The Whiz Mob and the Grenadine Kid

  “Mouse,” said Jackie. “Back off.”

  “Yeah, Molly,” said Amir. “We don’t work rough.”

  “This ain’t workin’ rough when you’ve got a chump in your hideaway. Steps need to be taken, Amir.”

  “He’s my friend,” said Amir. “He’s on the whiz.”

  Jackie let out an exasperated puff of air. “He’s on the whiz? Didn’t he graduate awful quickly from prat to tool.”

  The boy who’d been arguing with the loutish Russian, the ebony-skinned one, walked over to Charlie’s side and inspected him. Much to Charlie’s surprise, a second boy, nearly identical to this one, emerged and stood on Charlie’s other flank. They appeared to be twins. The first spoke loudly into his left ear: “He passed the test?”

  “The seven bells?” asked the one on his right.

  “What?” asked Charlie, confused.

  “Seven bells,” said the boy on his right.

  “For seven coins,” said the boy on his left. They’d spoken in quick succession, and the effect was dizzying on poor Charlie.

  “What do you think?” asked Amir. “Of course he ain’t been to the school. He’s from here. But since we lost—”

  “Don’t,” interrupted Jackie angrily.

  Amir turned on Jackie. “What, we can’t talk about it? Can’t talk about Munan?”

  “Don’t say that name in my presence,” hissed Jackie.

  “Fine,” said Amir. “Ever since we lost the-boy-whose-name-must-not-be-spoken, we’ve been down a man. We need fresh blood.”

  “And this chump is your idear of fresh blood?” asked the younger girl, Mouse.

  The third girl spoke from where she stood: “Why don’t we call the Headmaster? Why doesn’t he send us someone?” This girl had fine black hair, cut to her shoulders, and seemed to be of East Asian descent. Charlie, even having traveled the world as extensively as he had, had never seen such a diverse band of children assembled in one place. It was like looking at a United Nations assembly made up entirely of professional child thieves.

  “Who are you all?” Charlie asked without really meaning to. It just came out.

  “Your worst nightmare,” said Mouse, the little Brit. She was still brandishing the knife in her hand.

  “No one you want to know,” added the Asian girl.

  “We’re nothing,” said the boy to his right.

  “We’re not really even here,” said the boy to his left.

  (“Please don’t do that,” said Charlie when this rejoinder came in disorienting stereo.)

  “We’re the Whiz Mob of Marseille, Charlie,” said Amir. “And we’re down a tool. That’s why I invited you here. I’m glad you got the hint.” He gave Charlie a wink before turning to his compatriots. “You think the Headmaster’s going to get us a replacement cannon? You’re nuts. He’d want us to work down a man.”

  “Or woman,” added the black-haired girl.

  “Or woman. Sorry, Michiko, Jackie, Mouse.”

  “That’s true,” said the Bear.

  “Or,” continued Amir, “he’d want us to improvise. So that’s what I’m doing. Charlie Fisher here”—he gestured back to Charlie—“for whatever reason, this kid saved my hide. He fronted for me with the fuzz. When we were working the Jean Jaurès. So I owed him one, didn’t I?”

  The entire room murmured its assent, as if an agreement had long ago been struck and Amir was merely adhering to it.

  “Didn’t I, Jackie?” he repeated, looking at the teen girl.

  “Sure enough, Amir,” she replied.

  “So we did a few jobs, him and me, y’know, working two-handed. Dug through a few prats.” Amir paused and looked back at Charlie. “And he did all right. I think there’s a bit of the know in him.”

  “This chump’s got the know?” asked a boy who Charlie hadn’t yet heard speak. He was of middling height with mussed black hair and carried the slightest spackle of a mustache on his upper lip. He also wore an eye patch over his right eye, which might’ve borne mentioning earlier.

  “I don’t see it,” said the Asian girl, who Charlie guessed to be Michiko. She squinted a bit at him for good measure. “Nope,” she said.

  “If you are confident, let us see you do a touch,” said the lumbering Russian boy.

  “Well . . . ,” demurred Charlie, remembering all too well his last trial by fire with Jackie. “I’m not quite—”

  But Amir interrupted him: “He can do it.”

  “I can do it,” parroted Charlie, giving Amir a surprised and slightly terrified look.

