushed the door open, and they slipped inside.

  A narrow stairway led straight down. They followed it as the bustle and noise of the station above decreased and the sound of a train entering the station thundered through the soles of their shoes. A shiver ran down March’s spine. For the first time since leaving Amsterdam, he felt close to his pop, as though Alfie were right next to him on the stairs.

  They came out onto an unused train platform scattered with debris. One light in a cage sputtered overhead. An old Coke bottle lay furred with dust. They picked their way through construction equipment, piles of trash, and orange plastic netting. Across the dark expanse of columns and tracks, they could make out the other platforms. A train had just arrived and people poured out of the doors, hurrying down the platform toward the exit.

  No one noticed them. It was like being a ghost, a spectral presence in the busy station.

  A rusted dark blue car sat nearby on unused tracks. They picked their way across the flung railroad ties and bits of metal and trash. March tripped his way up the stair that led to the door. He hesitated, then pushed it open. Instead of the passenger seats he’d been expecting, the car was empty.

  He felt the thud of disappointment. What had he been expecting? A box full of answers with a bow on top? He kicked an empty can across the floor.

  You led me here. Now talk to me, Pop.

  March opened the electrical panel box. “There isn’t anything,” he said. Disappointment rang through him, heavy and dull.

  “If your pops left you something, it was probably lifted already,” Darius said. “Street folks tend to take anything that isn’t nailed down.” He waved at the graffiti outside the dusty window. “It’s not like we’re the first people to find this place. Look at all these taggers.”

  March rotated in frustration. Alfie wasn’t stupid. There was something here. Something he was meant to find.

  Outside the car, graffiti splashed the walls, puffy letters announcing I was here to an indifferent world.

  If he stood still and looked straight out the front of the car, he could see it. Centered in his sightline, outlined in black, red letters three feet high:

  MATT HENNEBERRY COME HOME

  March felt the hairs on his neck tingle. “We’re in the right place,” he said.

  They stood on the abandoned track, staring at the graffiti. The Matt Henneberry tag was isolated from the others, except for DOMINICK PH next to it.

  “Matt Henneberry was an alias we used sometimes,” March said. “Alfie thought it was the friendliest name in the world.”

  “Who’s Dominick?” Izzy asked.

  “It must be someone else,” March said. “Alfie never used that name.” He blinked hard. “I thought he didn’t leave me a message. Just random weird stuff. But he did leave me this.”

  “What does it mean?” Izzy asked.

  “I don’t know.” The exhilaration was wearing off. Alfie had left him a message that he couldn’t read. Again. March closed his fist around the key in his pocket. Come home.

  Where, Alfie? Where is home?

  He stared until his eyes were burning. Izzy and Darius were quiet. Finally Darius’s hand landed on his shoulder. It was enough to buckle his knees.

  “It’s okay, bro. You’ll figure it out. Time to get moving.”

  Yes. He should get moving. A train roared into a platform nearby. People coming, people going, all around them. They needed a direction, too.

  Figure out what you have. Figure out what you need. Then use what you have to get what you need.

  He had a custom-made jacket with British tailoring.

  He needed cash.

  “I have a plan,” March said. “It’s time for a pigeon drop.”

  * * *

  The students at the Huntington–Chumley School wore uniforms. March remembered this from his time in New York with Alfie. They’d run a job that required March to look like a fancy private-school kid, so Alfie had taken him to the Farquar-Mooney Thrift Shop, and they’d purchased a navy blazer. March had worn it to a dinner with Alfie and a former South American military dictator. A
month later the dictator had discovered his secret offshore account had been drained.

  That job had financed a lease on a house in the Scottish countryside. That had been a good year, until Alfie had been tempted to lift a Chagall painting from some earl’s wall and they had to leave the country quickly….

  Don’t be an owl. Don’t look back.

  It was time for school when they reached the Huntington–Chumley campus. Mothers and nannies were heading to the school, the mothers wearing skinny pants and sky-high heels and carrying purses made of leather so soft and supple it looked like candy. The nannies wore cardigans and loafers and pushed strollers with the younger siblings of the elite students.

