The Classy Crooks Club

by Alison Cherry

  “Swan attempting to breach first barrier,” I whisper into my earpiece. “Do you copy?”

  “Copy that,” says Edna. “Go ahead, Swan.”

  “Go, Swan, go! Do your thing!” Cookie whisper-cheers, and Betty’s sweet voice says, “I know you can do it, dear.”

  Grandma Jo doesn’t say anything, and my temper flares. She’s the only one here who’s actually related to me, and she still can’t bring herself to support me, even when I’m being a huge help to her. “Agent Condor, do you copy?” I whisper.

  “Condor copies,” Grandma Jo says. “Good luck, Swan.”

  It’s not exactly warm and fuzzy, but it’s better than nothing.

  I pull the screen door open and inspect the lock in the dim light from the neighbor’s house. It looks exactly like the ones I’ve been practicing with, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I wonder if I should stroke the lock and whisper to it, like Edna did during the Picasso heist, but that would probably look stupid and fake, so I go straight for my tools. I pull out the medium-size tension wrench, but my hands are trembling, and I gasp as it clatters to the porch.

  “Steady, Swan,” whispers Edna gently. “Keep breathing. You’re a hollow reed, remember?”

  “Right. A hollow reed.” I retrieve the wrench, take a couple of deep, centering breaths, and try again to insert it into the lock. This time it holds, and I pull out my first pick, the one with the squiggly end. I tell myself this is no different from what I’ve been doing all week in Grandma Jo’s spare bedroom.

  “Good,” Edna whispers. “Now rake the pins very gently.”

  I do, thinking how cool it would be if I could make all the pins pop up on the first try. But only a couple of them bounce into place, so I reach for a different pick to do the rest of them individually. The neighborhood is dead quiet, and the only sounds I hear as I poke around inside the lock are cicadas whirring away in the trees and the shushing sound of four old ladies breathing in my ear.

  It feels like it takes an eternity to open the lock, and for a few minutes I’m afraid it isn’t going to work at all. But I finally feel the last pin click into place, and when I slowly, carefully turn the wrench in the keyhole, the cylinder rotates. I’m so excited it’s like there are fireworks going off in my brain, and I do a quiet little happy dance on the porch, shaking my butt and doing a hula motion with my arms.

  “First barrier has been breached,” I whisper, like Edna did during our last heist, and it makes me feel super professional. “Heron and Swan going in. Do you copy?”

  “Roger,” Grandma Jo says. “Cardinal and Sparrow, you may proceed.”

  “Copy that,” says Cookie.

  Edna and I slip into Bill’s small mudroom and pull tiny flashlights out of our utility belts. There are dirty boots scattered all over the floor, and I think of how disgusted Grandma Jo would be by this mess. It’s a good thing she’s staying in the van. I kick the shoes to the side to make room for Betty’s walker.

  “Eight minutes, Swan,” Edna says, now that we’re inside and free to talk. Even though I can’t see her face in the dark, I can hear that she’s smiling. “That’s a record for you. Very well done.”

  Eight minutes! That’s way faster than I’ve ever picked a lock before. “That’s awesome!” I say. “I guess I work better under pressure?”

  “Focus,” says Grandma Jo’s voice, and for a second, I’m furious—can’t she let me celebrate for one second? But then her voice comes through the earpiece again. “Well done, Swan.”

  “Thanks, Condor,” I whisper back, and I get that rare warm feeling in my chest that happens when I’ve made her proud.

  The mudroom opens onto a wood-paneled den with a huge flat-screen TV and a pool table. There are hunting and fishing magazines, empty beer bottles, and old pizza boxes scattered everywhere. What a slob—this guy is way worse than my brother. I was hoping the stuffed bear would be in this room so we wouldn’t have to squeeze it through any doorways, but I don’t see it anywhere. Edna points toward the hallway. “You go right, I’ll go left,” she says.

  “Copy that,” I reply.

  All I find on my end of the hallway is a filthy bathroom with no toilet paper, a linen closet, and a guest bedroom with a ruffled pink bedspread. I wonder if Cookie bought that in 1990 too. Then Edna says, “I have eyes on the target. I repeat: I have eyes on the target.”

