The Whiz Mob and the Grenadine Kid

by Colin Meloy

  Charlie let a puff of air escape his pursed lips. He inwardly thanked the Mouse for her guidance. He then glanced up at the galleries, the faceless audience above him. He could hear them chatter quietly to one another.

  This time, he worked with his left hand. It was Sembene who had taught him that much. When fronting the mark, you’re better off if you can work ambidextrously; you’ll avoid having to unnecessarily crook your wrist in order to handle some basic pinch. With his left index, he felt along the cool metal of the pin to where it was held closed in its hasp. Bracing the front of the prat with his thumb, he pinched at the hasp, breathing a quick sigh of relief when he felt the pin give way. As he moved his fingers back into position, however, he felt the point of the dipsy stick him. A sharp pain shot through his middle finger, and he let out a cry that was as much of surprise as it was anguish.

  He felt his finger flinch.

  The audience in the galleries gasped; they listened for a ring.

  The ring did not come.

  With a quick swipe of his index finger, he slid the safety pin from the fabric. He pinched it between his index and middle finger before it fell too deep into the pit, pulled it from the pocket, and let it fall to the ground. From there, it was a basic prat dig. In the span of a few seconds, he had the coin in his hand and was holding it up for his audience to witness.

  “Two,” came the Headmaster’s voice. “Very good, Charlie. Very good. You’ve passed your first major hurdle, what. The first pocket of the test acts as a kind of bait. Gets the student’s confidence up, only to be thwarted by something as simple as a dipsy. I have to say, this is proving to be quite the show, after all.”

  Charlie inspected his left middle finger: a small bulb of blood emerged from where the dipsy had stuck him. He jammed the fingertip into his mouth and sucked it clean. “Glad you’re so entertained,” he murmured. He shook out the pain in his finger and reoriented his concentration back on the dummy.

  Number three was where things would get tricky, Charlie knew. The tog pit. Having learned his trade in Marseille in the springtime months, Charlie hadn’t had much practice on heavy coats. Most of the pockets he’d emptied during his time on the Marseille whiz had been sewn into linen jackets and loose-fitting chinos: fabric that was light and manipulatable, not so beholden to the constraints of gravity. This benny was an altogether different story: a heavy wool topcoat, the sort of thing a Chicagoan might spend entire months swaddled inside during the worst of a midwestern winter.

  His focus was shattered when the Headmaster spoke again. “I see your hesitation, Charlie. Right tog pit. A simple pinch, really, though it can be disastrous for the unprepared. Are you prepared, Charlie? Are you up to the challenge?”

  It became clear that now, having arrived at this chapter of the gambit, the Headmaster intended to talk through the entire pinch. Charlie tried to block out the noise as he moved in on the dummy.

  “You finessed the dipsy in the tog tail quite well, I must say,” came the man’s voice. “But you’ll not have as much leeway with the pit. Remember, should any bell ring, you fail the exam. Upon which, you will be leaving immediately, never to bother me again.”

  Charlie felt beads of sweat appear on his brow. He wiped them away with the sleeve of his shirt. He faced up to the dummy, chest to chest, trying to determine how to best position his body.

  “You’ll be interested to know,” came the Headmaster’s voice after another squelch of feedback, “that a full quarter of our students fail on the third pit. So, should you fail, you will not be alone. You might take that as some consolation.”

  Charlie squeezed his eyes tight, willing the words away. He envisaged himself on a Marseillais tram, trundling down the tracks toward the Old Port. He envisioned Amir sitting off to his side, watching him work. His pounding heart seemed to quiet at this sudden transposition. He was facing his chump; he was fronting the mark—some oblivious bates with cash to burn. In his mind, he looked to Amir. In his mind, Amir frowned and shook his head.

  Of course. Tog pit. Don’t front the mark.

  Like a dancer orbiting his partner, Charlie abruptly rounded the left shoulder of the dummy, placing himself directly behind the mannequin. From that angle, his left hand easily wound its way into the coat, pushing the heavy wool of the benny from the inner jacket like he was parting a curtain.

  “Careful now, Charlie,” came the voice archly, though to Charlie’s mind it might as well have been the tram conductor, calling out the next stop on the line. “Working behind, you’re working blind, what.”