  “They’re gonna rule the world one day,” Darius said. “Hurl.”

  March lounged against the brick wall across the street, his eyes moving.

  “What are we looking for?” Darius asked.

  “Patterns. Habit is our best friend. Watch who walks in with the kid, who doesn’t. Who’s a nanny, who’s a mom. Who chats with the other moms, who doesn’t. We have to pick our pigeon. We’ll run the con tomorrow. We don’t have time for a second chance. This is Wednesday. The party is Friday night.”

  Across the street, a black Mercedes sedan drew up. A uniformed driver got out and walked a small girl, maybe five years old, into the building, holding her hand. March glanced at his watch.

  He shifted his attention to a woman walking with a young boy, maybe eight or nine. She was dressed the same as the other women, but just a bit … more. Her purse was bright pink, not the discreet shades of the others’. Her heels were higher, her bracelets thicker, her hair too blond. He watched as she said hello to the other moms, and how they responded with tight smiles and turned away.

  Meanwhile the uniformed driver came out, saluted a teacher standing on the stairs, and headed for his car. As he drove off, a Range Rover pulled up. A kid got out and ran into the building. The too-blond mom waved at the Range Rover driver but looked crestfallen when the car just zoomed away. Her kid gave up trying to say good-bye to her and walked into school.

  “The pigeon drop is an old con, but it still works,” March said. “The trick is to mix it up with new details. The basic con is this — you drop a bag of money on the sidewalk, then wait for a mark to come. You pick it up. You say, ‘Wow, look at all this money. What should we do?’ And you work it out eventually that the mark gives you his wallet while he takes the bag and stuffs it in his pocket or down his pants or whatever. And then he walks off thinking he made a cool five thousand. Only he’s got a bag full of paper and you’ve got his wallet.”

  “What kind of pigeon would fall for that?” Darius asked.

  “Insecure, needy social climber,” March said. He pointed to the too-blond woman with his chin. “That one.”

  “Alfie had a saying,” March told Darius and Izzy as he nervously fiddled with his tie the next morning. “ ‘Find what they’re hungry for.’ Our pigeon wants social status. She’s not just walking her kid to school; she’s looking to make a connection with these rich folks.”

  “The kid was beside the point,” Izzy said. “She hardly paid attention to him.”

  “Exactly. Those other moms are dissing her every single day, and she knows it. She’s got money, but she doesn’t belong. We’re going to dangle what she wants in front of her. If all goes well, we’ll walk away with at least a grand. And she’ll have a good story.”

  “How do you know?” Izzy asked, biting her lip.

  “I don’t,” March said. “When you run a con, you don’t think about the odds. You think about details so you don’t mess up. Alfie always said, ‘If you’re going to do something, don’t do it stupid.’ We just have to stay cool and stay smart. Ready?”

  “Yeah,” Darius said. “But why do I have to be the bad guy?”

  “Because you look scary,” Izzy said.

  “I do not.”

  “Do, too.”

  “Guys? Can we keep our eye on the con?”

  At 8:23 a.m., the woman with the pink purse walked down the street with her son. Again, she nodded at the other mothers, who offered brief, chilly smiles.

  The Mercedes pulled up. The driver got out, came around to the other side, and opened the door. The little girl got out, and they walked toward the school.

  Izzy hurried down the street. March watched as she slapped the Silly Putty on each side of the car’s front hood and stuck the Liechtenstein flags in.

  March crossed the street and stood by the car. He dropped the fake designer briefcase they’d purchased from a street vendor downtown.

  Pink-purse woman said good-bye to her son, who walked up the stairs.

  Darius suddenly loped around her, startling her. She clutched her purse closer. He ran past and snatched up March’s briefcase, then dashed down the block.

  “Oh no!” March cried in an accent Alfie called fake Romanian, because it was attached to no particular country. “Stoppen den dieb!”

  With one glance the woman took in the diplomatic flags and March in the blue blazer. She tottered over in her heels. “I saw that … street person,” she said. “He almost stole my purse! Are you all right?” She looked around. “We should tell security….”

