by Colin Meloy
“Happy?” she asked.
Pluto attempted a straight face. “Molly, Mouse,” he chided genially, “it’s a bit of genius, ain’t it? You’re going to hit more fat marks in the paddock, behind the scenes, than any of us could imagine. That’s where the owners are. That’s where the big spenders are, checking out the horses. That’s where the real fat bateses hang. Trust me. I’ve put the bee on it.”
“I better be swinging with jug pinches in there,” said Molly, blowing an errant strand of brown hair from her eyes. She pushed her face up close to Pluto’s, scowling. “Or there’ll be hell to pay, flash.” She gave his eye patch a flick of a finger.
“Okay, Mobbies,” said Pluto, ignoring the threat, “you know what you’re doing, you know where you’re doing it. Back here at four p.m. sharp, got it?”
The gang all nodded and pledged to do so.
“And you,” said Pluto, suddenly pressing his finger into Charlie’s sternum. “You stay back, do you hear me?” He then scanned Charlie’s attire archly. “Unless we see some trees need cutting down.” With that, the mob began to disband into its smaller units, moving in the direction of the field in which they would work. Fatour punched Charlie in the shoulder as he walked by.
“He said that because you’re dressed—” he began.
“Like a lumberjack,” said Charlie. “Yeah, I know.”
Chapter
ELEVEN
Inside the racecourse, the energy was a humming, thrumming hive. Charlie, along with Sembene, Fatour, and Amir, was funneled into the park with a tide of humans, each intent on their own prize and the means of acquiring it. The grandstands, white and gilded as a wedding cake, had been built on the east side of the track, there better to take in the majesty of the Mediterranean Sea over the loamy oval of the racetrack. By the time Charlie and the three pickpockets had pushed through the bottleneck of the entryway and into the concourse, a race had just begun. A trumpet blared its fanfare; the starting gate cracked open and the day’s first round of horses leapt onto the track in a thunderous wave.
The crowd erupted when the horses passed the stands. The racers made a second and final round of the track, eliciting an even louder chorus of cheers and shouts, and were testily reined in after they’d stormed across the finish line. Some in the crowd celebrated their success; others tore up their tickets and scattered the pieces to the wind like a ticker-tape parade for their own failure. And then it was back to the bettors’ stalls, to begin the whole cycle over again.
“Keep close,” said Amir, as they made their way through the milling crowd. “But not too close. Let us work, yeah?”
“Got it,” said Charlie.
“I’m gonna find us a nice bates,” said Sembene. “A real jug touch.”
A new race was being announced; at the center of the oval track, on the pitch, the number tiles on the scoreboard were being traded out to reflect the new odds. A group of spectators had gathered near the guardrail by the finish line and were scribbling in their programs. Sembene, playing steer, broke away and began to orbit this group in an action Charlie’d been told was called “fanning the mark.” He was secretly gauging the prize among the huddled race-goers. Apparently he was unsatisfied, as he came back and shook his head, nearly imperceptibly, at Amir. They moved on.
The horses were being loaded into the starting gate; the pickpockets gravitated toward the crowd watching the animals as they bucked and snorted in their enclosure. Sembene scouted; a signal was given. Amir moved forward while the twins inserted themselves into the crowd.
And then it began to happen.
Quickly, quietly, with motions and actions that seemed both orchestrated and impromptu, the three pickpockets fell to their prey like mice picking over a plate of cheese. They slipped and darted between the milling race-goers as if they had an extraordinary understanding of the pacing of time and space—it was as if they’d been given some sort of blueprint as to what exact steps each mark would take, each lift of an elbow or turn of a hip. And just as quickly as they’d descended on the crowd, they retreated, returning to the place where Charlie, transfixed, was standing.
“Take this,” said Amir. He slipped two wallets into Charlie’s pants pocket.
“And this,” said Fatour. Another wallet and two gold chains were added to an opposite pocket.
“This too,” said Sembene, packing both of Charlie’s back pockets with loot.
“What am I supposed to do?” asked Charlie.