  “Okay, then,” said the boy with the eye patch. “Here, Bear. Gimme that tweezer poke.”

  The Russian did as he was asked. Charlie saw a leather wallet, snapped closed with a small metal clasp, exchange hands. The boy with the eye patch, who we’ll refer to as Eye Patch until such time as his name is revealed to Charlie, pulled a single centime coin from his pocket, deposited it in the wallet, and snapped it closed. He then placed it in the inside pocket of the worn blazer he was wearing.

  “Get the smash from my coat pit,” said Eye Patch. “Take the coin from the wallet.”

  “Oh, come on,” said Amir. “Inside a tweezer? Give the boy a chance.”

  “No,” said Jackie, stepping forward with a smile. “I think this is the perfect trial. If you’re so sure he’s got the know, this shouldn’t be any trouble. Come on, Charlie Fisher: see if you can score a centime off Pluto here.” She was referring to Eye Patch, who will no longer be called Eye Patch, but by his name, Pluto, instead.

  Charlie took a deep, determined breath and began running through everything Amir had taught him. Over the last twenty-four hours, he’d mentally prepared for such an encounter, wanting nothing more than to have a second chance at the test he’d failed the day before. His dreams had been rife with touches, prats, and pokes; his waking life since yesterday had been filled with imaginings of smooth, accurate sleight of hand. He’d been visualizing success since the moment he’d climbed out of bed. He felt the energy of the room swell around him as the kids began animatedly discussing his prospects; as he sized up eye-patched Pluto and his encasing blazer, he began to hear side bets being taken up by the spectating crowd. “Five francs on Pluto,” said one of the twins. “I’ll take ten on the chump,” said the other.

  “What are you waiting for, then?” Pluto asked Charlie.

  “For the record, this isn’t a very fair environment,” said Charlie, beginning to pace nervously. “I mean, ideally we’d be in some sort of square or plaza, correct?”

  (The girl Mouse, playing the bookie, began collecting the kids’ bets. “Charlie Fisher at twenty-five to one,” she said.)

  “A cannon with the know can make it happen anywheres,” said Pluto.

  “Oh, I have the know,” said Charlie, gaining confidence. He rooted himself in the spot directly in front of the boy.

  (“Make that thirty to one,” said Mouse. A few of the onlookers grumbled disappointedly at the announcement.)

  “You don’t have the know. You don’t have nothing,” said Pluto.

  “Well . . . ,” began Charlie.

  “Well, what?”

  “At least I got two eyes,” said Charlie. For the record: Charlie had never before made fun of, or called attention to, someone’s perceived impairment or disability. It was just not something he did. In school, when he’d been in school, he often found himself siding with the outcasts and the marginalized of his peer group. Using someone’s particular challenge as a way to unman them was contemptible to Charlie—but he knew that in this situation, he had to surprise himself as much as anyone else.

  The boy Pluto did not seem so much offended as amazed that this was the tack Charlie was taking. He stared at Charlie for a few moments before he began laughing. He began laughing loudly, nearly howling, and he had to set his arm on Charlie’s shoulder to support himself.

  “Oh, this one,” he said between laughing fits. “This one’s a joker, not a cannon.”

  And that
was when Charlie moved in. With his right arm, he reached over and grabbed Pluto at his shoulder. The boy’s attention went immediately to Charlie’s hand. With his free left hand, Charlie made a grab for the inner jacket pocket of the boy’s blazer. The boy immediately freed his hand from Charlie’s shoulder and reached down, grabbing Charlie’s wrist and preventing him from reaching the wallet. However: before you count Charlie out, assuming that he had made the unwise decision to simply muscle (clout and lam, as Amir had called it) the centime coin from the wallet in Pluto’s jacket, you should know that this was all part of a larger, if somewhat hastily planned, ruse. With the boy’s attention now diverted to Charlie’s hand inside his jacket, Charlie was easily able to swing his foot between the boy’s leg and around his knee.

  They both, Pluto and Charlie, went tumbling to the ground in a heap of boy.

  The entire room, having cast their lot with either party, sensed that their bet was at risk and so therefore tried to protect their investment as best they could by diving into the fray as well. Unprintable slurs were hollered; challenges leveled. A few punches were wildly thrown.