  “No, vait,” March said. “They said back in Vaduz that New York is dangerous, but I … oh!” He clapped his hands to his mouth. “I hope … I didn’t …” He searched in his chest pocket. “Oh, I still have it.” He took out the check that the gang had fabricated and worked over at a copy shop. “For the school trip to ze supercollider.” He held out the check so that it was clearly visible.

  The woman’s eyes widened as she took in BANK OF LIECHTENSTEIN and the royal seal. The check was made out to the Huntington–Chumley School and was in the amount of $10,000.

  “Ah, you’re from …”

  “Liechtenstein, yes. My papa is the new ambassador … and he vas to come with me today to pay for ze trip. But he receives a call and he’s off to our plane to fly for a meeting in Washington….”

  “Yes, that must happen often….”

  “And entrusts me with the check. If it had been stolen … jail for me, I think! Heh! Instead ze criminal boy steals my new Vuitton satchel!”

  “Perhaps I could … talk to your mother for you.”

  “The baroness?”

  “She’s …” The woman gulped. “… a baroness? Let me call her for you on my phone. You seem upset.”

  “No, she is … swimming her laps right now,” March said. “But I will tell her about your kindness, and you should come to the embassy for tea.”

  The woman beamed. “Oh, I’d love that.” She stuck out her hand. “Virginia Hayes.”

  “Gerhard Richter,” March said. Then he looked at the check again. “Oh nein! Ze … ze check isn’t signed! And today is the last day for the trip!”

  “Oh, but I’m sure that the school … being who your father is … there’s leeway….”

  March’s eyes filled with tears. “It is the last day. Mein Vater won’t forgive this. Even though it was him who forgets to sign the check! Do I have time to get to the embassy before the day begins?” He looked around wildly.

  “Dear, you must calm down,” Virginia Hayes said. “I think I can help you. My bank is right on that corner. Why don’t I give you some money right now? I can’t do ten thousand dollars, of course, but surely a portion for a deposit would hold your place….”

  “Oh, I could not ask….”

  “You didn’t ask, dear. I offered.”

  “Well … maybe a thousand?” March wiped his eyes. “But I couldn’t….”

  “Come with me,” she said firmly. “We wouldn’t want you to get the wrong impression about America. Not after that horrible, grimy street person stole your lovely Vuitton bag.”

  March swung into step beside her. “My mother shall call you for tea at the embassy. She will serve you our famous gesundenheitenflachen!”

  March went through every bathroom in the Museum of Natura
l History. Since Murph the Surf’s day, security had improved, to say the least. He could see no way in. What was Alfie thinking?

  You wanted me to pull off this heist, Pop. Give me a hint, will you?

  Thanks to Virginia Hayes, the three of them had shopped at the computer store and now had smart phones and a tablet. He texted Darius.

  no luck here. where r u

  under the whale

  He made his way to the Milstein Hall of Ocean Life. The hall was an enormous room with two levels of dioramas of fish and marine life. Hanging overhead was a model of a gigantic blue whale. This was the hall where the gala party would take place on Friday night. Tomorrow night.

  He joined Darius and Izzy on the lower level, staring up at the whale.

  “Ninety-four feet long, twenty-one thousand pounds, and made of fiberglass,” Darius said.

  “Adorable,” March said. “So, for the event, this whole space will be filled with tables.” He frowned. “Less than ideal conditions for a smash and grab.”

  March strolled the perimeter. Guards, cameras, unmarked doors with signs that said EMERGENCY EXIT ALARM WILL SOUND or NO ADMITTANCE.

  The best way out would be on the lower level — always avoid stairs if you can. But he couldn’t see weaving in and out of tables with an amber necklace in his hands.

  “Any ideas?” Darius asked.

  “As Alfie used to say, ‘The getaway is always the biggest problem.’ I’m worried about getting in, sure, but I’m mostly worried about getting out. There’s security everywhere, and that’s just the stuff I can see. There are always backup systems in place.”

  “Maybe Alfie didn’t mean it literally,” Darius said. “Like, what’s the lesson of the original job? What did your pop admire about it?”