  “What’s your 20, Heron?” I say.

  “The target is in the study.”

  “Copy that,” I say. “Swan incoming.”

  I make my way down the hall in the other direction, and the first thing I see when I enter the study is the bear’s face, lit from below by Edna’s flashlight. Its mouth is wide open to show off a set of enormous teeth, and its glass eyes reflect the light, making it look disturbingly alive. I sweep the beam of my flashlight over its body and find that it’s standing on its hind legs, front paws outstretched like it’s going to grab Edna and devour her like a snack cracker. I’m pretty sure it’s bigger than Cookie told us, and the rock it’s standing on makes it seem even taller.

  There’s a creaking sound from a few rooms away, and for a second I freak out that Bill might be home after all, but then Cookie whispers, “Cardinal and Sparrow incoming.”

  “Copy,” I say. “Turn left down the hall.”

  Cookie and Betty appear soon after—Betty shuffles along with her walker, and Cookie is lugging a hand truck like the ones the FedEx guys use to move heavy boxes. Both of them swoop in and hug me, squashing me between them as though I’m the meat in an old-lady sandwich. “Such impressive dexterity,” Cookie whispers. “I knew the first day I met you that you’d be a great asset to us.”

  “I’m so proud of you, dear,” whispers Betty. “My talented girl.” I love how she talks about me as if I belong to her, like I’m her real granddaughter.

  Cookie shines her flashlight across the room and puts her hand to her heart when the beam lands on the bear. “Teddy Roosevelt!” she says, her voice a little teary. “I’m so happy to see you!” She hurries over and hugs the bear around its furry middle, then gazes up into its toothy face. Her eyes are level with its lower jaw. “He’s a bit bigger than I remembered,” she muses. “Maybe I’ve shrunk.”

  Edna is behind the bear now, inspecting its feet with her flashlight. “This base isn’t attached to the floor,” she says. “We should be able to scootch him right onto the dolly.” She pushes gently on the bear’s back, then a little harder, but it doesn’t budge. “It’s heavy,” she says.

  “You three get behind him and tip him back toward you, and I’ll shove the dolly under the base from the front,” Cookie says. “Don’t pull on his fur—I don’t want any bald spots. Ready?”

  We arrange ourselves around the bear, Edna in the middle, me on the right, and Betty and her walker on the left. Cookie counts to three, and I brace both hands against the bear’s furry shoulder and pull. He tips back toward us for a second, but none of us are expecting how bottom-heavy the base makes him, and he slips out of our grip. The bear rocks back toward Cookie before righting itself with a solid thwack.

  “No harm done,” she reassures us. “Pull a little harder this time, okay? Ready? One, two, three!”

  We rock the bear back toward us again, and this time Cookie jams the dolly under the base. “Perfect!” she crows, and Grandma Jo hisses, “Keep your voice down, Cardinal.”

  “It’s fine, Condor,” Cookie reassures her. “There’s nobody here but us. Target acquired—we’re headed for the back door. Help me turn this thing around, Heron.”

  Together, Cookie and Edna tip the dolly toward them and the bear leans forward, its head looming sinisterly over them. They back up three steps and rotate the dolly ninety degrees so the bear’s butt is pointed toward the study door. The whole operation is surprisingly smooth, as if they move huge, heavy things together all the time, and it makes me wonder what else they’ve stolen.

  Betty watches them wistfully. “I miss my young, strong back,” she whispers
to me. “I used to be able to do that, and now I’m completely useless.”

  I pat her shoulder. “You’re not useless at all. And you can borrow my back anytime.”

  “Thank you, dear.”

  “And forward!” Cookie says. “Hang on, the wheel’s caught on the rug. Let me just—” She reaches out a black-sneakered foot and gives the wheel an enthusiastic kick.

  A little too enthusiastic.

  The rug springs free, the dolly’s wheels shoot forward, and suddenly everything seems to be happening in slow motion. Edna and Cookie pull back on the dolly’s handles to stop it from falling, but that makes everything worse, and the bear topples toward them face first. For a second I’m afraid it’s going to flatten them both, and I lunge toward them, but there’s nothing I can do. Cookie and Edna leap to the sides, and the bear’s entire upper body crashes through the plate glass window that overlooks the patio. I fling my arms up to protect my eyes as the dolly smacks the hardwood floor with a sharp metallic clang.