  It was true; he was working blind. But having the back of his wrist against the heaviness of the coat allowed him more control of its movement. The bell remained unstruck. Soon, his fingers were delving into the interior of the satin-lined pocket, the coat open only as much as his small wrist would allow. His fingers found the smash and retrieved it. With a cascade of relief, he pulled away from the dummy and fell backward, the coin in his hand.

  A few of the onlookers allowed a hoot of congratulation and a smattering of applause, all of which were quickly hushed by the squeal of the PA.

  “SILENCE!” shouted the Headmaster.

  The crowd immediately followed his command. Apparently, the button on the PA microphone had become stuck; a stream of frustrated dialogue, unexpurgated, was broadcast into the arena as the Headmaster struggled with some unseen obstacle. “Rachel,” sounded the voice after a time. “How do you . . . I can’t seem to . . . Oh, just turn the whole thing off!” A crackling noise followed and the PA system was suddenly dead.

  Moments later, a door opened in the far end of the arena. A shadowy figure appeared and began walking across the chalky ground. When the figure came within the throw of the spotlight’s circle, Charlie could see it was the Headmaster. The man crossed his arms and looked squarely at Charlie. He glanced at the coins Charlie had thrown to the floor and frowned.

  “Well done,” he said. “But you still have four more to go.”

  Chapter

  TWENTY-THREE

  The Headmaster, as if mindful of Charlie’s working space, remained just on the edge of the spotlight’s throw. He had his hands firmly placed in his pockets as he studied Charlie. The buzzing of the crowd above them was a murmur of white noise, spectators between acts of a gripping drama, discussing pivotal moves and rehashing what had already transpired. Charlie glanced into the upper galleries; a large figure caught his attention—was that Borra? And that girl, just next to him, had the dusty blond hair of Jackie. It was no time to speculate; the Headmaster cleared his throat and said, “Please, if the student . . .” He stopped himself before saying, “If you will continue the exam, Mr. Fisher.”

  Charlie returned his attention to the dummy. He approached it, letting his eyes stray over the lines and seams of the topcoat, the way the interior opening of the jacket could be seen beneath. The line of the trousers, sprouting out from beneath the jacket’s hemline, held firmly to the mannequin’s waist by a leather belt. He knew from his earlier reconnaissance that the fourth pocket of the test was the coat jerve—the ticket pocket—of the jacket. Beyond that, he couldn’t be sure. He decided to bing the fourth pocket and then worry about the fifth.

  “I can see promise,” said the Headmaster abruptly, as Charlie reached for the opening of the topcoat. The suddenness made Charlie’s fingers briefly recoil. “A student such as yourself. Sloppy, inelegant, yes—a far sight from a proper cannon. But still, a diamond in the rough, perhaps. I’m surprised our agents hadn’t reported on your abilities.”

  “Now’s your chance, I guess,” said Charlie, feeling annoyed as he situated himself again for his pinch. He carefully pulled back the front of the topcoat, mindful of the bell hanging from pocket two, and revealed the coat jerve labeled 4. The jerve was mid-waist on the jacket, and its interior was protected by a wide flap over the opening. The pocket’s bell hung from the flap. The challenge here was to unslough the pocket flap without ringing the bell, no matter what sort o
f okus might be awaiting his fingers. He peered more closely at the pocket; a rectangular expression in the fabric gave away the presence of a skin, a wallet.

  “Yes, Charlie,” said the Headmaster, confirming his suspicion, “pocket four. This particular poke wants only the coin, not the dead skin. The student is required to kick the okus back, emptied.” Charlie moved to attempt the poke, but the Headmaster, timing his commentary, said, “All without ringing the bell, of course.”

  “Are you going to talk through this whole thing?” asked Charlie, having removed his hand.

  The Headmaster gave a little laugh. “A cannon should not expect to make his pinches in a vacuum. Working inside the noise is part of the exam. Pray, continue.”