“You’re the duke man,” said Amir. “Stash all of it back at the kiosk. Then come back.”
Happy to be in service, Charlie turned to run toward the front gate when he was stopped by Amir. “Slow, Charlie, slow,” he said. “Remember, you’re just having a day at the races, yeah?”
Charlie heeded this direction and began to saunter away. He tried to whistle a casual tune, though he could not whistle. He was particularly mindful of the number of wallets he was currently carrying. On his way across the parking lot, now filled with quiet Citroëns and Renaults relieved of their drivers, he even tried to jam his hands into his pockets, only to find the way blocked by the absurd amount of contraband that’d been stashed there. When he finally arrived at the kiosk, he breathed a sigh of relief. There, inside the door, was a large sack that had already accumulated a good portion of the day’s take. Charlie added his contribution to the pile and hurried back to the track.
“Over here, Charlie,” called Amir, once Charlie had returned. The pickpockets had moved up the concourse a few dozen yards.
“Okay,” reported Charlie. “I stashed the pokes.”
“Good, good,” said Amir. He then gestured toward an older man in a sharp pin-striped suit, engrossed in the reading of his racing program. Sembene and Fatour had positioned themselves to flank him. “Watch this,” said Amir. “This is what we call the Senegalese Spin.”
Charlie watched as Sembene reached up and tugged at the sleeve of the man, effectively, in the argot, fronting the mark (facing the victim) and giving up his kisser (showing his face). They exchanged a few words; the man returned to his program. Sembene’s hand remained positioned just above the man’s right pocket. Then Fatour, on the other side of the man, pulled on a sleeve and the man’s attention turned to his left side. The action of moving his hips to face Fatour caused the money clip that was in his right prat to fall into Sembene’s hand. The man, confused at having confronted what appeared to be the same individual who had just earned his attention, engaged briefly with Fatour before looking back at his racing program. At which point Sembene, again, tugged at the man’s right sleeve—causing the man to turn and allowing another item to fall into the fingers of Fatour, whose hand had been positioned at the man’s left prat. This give-and-take happened several more times, with the man growing more bewildered with every turn, until he’d apparently been picked clean and the twins disappeared into the crowd.
“Wow,” said Charlie.
“Twins,” said Amir. He looked at his watch. “Let’s move on.”
As they walked away, Charlie looked back at the chump they’d just cleaned out. He’d taken his hat off and was waving it briskly in front of his face. His tie was comically undone. He looked as if he was trying to ward off a sudden onset of vertigo. The man was out of view before Charlie assumed he’d discovered he’d just been burgled.
“We’ve got two hours to pick this track clean,” said Amir, “before the whole place is rumbled.”
Farther down the concourse, they continued their work. Charlie watched. And marveled. And he began to see.
When each crashing line of horses pounded across the finish line, Charlie realized, the members of the crowd would effectively identify themselves as either winners or losers: those tossing their tickets to the ground in frustration and those enjoying a moment of celebration before cheerily turning heel and heading toward the bettors’ stalls to collect their winnings. They were unwittingly sorting themselves into two columns: the fat marks and the empty pockets—and t
he Whiz Mob read these signals like antennae, picking up vibrations from distant stars.
The winners, having collected their cash, would inevitably return to the concourse, emboldened by their success and flush with their winnings. Sembene, the steer, would glide in front of them as they made their way, subtly guiding their movement. When Sembene stopped, so would the mark. Fatour would then approach and begin the score, handing the collected loot back to Amir. Amir would then return to Charlie, instructing him to bring the loot to the kiosk.
Their fingers worked like nimble machines; their feet danced on the pavement.
They binged ladies’ hairpins in one motion and used them like chopsticks to retrieve rolls of cash hidden deep inside purses and clutches. They banged handkerchiefs to shade the sneaking fingers of a fellow tool, returning the wipe to a different owner altogether.
Once they’d started, there was no stopping them. They were like a basketball team that only got looser and more agile the more they played.