  Then everything is silent except for the neighbor’s dog, who starts barking like crazy.

  “What is going on in there?” hisses Grandma Jo. “What’s your 20?”

  Cookie ignores her. “Is everyone all right?” she whispers.

  I’m almost afraid to open my eyes, terrified I’m going to see one of the ladies sliced up and gushing blood all over the floor. But one by one, everyone confirms she’s fine, and when I stand up and search my arms and legs for cuts, I find that I’m unharmed too. There’s not even any glass on the floor—it all seems to have exploded outward into the yard. The window ledge has caught the bear across the chest, and it’s leaning out over the patio, the curtains hanging on either side of it like it’s part of some sort of deranged puppet show. The security light over the patio clicks on and bathes the bear’s furry head in a yellow spotlight.

  We all gaze at it for a good ten seconds, and then Cookie whispers, “Well, this isn’t ideal.”

  “Report your status, Cardinal!” says Grandma Jo’s voice. She sounds like she’s hovering halfway between panic and fury.

  “We, um.” Cookie looks around, as if she might find a magical solution lying on the ground somewhere. “We . . . sort of broke a window?”

  “Sort of ? What do you mean, sort of  ?”

  “We definitely broke a window. But I’m sure it’ll be fi—”

  Cookie breaks off when an awful, high-pitched shriek echoes through the sleeping neighborhood—it sounds as though someone’s being murdered next door. “Marlene? Are you okay? What happened?” a man’s voice calls.

  “A bear! There’s a bear in Bill’s house!”

  Cookie springs into action, righting the dolly and grabbing the bear’s left side with both hands. “Help me tip it back!” she whisper-screams. “Swan, brace the dolly! Everyone be careful of the edges of the window!”

  “A bear?” we hear the man next door say. “Are you sure? I don’t think we have bears here, hon. Maybe it was a raccoon or something.”

  “A raccoon? You don’t think I can tell the difference between a bear and a raccoon?”

  “Marlene, calm down!”

  “Don’t tell me to calm down! Its head and paws are sticking right out the window! Look for yourself!”

  “One, two, three, tip!” whispers Cookie, and we all pull on the bear as hard as we can. Thankfully, it rights itself, and the base thumps back down on the dolly with a crash. Tiny shards of glass rain down around us, and I squeeze my eyes shut. When I shake my head, a few pieces fall out of my hair.

  “Listen!” says the woman next door. “Did you hear that? Do you see it?”

  All of us freeze in place and hold our breath. Then the man’s voice says, “Hon, I’m looking, and there’s nothing out there. I don’t know what you saw, but it’s gone now. How would a bear get inside the house, anyway?”

  “I don’t know, I’m just telling you what I saw! Look, the window’s broken! Don’t you see the glass all over the patio?”

  “It was probably some kids throwing rocks or something.”

  I know I shouldn’t do anything without explicit instructions from Cookie or my grandmother, but when he says that, I have an idea I can’t resist. I sneak up close to the window, let out a loud giggle, and then hiss, “Shhh! Go! Go! That way!”

  “Annemarie, what are you doing?!” bellows my grandmother over the earpiece, not even bothering with my code name.

  But the misdirection works exactly as I’d hoped. “There is someone out there,” the man says. “I’ll bet you anything it’s that little punk Zach Wheeler.”

  “Nicely done, Swan,” Edna whispers.

  “Such a smart girl,” whispers Betty.

  “I could swear I saw something sticking out the window,” says the woman’s voice. “Will you go over and check, Hank? Just to make sure? What if Bill comes back from fishing and some animal is nesting in the middle of his living room?”

  There’s a pause, and then the man says, “Fine. Let me put on some pants.”

  “Take the shotgun,” the woman says, and all of us startle.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll be fine with the baseball bat.”

  “Report your status!” Grandma Jo demands.

  “The neighbor’s heading over with a baseball bat to check out the broken window,” Cookie reports.

  “Lord have mercy,” Grandma Jo mutters. “Abort Operation Teddybear. Abort mission! Do you copy?”

