by Colin Meloy
“Strange,” he said to himself.
He searched through the papers, the essays, and the applications that were piled neatly on his desk. He opened each drawer and searched its contents. The puzzle was not in any of these places. He walked around the desk, looking for the folded piece of newsprint; he searched the wastebaskets. He got on all fours and crawled, somewhat awkwardly, under the desk. And this happened to be the unflattering position he was in when a thought occurred to him, one that drained the blood from his cheeks and caused him to freeze in place.
“No,” he whispered.
He carefully extracted himself from beneath the desk and walked over to the coatrack by the door. Folding back one of the lapels of his jacket, he reached into his coat pit, his fingers alighting on the familiar heft of a white envelope, the very white envelope that held the Rosenberg Cipher. Pulling it from the pocket, he could barely bring himself to lift the flap and see what it contained.
Inside was the crossword puzzle.
BWAAARRRNNN.
The steamship made another loud pronouncement, heralding its farewell to the Colombian shoreline, and the cries of seagulls seemed to respond testily to the near-deafening noise. Charlie was standing at the handrail of the upper deck, watching the lights of the quay recede in the distance behind them as the boat plied its way out into the Caribbean Sea. He’d taken this position as soon as they’d boarded and had refused to leave it; he’d insisted on keeping his eyes fixed on the coastline, his mind busy willing the boat into motion. Now that they’d pushed off and several hundred yards separated the boat from the busy port, only now did a feeling of relief wash over Charlie.
“Relax, Charlie,” someone said. It might as well have been his interior voice, but it was, in fact, Amir, who was sitting in a lounge chair on the deck behind him. “You’re not going to stand there the whole trip, are you?”
They’d used their fleeting moments in Cartagena to purchase entirely new outfits—Charlie, you might be happy to know, had given his war-scarred tuxedo a proper send-off into a street-side garbage can; Amir had even said a few words in memoriam. Amir was wearing a fresh pair of khaki shorts, a pink collared shirt, and some knockoff Ray-Bans. Charlie, freshly showered, in his brand-new jeans and blue gingham shirt, would not have been recognizable in comparison to his sullied former self. Even after the expense of these purchases, they’d had enough money left over to book first-class passage on the SS Excalibur, bound that evening for Lisbon.
The ship was picking up speed; the wind whipped at their hair and clothing. Great ribbons of white water splashed away from the hull of the boat, some fifty feet below them. Seabirds wheeled and glided above the decks. The skyline of Cartagena, painted gloriously pink by a setting sun, receded farther and farther into the distance.
“I guess not,” said Charlie. He walked over to his friend and sat down on the side of a neighboring sun chair. “Just feeling a bit stirred up still.”
Amir shook his head disdainfully, saying, “That’s your problem, Charlie. You can’t relax. What’s done is done, yeah?” He waved his hand in the air, signaling to a nearby waitress. When she arrived, he asked for a Coca-Cola and then nodded to Charlie.
“Grenadine and milk, please,” Charlie said.
The waitress looked at him quizzically.
“Granadina con leche,” translated Amir.
The waitress’s look of confusion did not much alter. “¿Sí?” she asked Charlie, as if verifying that this was, indeed, what he intended to order. Amir nodded to Charlie.
“Sí, por favor,” said Charlie.
“The Grenadine Kid,” said Amir, once the waitress had left.
“Quite a mantle,” said Charlie self-seriously. “But one I will endeavor to live up to.” He smiled, something he hadn’t been able to do since they’d arrived in Cartagena.
“There we go, Charlie,” said Amir.
A moment passed; a comfortable silence situated itself between the two comrades. Finally, Amir spoke up: “So . . .”
“So?”
“Can I see it?”
Charlie looked around hesitantly. “You think it’s safe?”
“Charlie,” said Amir, “you have got to lighten up a bit. You’re going to give yourself an ulcer. Look at us—we’re safe as kelsey. I mean, a bit of precaution is good—but at some point you have to peek the knockup, yeah?”