  Charlie glared at the man before returning his attention to the coat jerve. First, he needed to mind the topcoat, the benny, before he could even think about the ticket pocket. He did so by finessing his right hand between the inner fabric of the benny and the jacket—now his wrist was acting as a bridge between the two coats. Flipping his hand palm up, he lifted—ever so carefully—the pocket flap with his middle finger, his eyes riveted to the silver bell as it ascended. Once the flap had been fully opened, he flipped his palm back over and transferred the weight of the flap to his thumb, neatly pinning the flap to the suit jacket. This way, the bell was effectively muted against the fabric of the jacket. His other four fingers now free to work, he let his middle and ring fingers move into the interior of the prat until they’d touched the leather of the okus.

  “So much effort,” said the Headmaster suddenly. “Really, a tremendous amount of effort. To retrieve this thing, this Cipher. Tell me, what truly is your motivation? Is it saving the world? From a monster such as myself?”

  Charlie frowned and tried to remain focused on the pocket.

  “Or,” continued the Headmaster, “is it a boy’s desperate need for love and approval from his father?”

  Charlie felt his fingers flinch. The bell shifted, but did not sound. The tell was all the Headmaster needed to continue: “That’s it, isn’t it? Fascinating. So much effort. It’s a wonder that such approval should be lacking in the first place, what. Leaves a boy somewhat vulnerable. He begins looking for approval elsewhere, I daresay.” He pointed at the dummy. “Careful there. Wouldn’t want to rumble your mark. You will soon be, as they say, in flagrante delicto.”

  Having practiced binging an okus on his dummy back home, Charlie knew that the position of the wallet was crucial to the job. He let his fingers probe, found that it was lying down—it was sitting in such a way that the fold was perpendicular to the pocket opening. Carefully, he topped it up—manipulating it so that the fold was, instead, in line with the pocket hem. Then, with his fingers locked on the wallet, Charlie swiveled his wrist so that he managed to lift the okus from the interior of the pocket. His thumb remained fixed to the pocket flap, he let his hand pivot until the wallet was free of its hold. He manipulated the skin between his free fingers, and once it had been upended, he deftly swung it with his index and middle fingers. The coin fell from the wallet into his left hand. He then reversed the motion: dropped the wallet into the pocket, carefully lowered the pocket flap, and stepped back from the dummy.

  “Four,” he said triumphantly. He threw the coin to the ground in front of the Headmaster.

  The galleries were immediately awash in chatter. A few spectators let out cheers but were quickly hushed by their neighbors.

  The Headmaster began pacing at the threshold of the spotlight’s shine. “Very good, Charlie, very good. A remarkable stretch of luck for an unlearned chump. A chump and a mark. Does that not rankle you, Charlie? That you were the mark all along?”

  Charlie felt the anger seethe in his chest. He tried to stamp it down, to push it further away, reminding himself that this was merely another tack the Headmaster was using to distract him—and yet it continued to steam like a kettle in his heart. He moved forward, fanning the mannequin for its fifth pocket. It took him a few moments of carefully shifting the layers of wool and rayon that made up the dummy’s outfit before he saw it: the vest jerve. Inside the protection of the jacket, the dummy was wearing a buttoned vest. The left front pocket of the vest was clearly marked 5, and a bell clung to the seam of the pocket like a barnacle. However, what really caught Charlie’s eye was the long gold chain that fed out of the pocket’s opening, dangled low to the hem of the vest, and ended, high, pinned to the vest’s opening, just above the second button.

  “A souper,” he muttered.

  The Headmaster apparently heard him, because he said, “Yes, very good. You didn’t think you’d just be binging coins like you were some carnival louse, did you? This coin, coin five, is, for all practical purposes, a bit of block and tackle. A coin nonetheless, but one attached to the chain. This is one mark who keeps his ridge under high security, what.”

  “All the easier,” said Charlie, attempting defiance. His voice cracked slightly, somewhat undercutting the effect.

  Smiling with his stained teeth, the Headmaster said, “Then don’t let me keep you.”

  A souper was an easy bing—Charlie’d done it on no lesser mark than his own father—but he knew not to be overly confident. There was no margin for error. The trick was to unpin the chain; the rest was a cakewalk. The chain would act as a line to the coin, and Charlie need only reel it in. He began by slowly opening the top buttons of the vest, so as to better study the way the chain was being attached. The Headmaster spoke while he did this.