  “I’m not leaving without Teddy Roosevelt!”

  “Cardinal, I said, Abort mission! I’m in charge here, not you! Do you copy or not?”

  Cookie gets a defiant look on her face. Then she reaches up and switches off her earpiece, and a little thrill goes through me—I’ve never seen anyone disobey my grandmother outright. “She always thinks she’s in charge,” Cookie grumbles. “It’s my turn to be Mission Control for once. Betty, grab that afghan from the back of the couch and help me get it over the bear. Edna and AJ, look in the mudroom and see if you can find some bungee cords.”

  “Exit through the front door this instant,” Grandma Jo orders. “I want you clear of the house before that idiot starts poking around.”

  “Roger that, Condor,” Edna says, but she’s heading off to the mudroom and gesturing for me to do the same.

  We rummage through the overstuffed shelves, which are packed to bursting with gear for pretty much every outdoor activity—fishing, snowshoeing, hunting, skiing. After a minute Edna says, “Aha!” and holds up a handful of brightly colored bungee cords.

  “Nice!” I say. We dash back to Cookie and Betty, who have mummified the bear in crocheted blankets, and start strapping the flowered, puffy bundle to the dolly.

  “What is your 20?” Grandma Jo roars through the earpiece.

  We hear the neighbor’s back door open. “You know where the spare key is?” calls the woman next door.

  “Yes, Marlene. It’s been in the same place for the last eight years.”

  There was a spare key? I suddenly don’t feel so special for having picked the lock.

  “Forward!” Cookie whispers. “Quick quick quick! Edna, help me push! AJ, clear a path, open the front door, and get ready to brace the bear so we can get it down the steps! Betty, get yourself out of here as fast as you can!”

  I race ahead, unlock the front door, and help Betty outside. “Cardinal, Heron, Sparrow, and Swan incoming,” Edna reports.

  “Copy that,” mutters Grandma Jo. But then she sees what’s coming out of the house behind us, and she gasps.

  “How dare you defy me,” she snaps into our earpieces, her voice low and threatening. “I specifically instructed you to abort this mission! How do you expect me to run a professional operation when you so flagrantly disrespect my authority? How do you think—”

  “Oh, come off it, Condor,” whispers Cookie, who has turned her earpiece back on. “We’re hardly a professional operation. This was my mission, not yours, and I got it done. Brace the back now, Swan. Ready? Fir
st step.”

  The dolly and the quilt-wrapped lump of bear bump down the first step. For a second, the bear tips precariously in my direction, and I’m afraid it’s going to fall, but the bungee cords hold fast. We take the second step the same way, then the third, while Grandma Jo continues to rage and sputter.

  “ . . . there are rules for this sort of thing, and it’s imperative that you follow them! I can’t believe you—”

  “That’s enough, Jo!” Cookie snaps. “Sometimes life requires a little flexibility. Stop being so sanctimonious, open the back of the van, and help us get the target in. Or do you want us to get caught so you can teach us a lesson about obedience?”

  I expect Grandma Jo to argue—I don’t know what “sanctimonious” means, but from the way Cookie said it, it’s obviously not a compliment. But I guess my grandmother wants this to be a successful heist as much as we do, because she climbs out of the front seat and clomp-click-rustles toward the back of the van. I can just about see the steam coming out of her ears.

  The bear bumps down the last step, and I run back up to the front door. As I shut it quietly behind us, I hear the sound of Bill’s neighbor calling, “Hello? Anyone in here?” I flee down the steps and toward the van.

  Cookie and Edna wheel the bear into position and turn it so it’ll go into the trunk faceup. “Condor, you help me lift from this side, and Swan and Heron will get that side,” Cookie instructs. “Lift from between its legs and under its arms. Ready? One . . . two . . .”

  I take a deep breath and grip a fistful of fur, and on three, we heave the bear into the van. The last row of seats has been removed, but the feet still stick out the back in a ridiculous way. Cookie climbs in and secures a couple of the bungee cords under the bear’s arms and around the seats. Its paws stick straight up in the air, tenting the blanket and making it look like we’re carting around some sort of petrified zombie. “Well, it’s not perfect . . . ,” she says when she’s finished.