“Okay,” said Charlie. He reached down into the pocket of his trousers to retrieve a folded-up piece of paper, gone slightly bent and crumpled from its traveling situation. He flattened it out and handed it to Amir.
Amir sat up straight while Charlie presented it, as if he were being handed some delicate heirloom. He unfolded the page and looked at its contents greedily. After having studied it, however, his first response was: “Any idea what this all means?” He flipped the piece of paper upside down; it still appeared inscrutable to his eye.
“No clue,” said Charlie.
Amir gave a little whistle. “All this, for a piece of paper.”
“Pretty incredible, huh?”
“I’d say so. You’ve got to wonder what the Headmaster wanted with it.”
Charlie furrowed his brow. “I don’t think he knew, to be honest. He did say something about it being able to ‘bring countries to heel,’ or something to that effect.”
“This?” asked Amir, in disbelief.
Charlie nodded. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? I mean, he was making it out to be this horrible, powerful thing. If that’s the case, what does my father want with it?”
“To bring some country to heel, probably.”
The boys sat in silence for a moment, each considering the implications of their conversation.
Just then, the waitress returned, and Amir hastily pressed the paper against his chest. The girl laid out two cocktail napkins on the table between their chairs. On one, she placed Amir’s bottle of Coke; on the other a glass of an indeterminate pink liquid. Dropping a fiery-red cherry into the concoction, she said, somewhat triumphantly, “Granadina con leche.”
Looking up at the girl, Charlie blushed, saying, “Gracias.”
“De nada. It’s nothing,” said the girl. She then screwed up her face at the beverage as Charlie took his first gulp. “Weird drink,” she said.
“All in a day’s work for the Grenadine Kid,” said Amir, laughing.
She gave a little curtsy and walked away; other passengers, ambling along the deck, were needing her attention. Amir began to give the piece of paper back to Charlie when he paused and said, “You know, Charlie . . .”
“What, Amir?”
“You’ve got to wonder what this would fetch on the black market. A couple of touts like yourself and me—just think what we could do with that kind of money. Who knows, we could even put together our own whiz mob; you could stall, I’d hook. . . .”
Charlie shot him a look and held out his open palm.
“Right,” said Amir, crestfallen. “Off the whiz.” He returned the Rosenberg Cipher to Charlie, who, in turn, slipped it back into the depths of his pants pocket.
Amir reclined back in his chair and took a long slug of his Coke before saying, in a somewhat offhand manner, “You knew you couldn’t pass the test, huh?”
“Was there any doubt?” Charlie said, laughing. “I’m amazed I got as far as I did.”
“Five pockets,” said Amir. “Really, that’s not bad. I didn’t get to the fifth till my second try. And I graduated magna cum laude.”
“Thing is,” continued Charlie, “I didn’t think I’d need to get that far. I thought he started hazing you, all up close, on the third pocket.”
Amir shrugged. “Sometimes he does, sometimes he waits. It was always a risky tip, Charlie. But a brilliant, brilliant stall. And to think that was your plan all along.”
Charlie didn’t say anything; a smile crept across his face.
“That was your plan all along, wasn’t it?” Amir asked, peering at his friend over the top of his sunglasses.<
br />
The white noise of the ocean waves crashing against the ship colored the air; an older couple took up a game of shuffleboard, just down the deck. A band had set up in the bandstand, not too far away, and had just struck into some swingy Spanish melody. Instead of answering Amir’s question, Charlie raised the candy-stripe straw of his glass to his lips and took a long, languorous pull.
Amir smiled, interpreting his friend’s silence as best he could. He began to say something but stopped himself, watching Charlie’s beatific composure with something close to admiration. He reclined in his chair, stretching out his legs. Charlie did likewise and the two boys sat this way, their backs pressed to the slats of their deck chairs, their fingers laced behind their heads, watching as the rosy sky faded to blue and the moon crawled its way above the distant horizon.
And you there, enjoying this same view. Yes, you, sitting quietly in a neighboring deck chair. How have you come to be here? Have you escaped the suffocating company of your parents, just for a moment, to drink in a bit of quiet solitude? Or have you, like Charlie and Amir, been traveling alone and, having come to the end of an incredible adventure, are surprised that something new and very exciting is just beginning?