  Charlie, for his part, was still earnestly trying to snatch the centime coin from inside the clasped wallet inside Pluto’s jacket. With so many arms and elbows flying, he was able to innocuously crawl his hand around Pluto’s chest while the boy was fighting off some bettor who had cast his lot with Charlie. He felt a sudden flush of excitement as his fingers found their way to the leather wallet and its clasp. He’d barely begun to fumble with the simple catch when he felt a tremendous pain in his stomach; Pluto, in the turmoil, had fought off his attacker and elbowed Charlie out of the way. Charlie let out a terrible groan. His fingers let go of the wallet and he rolled away from the writhing pile of bodies.

  Pluto shook himself free of his confederates and, standing, looked down at Charlie, smiling.

  “See?” he said, giving one his assailants a bit of a kick. “He’s playing the rough tool. He’s got no knowledge.” As if to settle the argument once and for all, Pluto reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved the wallet. Undoing the clasp, he upended it in order to dramatically let the centime fall to the floor.

  However, no centime fell to the floor.

  The wallet was empty.

  Pluto’s face went flat, and he mouthed something in disbelief. Every kid in the room slowly and silently clambered to their feet. Charlie was as shocked as any of them. As much as he would’ve like to take credit, he hadn’t even been able to undo the tweezer—the clasp—on the poke before he’d been pushed away. He began to recover himself; his gut still radiated pain from the place where Pluto’s elbow had made contact. He pulled himself up on to his knees. That was when he felt some object rub against his thigh. Something was there that hadn’t been before. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a single, dull-gray centime coin and held it out in his fingers.

  Everyone in the room let out a collective gasp.

  “Well, well,” said Jackie, who was busy returning the ponytail to her hair. “A natural-born talent.”

  The crowd around Charlie murmured their appreciation for what they’d witnessed; those who’d bet on the long shot and put their money on Charlie’s success enjoyed a brief celebration. Mouse begrudgingly paid them out at the rate she’d quoted. Pluto, having dusted himself off, eyed Charlie perhaps more suspiciously than the rest, but, like his compatriots, soon forgot about the episode entirely.

  “But we have to get approval from the Headmaster,” continued Jackie, speaking to Amir. “This is . . . irregular.”

  Amir nodded.

  “And he ain’t no cannon,” she continued. “So he managed a tricky touch. We’re not bringing a greenhorn straight into the grift rackets. He’ll throw us. He needs experience.”

  “Sure, Jackie,” said Amir. “We’ll let him play center field till he’s proper turned out, yeah?”

  Jackie nodded. She looked at Charlie and frowned. “C’mon, fellas,” she said. “Enough horseplay. We got a knockup to divvy. Let’s skin the pokes and ding the dead ones.” At her instruction, everyone moved to congregate around the long table and began picking through their ill-gotten gains.

  Charlie was left where he stood, still holding the centime coin in the palm of his hand. Amir walked over and grabbed it from him. “Ace work, Charlie,” he said, smiling archly. He turned the coin around in his fingers, studying it.

  “Thanks,” Charlie said. “Though I didn’t—”

  “Shhh,” warned Amir, his finger to his lips. “A secret. Between me and you, yeah?” He then slipped the coin into the front pocket of Charlie’s flannel shirt and gave it a congenial pat.

  “Did you . . . ?”

  “Shhh,” Amir repeated. “Secret.” He threw his arm over Charlie’s shoulder and led him over to the table, where everyone had gathered. “Welcome to the Whiz Mob, Charlie Fisher,” he said.

  Chapter

  NINE

  Michiko hailed from Hiroshima; she’d been born one year after the bomb had fallen. She had been raised by her parents in the rubble of the city.

  “I don’t like Americans,” she said, when Amir introduced her.

  “Right,” said Amir, looking at Charlie. “She doesn’t like Americans.”

  Borra “the Bear” was twelve and was from Soviet Leningrad by way of Zurich. His family had been a storied aristocratic one, friends of the Romanovs. They, like most of their social strata, had a cataclysmic fall from grace during the Russian Revolution. Borra and his extended family had managed to live quietly in the country for decades before they’d been rooted out by Stalinist agents and were forced to escape to Europe.