They binged watches, assayed their value, and sometimes, in the same motion, returned them to the owners’ wrists if they were fake or faulty. The owner would not know that between the moments he’d lifted his wrist to check the time, the watch had briefly left his possession. Likewise, they were able to assess a chump’s viability by binging his wallet and checking its contents—thereby getting a better understanding of his place in the social pecking order. Too low and the wallet was returned, unemptied.
Amir found a poem, a love poem, in a man’s glasses case. He did not rob the man further.
The pickpockets watched the scoreboard change—they monitored the odds of each race. They binged winning tickets from the skilled or lucky gamblers, exchanging them with losing tickets to the chump’s coat jerve or sometimes his very hand.
This was not just thievery. They did not steal money solely from wealthy congregants of the racecourse—they practiced an art that was by turns beautiful and graceful, by turns crafty and mischievous. The flow of wallets, watches, jewelry, and coins was like a tumbling Rube Goldberg machine of fingers and hands and elbows and arms, always ending in the ever more loaded pockets of Charlie Fisher Jr.
Charlie made several trips to the kiosk, each time feeling more and more sure of himself. He waved genially to passersby; he walked with a spring in his step. The sack in the kiosk grew heavier and heavier as the Whiz Mob quickly and quietly sapped the racecourse’s chumps of their wealth.
Walking back for another load, Charlie crossed paths with Borra. The Bear was poring over the racing schedule; Charlie, feeling chipper, whispered the tip he’d been given by Eddie Monroe, the American who’d recognized him earlier in the day. “Grecian Dancer. She’s your horse.” He smiled and continued walking; he felt Borra’s heavy hand land on his shoulder.
“What did you say?”
“I just had a tip,” said Charlie. “Earlier. Grecian Dancer. Sixth race.”
Borra looked down at his program. “Sixth race is next. What do you know of this horse?”
“Nothing, really,” said Charlie, shrugging. “Just got a tip.”
Borra smiled, revealing a gold tooth in place of his right canine. “I will bet on this horse. I have won nothing today, Charlie, but you have given me hope.” He slung his arm over Charlie’s neck and led him toward the bettors’ stalls.
“I should really get back to Amir and Sembene and Fatour,” said Charlie. “I’m their duke man.”
“It can wait, Charlie,” said Borra. “We have binged enough today. Now it is time to win. You come with me. You will bring me good luck.”
“O-okay,” said Charlie.
“When I was young boy, in Saint Petersburg, Leningrad, whatever you want to call it,” said Borra, as they crossed the concourse, “my grandparents owned most beautiful Arabian Thoroughbred. Petushka was his name. He was beautiful, Charlie. Win many prizes in races. At our dacha in the country, I spend long summer days feeding Petushka ripest red apples, riding him through beautiful meadows.”
“That must’ve been incredible,” said Charlie.
“Then Soviets take him and put him on yoke, for plowing field of local collective,” replied Borra, frowning. “It is what it is.” They’d arrived at the bettors’ window. Borra slammed a ten-franc note down on the counter. “Ten francs on Grecian Dancer to win, s’il vous plaît!” he near shouted.
The money was taken; a ticket was issued. Borra gave the ticket a lingering kiss before handing it to Charlie.
“You, too,” he said.
“Do what?” asked Charlie.
“Kiss it,” said Borra.
Charlie gave the ticket a modest peck.
“No, no, no,” said Borra. “You must kiss it. With passion!”
Charlie felt himself blush, suddenly aware of the crowds of people around him. Under the watchful eye of the Bear, he brought the small piece of white paper to his lips and began kissing it. Having never actually kissed anyone aside from his mother (and Alice Grundel, which didn’t really count), Charlie did his best impression of a John Wayne/Maureen O’Hara–style collision until Borra snatched the ticket away.
“That is maybe too much,” said the Bear, annoyed.
“Charlie,” came a voice. They turned around to see Michiko running up. “What are you doing?”
“I’m, uh, being Borra’s good luck charm,” said Charlie.
“Borra shouldn’t be betting,” said the girl, eyeing her compatriot angrily. “Borra should be binging.”