What would you make of the two boys sitting next to you?
What kind of story would you write for them?
THE END
(REALLY.)
Glossary
banged. stolen (also binged)
banner score. biggest touch of the day, trip, or season
bates. mark approximately forty years old
bead rope. pearl necklace
beef the gun. announce publicly that one has been robbed
benny. overcoat
binged. stolen (also banged)
block and tackle. watch and chain
blow one’s moxie. abandon a job out of fear
blute. rolled-up newspaper used for shading the duke
britch kicks. side pants pockets (left britch and right britch)
cannon. pickpocket
carnival lice. road mob that travels with a circus or carnival
center field, playing or working. along for the ride, not working
chump. mark or victim
class cannon. highly skilled pickpocket
class mob. skilled group
clout and lam. hit and run
coat jerve. ticket pocket
coat pit. inside breast pocket
coat tail. side pockets of a suit coat
cordeen. accordion billfold
crush. crowd (also tip, press, push)
curdled. lose a mark’s trust
dead ones. empty wallets (or dead skins)
declare oneself out. bow out of a job
ding the dead ones. get rid of empty wallets
dipsy. safety pin put through pocket from inside of coat as deterrent
down on the knuckle. poor
egg. mark under thirty years old
fanning. locating the wallet or money
fat mark. moneyed target
flat jointer. con man working the gambling rackets
folder man. whiz mob member who organizes a job (also steer man)
fuzz. the police (also whiskers)
fronting the mark. working in front of the victim
giving up your kisser. allowing the mark to see your face
goulash joint. café
grift know. natural skill at the pickpocket trade (or grift sense)
grift racket. skilled, specialized illegal schemes
hanger. wallet sticking out of a pocket (or pop up or kick out)
hangout. hideout
heavy rackets. using violence or threat of violence
hook. a tool who specializes in hooking his finger onto a poke
hustling (or working) three-handed. mob with two stalls and a tool (one stall being a steer)
ice. diamonds
in with the pinches, in with the pokes. if a pickpocket is committed, he gets his share
jerve. pocket
jug touch. victim with a large amount of money in his wallet (or set up)
keister kicks. back pockets (also prat kicks)
kick. pocket
kick the okus back. return the score to the victim
knockup. the day’s take
know, the. a fundamental understanding of the whiz rackets
layoff spot. hideaway, where one does not pickpocket
leather. wallet
lone wolves. pickpockets who work alone
make the frame. organize in the moment to pickpocket
make the meet. prearranged time to connect for a job
nash. to flee
nasher. flight from the scene of the crime
off the whiz. no longer a pickpocket
okus. proceeds of a crime (also touch or score)
pappy. elderly mark (or pap)
patch pockets. side pockets of a sweater
pea soup. cheap, not worth working
pinch. steal, pickpocket
poke. single score off a pocket
prat. pocket
prat digger. tool who just works pockets
prat kicks. back pockets (also keister kicks)
press. crowd (also tip, crush, push)
punching gun. talking shop, reminiscing about old jobs
push. crowd (also tip, press, crush)
put the bee on. identify a victim and plan a theft
putting up your hump. stalling for someone
racket. the pickpocket’s way of life
reefing a kick. making pleats in a pocket lining with your fingers, bringing up the leather from the bottom of a pit
ridge. metal coins (also smash)
rumbled. victim is alerted to the theft
safe as kelsey. conservative or careful tool
scatter. hangout
score. proceeds of a crime (also touch or okus)
shade the duke. cover the hand of the tool with a newspaper or such device
shag. cheap jewelry (or crow)
skin the poke. empty the wallet, usually in safety
slum. any type of jewelry
smash. metal coins (also ridge)
sneak job. successful robbery without victim knowing it
souper. watch
stall. distraction member; also the act of distracting the victim
steer man. plans the mob’s itinerary (also folder man)
swing with it. to successfully pickpocket an item
throw your mob. turn your confederates over to authorities
ticker score. watch theft
tip. crowd (also press, crush, push)
tog pit. inside breast pocket of a topcoat
tog tail. outside topcoat pocket
tool. a pickpocket; a whiz mob member