  “Of course, the hallmark of a true sucker is having the illusion of security. I’ll repeat that: the illusion of security. It lets down the mark’s guard. It blinds his eyes to the real gaps in his defenses. It leads him to do things for which he wouldn’t otherwise bear the risk.”

  Charlie allowed the words to become ambience in his head. His fingers worked their way up the opening of the vest, looking for the pin holding the chain in place.

  “For example, it might influence a chump to lead the cannon to the very place where the true score is. The illusion of security. Or, in your case, the illusion of friendship. The thing that made you give up the Cipher.”

  Just then, a series of events occurred within a very small fraction of time: the Headmaster’s words materialized from the ambience and struck him at the heart, his fingers moved a little too quickly, the pin holding the chain in place turned out not to be a pin after all, but a mere clasp. The clasp came abruptly loose, the chain fell.

  Charlie saw it fall. Its swing, in this merest portion of a second, fell swiftly toward the bell. The metal of the chain came within centimeters of its target.

  Charlie caught it.

  The bell remained unstruck.

  Charlie let out an exasperated sigh, pausing in his work before coiling the gold chain around his finger until the coin to which it was attached tumbled from the pocket and swung freely in the air.

  He turned and dangled the coin from its chain before him, looking at the Headmaster. “Five,” he said.

  The students in the gallery resumed their excited conversation. Someone shouted, “Go, Charlie!” Did he recognize the voice? Was it Pluto, of all people?

  “Quiet!” shouted the Headmaster. “This sort of behavior during an exam is strictly verboten, students! I’ll not have you all hooting like a bunch of urchins at a panto!”

  Charlie’s eyes strayed to the crowds in the galleries above the arena. He was sure now. He saw them all: Molly, Borra, Michiko, and Pluto. They’d all crowded to the front of the press, their arms hanging over the stone guardrail. And there, just to the side of them, were Sembene and Fatour. They were unmistakable in the audience. Behind the twins was a tall blond girl: Jackie. Was she smiling at him? The light was too dim to tell.

  He suddenly knew that this was the vengeance he was seeking. It wasn’t retrieving the Rosenberg Cipher, not any longer. It wasn’t just righting the wrong that the School of Seven Bells had done to him and his family, to his country’s interests. It wasn’t
proving himself to his father. No, it was this. It was showing the Whiz Mob that he would beat them at their own game. He was a class cannon. They were the chumps.

  He was the Grenadine Kid.

  With this newfound fire burning in his gut, he stepped forward to the mannequin. He was so confident, in fact, that he didn’t care that the Headmaster had now borne down on him and was standing directly behind him—so close that Charlie could smell the sweet putrefaction of his breath as he spoke.

  “Five pockets. Five coins. You’ve shown some spunk, I’ll give you that, Charlie Fisher,” said the Headmaster, leering over Charlie’s shoulder. “I’m prepared to chalk it up to luck. However, this is the point that separates the touts from the mere prat diggers. The sixth and seventh pockets of the Test of the Seven Bells are the most challenging of the exam, the ones that require the most acuity and presence of the know in a student.”

  The man spoke while Charlie rounded the mannequin, surveying the various pockets for clues as to which one he was expected to empty. There were three more pockets on the jacket, two more on the vest—but none wore a bell or were graffitied with an embroidered number. It wasn’t until he’d faced the mannequin and gently lifted the front of the dummy’s benny that he saw, just below the bottom hem of the inner jacket, a number 6 sewn into the fabric above the right front hip pocket of the dummy’s pants—a top britch, in the argot, with an opening cut parallel to the waistband. Just above the number was a little silver bell.

  “Ah yes,” said the Headmaster, his body still nearly pressing against Charlie’s back. “You’ve found it. Number six. Britch kick.”

  Charlie moved to begin his poke, but the Headmaster spoke again: “Notice anything strange?”

  The man’s breath was clammy and warm; his clothing, evidently having been last laundered in the 1930s, gave off a peculiar scent, like a damp rag that had been left too long by the sink. Charlie tried his best to shake off the halo of unpleasant aroma surrounding him as he knelt down to examine the kick.