Chapter Thirteen
Thirteen
The new guy is:
Ezra Cardoso
and he’s prickly as a cactus and probably has a variety of undiagnosed anxiety disorders, but once we’ve explained his role in the job—leaving out the magic, the Titans, and the Dead—he’s all in.
“So I’m guessing this book is worth a lot, huh?” he asks, low enough I can barely hear him over the hum of the airplane.
We’re the last of the crew to fly to Los Angeles. The others took their flights throughout the week, in pairs or solo.
Actually, it was Ezra’s suggestion that we all arrive separately.
“Large groups are noticeable,” he’d said, “and easier to track. The fewer ties between us, the better.”
For someone who doesn’t do teams, he really knows what he’s doing.
The plane jostles with turbulence and the fasten seat belt sign comes on.
“The book is invaluable,” I answer. “Even if we wanted to, we wouldn’t be able to fence it. It’d be like hawking the Mona Lisa.”
He nods, and I think the conversation is over and I might get some sleep, but a few minutes later, he asks, “What’s so special about it?”
“The Mona Lisa? Hell if I know.”
“The book,” he deadpans.
It’s not the first time he’s asked, and it probably won’t be the last. I’m guessing he thinks he can trick me into answering if he asks enough, but as skilled as he is as a pickpocket, he’s no con artist.
“You don’t have to worry about it,” I say. “You’re here as an acrobat, a second-story man, a shadow, if you will.”
“A ghost,” he adds.
I shake my head. “Ghosts can’t pickpocket. A poltergeist, maybe.”
He laughs, uncomfortable, like he’s not sure he gets the joke. And he doesn’t. We’ve found that we don’t need to be too careful about what we say around Ezra. If the truth is too fantastical, most people see it as an attempt at humor. Or a metaphor. I can tell Ezra mainly just thinks we’re weird.
The guy behind me kicks my seat for the fourth time, so I decide to recline it.
Ezra notices and rolls his eyes. “You know,” he says, considering me, “if you were a little more forthcoming, I could help.”
“We’ve got it handled,” I say.
He narrows his eyes. “You’re not a very trusting person, are you?”
My seat jerks, like the guy behind me is banging his head on it.
“I just know the value of playing things close to the chest. Besides, I’m well within my rights to be wary of you. You pickpocketed me and stole my necklace.”
“This one?” He pulls down the collar of his T-shirt to reveal my necklace on his thieving hairy chest.
“You wear it?” I gasp.
He grins. “E for Ezra.”
“E for Elle,” I say. “You know, my dad gave that to me before he died.”
I let my eyes get a little wet. It took me a while to learn to cry on command, but it’s effective enough that it was worth the effort.
I know we’ve established that it’s very likely my parents aren’t dead, but the Dead Parent card is the easiest one to play with the fastest results, especially if you’re under the age of majority.
“Shit,” he says, tugging on his earlobe.
That’s his tell. I picked up on it within five minutes of talking to him.
Before he can unclasp the necklace, my seat jerks again.
“Hey,” I whisper to Ezra. “Teach me how to pickpocket this guy behind me.”
His eyes widen. “Absolutely not,” he whispers back.
“Believe me,” I say. “He deserves it. He hit on the flight attendant while his girlfriend was in the bathroom.”
Ezra sinks down in his seat and tilts his head toward me. “I don’t care if he’s having an affair with the pilot. We’re in a confined space. What if he wants to buy a drink? He’ll notice his wallet is missing, and we’ll be found with it on us.”
I shrug. “Drinks cart already came through.”
“Sure, like that’s ever stopped an entitled asshole from demanding an extra vodka Red Bull.”
“You’re no fun.” I cross my arms and pout. “You’re not going to chicken out on this job, are you?”
“Depends. Are you going to be this reckless on a job?”
I shrug. “Every job is a little reckless.”
“Not if you have all your bases covered and exit plans for every contingency.”
“Please,” I scoff. “You’re telling me that your running through Times Square the other day was all planned out?”
He rubs his eyes. “I have multiple exit strategies for multiple scenarios. That was my plan for being watched by four people, at least one of whom I’d seen before, who want to offer me a job. I have several modified versions, based on weather, crowd density, and time of day.”
I snort. “You sound like my brother. Backup plans for backup plans. He had a list of rules he would recite from that we had to follow on every job.”
“Resentful, are we?”
I scowl. “No, I just…” I check my phone. Still hours to go. “It doesn’t make sense to me. You can’t anticipate every contingency. I mean, like, what if an asteroid hits or somebody spontaneously combusts?”
“Fair point,” he says flatly.
“You have to learn to think on your feet. Besides, part of your job, Mr. Second-Story Man, is to get us an exit in case of a contingency we don’t account for.”
He sighs, finally unclasping my necklace. “Well, I can’t do that if I don’t know all the details of the job.”
My only reply is to put my hand out.
He hesitates for a moment, then dangles the necklace on his pointer finger. “How about this? I’ll give it to you if you tell me more about this book.”
I snatch the necklace from him, but I know I’m going to need to give him something to keep him invested. “How about this? I’ll answer your question if you answer one of mine.”
“Alright.” He shrugs, opening a packet of cookies and shoving one in his mouth. While the flight attendant’s back was turned, he’d grabbed three packets of cookies, two cans of Coke, and one of those tiny bottles of Jack Daniel’s, then shoved it all in his backpack.
“What do you do with the money you make pickpocketing?” I ask.
He doesn’t look at me. “What do you mean?”
This guy cannot school his face. He’s almost as bad as Tolliver.
“I saw your place. There’s nothing in there.”
He tugs on his ear. “Maybe all the money goes toward the mortgage.”
“Please. We both know you’re not paying a mortgage.” I huff and lean back in my chair, gazing out the window. Let him think he’s disappointed me.
After a long moment of silence, he says, “It goes to my family in Argentina.”
“Why?”
The serious look on his face vanishes and he tsks. “That’s a second question. I only agreed to one. Now, what’s so important about this book?”
I decide on the truth. Repay his honesty for a little of my own.
“It’s supposed to be a grimoire.”
He snorts. “What, like a book for magic spells?”
“Apparently.”
“And you want it because…”
This time, I tsk. “That’s a second question. I only agreed to one.”
Just before the plane reaches the gate, Ezra tells me to watch him closely. During the clamor of everyone unbuckling their seat belts and gathering their stuff, he reaches up to the overhead bin, as though he’s going to get his carry-on. His backpack is still under the seat in front of him.
He’s short enough he has to stand on his toes, and when he loses his balance, he knocks into the guy who was sitting behind me, also reaching for his carry-on. Because I’m watching so closely, I see him ease the guy’s wallet out of his back pocket and into his own.
“Watch it, shrimp,” the guy says, like he’s a bully in an old movie.
“Sorry, man,” Ezra says, sitting back down next to me.
It’s hard to keep the grin from my face as he hands me the wallet.
I take out the cash and ditch the rest in an airport garbage can on the way out.