  “And that’s Sembene. He’s a stall,” began Amir, pointing to one of the twins.

  “I’m Sembene,” said the other.

  “And I’m Fatour,” said the one Amir had pointed to. He winked at Charlie. “Or am I?”

  “We can only take their word for it, really,” said Amir. “Senegalese. Identical twins. Surprisingly helpful on the job.”

  Charlie gave a friendly wave to each of the kids as he was introduced. They each, in their turn, looked up and acknowledged the introduction. They were busy organizing all the loot that lay scattered across the table. Coins were being gathered in one pile, cash bills in another. Valuables—necklaces, watches, rings—were being arranged in different piles, while emptied wallets (dead ones) were thrown to the floor in a heap. Charlie had never seen such an amassing of treasure in one place. It was like a pirates’ hoard come to life.

  It must’ve been a sizable haul, because the mood in the room, since the discovery of their infiltrator, had lightened considerably. The pickpockets laughed and chided one another as they divvied the loot.

  “Jackie here you’ve met,” continued Amir. “She’s our top tool. Chattanooga, Tennessee, girl. Am I right, Jackie?”

  Jackie looked up from the table. She flashed her eyelashes at Charlie and gave him a plastic smile. “A good Southern belle,” she said. She picked up one of the gold rings and gave it a vicious bite of assessment.

  “She’s been on the whiz longer than any of us,” said Amir. “Headmaster had her turned out when she was six.”

  “A class cannon,” said Jackie, “is what you’d call that.”

  “She’s also the ’umblest of the lot,” said the young British girl. Jackie, standing next to her, gave her a push.

  Amir smiled. “And that’s Molly the Mouse. She can hook, she can stall. She’s our little nine-year-old whiz moll. East End of London, born and raised. Real Dickens stuff there.”

  “Pleased to meet ya, me flash companion,” hammed the girl.

  Amir continued to round the table with Charlie at his side. “And of course you’re acquainted with Pluto here. Our folder man. He plans the jobs. Buenos Aires born. Came up in the circus, right? Lost his eye in the knife-throwing show.”

  Charlie shivered. “You took a knife to the eye?” he asked.

  Pluto replied, “No, I was the one thro
wing knives. Nicked the shoulder of the girl I was throwing at. She came at me with a six-inch heel.” He hooked a finger into the inside of his cheek and pulled it out, making a sickening pop.

  Charlie put his hand to his mouth.

  “And that’s our charming brigade,” said Amir. “The waiter, Bertuccio, you met upstairs. He’s a Corsican. Runs the goulash joint. Keeps us safe as kelsey.”

  “Goulash joint?”

  “The scatter. The hangout. The Bar des Sept Coins.”

  “Oh,” said Charlie. “Got it.”

  Having made a complete circle of the table and met everyone who’d assembled around it, Charlie felt as if he’d been spun on the swing carousel. He tried to hide his admiration for the kids; he didn’t want to appear overly fawning. He edged closer to the table and watched as the pickpockets haggled over their pile, assaying its worth and talking up the work they’d done to get it. Molly the Mouse was holding up what looked to be a tie clip and was studying it with a somewhat derisive look on her face.

  “’Oo’s nicking stickpins?” she asked the table.

  “That would be Borra,” replied Sembene—or was it Fatour? A quick aside here, gentle reader: we shall continue assigning dialogue to either Sembene or Fatour with the understanding that no one is entirely sure which is who and who is which, least of all their compatriots. Of course, this is a quality that they have long relished and cultivated. We will not deprive them of their fun.

  “In Moscow,” the Bear replied, defending himself, “stickpins fetch very good price in market.”

  “Nah, nah,” said Molly. “That’s the old rackets, mate. You ain’t some flat jointer. A stickpin prop ain’t nothing but shag if it’s not got ice in it.”

  (Charlie, at this moment, cast a curious glance at Amir, who gave his quiet translation: “A tiepin is worthless without a diamond in it.”)

  “You might as well be binging braces, Borra,” said Pluto. “Now there’s a class racket.”

  The entire crowd laughed at this joke, though its meaning was lost on Charlie. Amir saw his confusion and explained, “Binging—stealing. There was a cannon some of us ran with who made it a habit to steal chumps’ suspenders after each job.”