“You see my score,” said Borra, defending himself. “I’ve banged plenty. Now is time for Grecian Dancer.”
Michiko didn’t bother finding out what he meant. “Molly needs a duke man.”
“Charlie can do it,” said Borra. “He dukes for Amir all morning.”
Michiko looked at Charlie.
“Sure, I’ll do it,” he said. “Where is she?”
“In the paddock. You won’t be able to get inside, but she can meet you at the fence.”
“Okay,” said Charlie. He looked at Borra. “Good luck.”
“I hope you have not kissed it away!” Charlie heard Borra shout as the Bear slipped away into the crowd.
Between two sections of the grandstand, a channel led into the undersection of the bleachers. A sign on the wall indicated the direction to the paddock. A new race was announced over the loudspeakers, causing Charlie to fight against a current of race-goers issuing out of the tunnel. Beneath the stands, he began following a dark cement hallway, its floor littered with torn-up tickets and discarded racing programs. He soon arrived at the paddock: a cavernous room where a ring had been constructed around a dirt floor, hemmed in by a tall green fence and several dozen watchful wagerers. One by one, the horses for the upcoming race were led in by their trainers and walked in a slow, tidy circle inside the ring. The riders, dressed in their multicolored silks, kept the horses on a tight rein. The onlookers watched them intently, made notes in their programs, discussed the various merits of each horse with their neighbors, and sized up their viability. This was where the true gamblers congregated, away from the dilettantes who littered the concourse, those betting on horses merely because of whim or some arbitrary fondness for a name or number.
“Pssst—Charlie,” came a whispered voice.
Charlie looked over to see Mouse gesturing to him between the bars of the fence. She was on the inside of the ring, perfectly camouflaged amid the pageantry of the horses’ draped coverings and their riders’ motley outfits.
“Oh, hey, Molly!” whispered Charlie. “Michiko said you needed a—”
“Quiet!” hushed Molly. “Down here.”
The two walked to the end of the ring, where the fence met the wall. A long throw of shadow gave them a discreet meeting place.
“Come closer,” said Molly, waving him forward.
Charlie stepped closer to the fence; abruptly, Molly grabbed him by his britch kicks and pulled him, hard, so that the two of them were pressed close together, with only the cold metal
fencing separating them.
Charlie, somewhat scandalized by this sudden intimacy, stood frozen while Molly slipped the loot she’d binged into whatever pocket would fit it. When he was finally loaded down like a pack mule, she let go, giving Charlie a quick shove in the process.
“Go,” she hissed. “And come back when—”
“Vous!” shouted a man suddenly, from across the ring. Weaving through the promenading racehorses, he began walking toward them. “Garçon!”
Fearing the man was speaking to him, Charlie instinctively leapt back from the fence line. The Mouse had already turned her back to Charlie and was preparing herself for the encounter, whatever it might be.
“Garçon!” the man repeated.
His pockets overflowing with stolen goods, Charlie breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that the man was speaking to Molly, not him, and it was Molly’s gender-neutral jockey attire that had caused him to refer to her as garçon, not fille. Molly did not wish to correct him.
“Oui?” she answered.
Quick aside: you know by now that Charlie’s comprehension of French, while being somewhat improved since his arrival in Marseille, was still dreadful. Molly’s familiarity with the language, on the other hand, was near impeccable, owing to the mandatory language competency courses at the School of Seven Bells, where a turned-out tool is expected to be conversational in fifteen languages, fluent in eight, and masterly in three. Since we intend to make every attempt to accommodate the reader who has not also undergone the rigorous academic curriculum of the school, we will translate, into English, the following conversation, which Molly, on the spur of the moment, chose to speak in a common dialect that any native-born French speaker would recognize as hailing from the northern suburbs of Paris. Charlie picked up enough of the quickly spoken exchange to get the general gist. You, the reader, will not be kept in the dark merely because of Charlie’s academic laziness—which is, really, nobody’s fault but Charlie’s.