top britch. front pocket cut parallel to waistband
touch. proceeds of a crime (also score or okus)
turned out. a pickpocket who is taught and sent out into the world or coached and used as a partner
tweezer. billfold with small clasps
two-handed mob. two pickpockets working together
unslough. undo a pocket button (rhymes with plow)
uptown britch. britch pocket cut diagonally
vest jerves. vest pockets
whiskers. the police (also fuzz)
whiz. a pickpocket’s line of work; his way of life
whiz copper. a policeman or detective specializing in collaring pickpockets (or whiz dick)
whiz moll. girl pickpocket
working rough. robbing while armed
Acknowledgments
This book wouldn’t exist without the work of David W. Maurer and his incredible book Whiz Mob: A Correlation of the Technical Argot of Pickpockets with Their Behavior Pattern. If you’d like to dig further into the language and organization of the Whiz, I highly recommend it—what I cribbed for Charlie and his crew was a mere skimming of the surface. I’d learned about the book from reading Adam Green’s excellent profile of
Apollo Robbins, a professional tout himself, in the New Yorker magazine in January 2013—almost exactly four years ago. I set that piece down and immediately began forming the events that would lead Charlie Fisher into the waiting arms of his Whiz Mob. I had the good fortune to have a plot that could take place in virtually any city environment; I landed on Marseille because of its reputation, as Charlie puts it, as a thieves’ paradise—and because I’d really wanted an excuse to hang out in Provence for a few weeks. Of course, Marseille’s infamy is ill-warranted—it is a gorgeous and welcoming city, its people are charming and accommodating. Having spent time there, I’m inclined to think its reputation is all part of a conspiracy on the part of the French to keep unwanted tourists away from this incredible Mediterranean paradise. Carson did get pickpocketed, but it must’ve been a greenhorn on the clout-and-lam circuit—she managed to grab him by the collar and demand the return of the stolen goods (her phone) before punching him in the shoulder, hard, and letting him run off to his friend. Guy clearly did not have the whiz know.
Thanks are due to Mac Barnett for being a helpful plot-wrangler and early reader; likewise to Steve Malk, my agent, for his support. Many thanks to my editor, Donna Bray, for her keen eye and helpful insights and for her belief in the project from the get-go. Augustin Brajeux, my brother-in-law, aided in much of the French language that appears in the book (merci!) and was an excellent source on French living. I’m also very thankful to former ambassador to Bulgaria Avis Bohlen, daughter of the United States ambassador to France, Charles “Chip” Bohlen (’62–’68), for being gracious with her time and allowing me to ask her dumb questions about growing up in an ambassador’s family in the 1960s. Many thanks to the office of the Honorable Jane D. Hartley, former ambassador to France, for setting up that interview.
Since I do not have a time machine, I was reliant on existing documentation of 1960s France (and Marseille in particular) to flesh out Charlie and Amir’s world—of which there is, thankfully, plenty. The French New Wave era of filmmaking did a pretty great job capturing the vibe of this time period, in particular the films Rififi, Mon Oncle, Pickpocket, The Umbrellas of Cherbourg—the list could go on. And no research on the Marseille of old is complete without a healthy immersion in Marcel Pagnol’s Marseille trilogy: Marius, César, and Fanny. Of course, the literature of 1950s–1960s France is very rich and I owe a great deal to Raymond Queneau’s fabulously surreal Zazie dans le Métro and its anarchistic titular character. Everyone, even the grown-ups, drinks grenadine and milk in Queneau’s Paris. (Our son, Hank, began drinking them at my suggestion—to the great curiosity of the waitstaff at our local restaurants. So much so that our friend Laura Park, while visiting, began calling him the Grenadine Kid—credit where credit is due.) The Black Docker by Ousmane Sembène was a terrific resource for painting the Marseille landscape of 1961; Daniel Anselme’s novel On Leave provided helpful background to the political topic of that day: the Algerian War.
