Pish Posh (10 page)

Clara blanched and looked at Annabelle, but Annabelle's eyes were focused on Stan.

“Stan's got one weakness, though,” the burglar continued. “He's terrified of germs. Hates to touch t'ings dat other people touch. Dat's why he washes his hands constantly wit dem Handi Wipes in his pocket.” Even now, on-screen, Stan Heckle had pulled out another packet of Handi Wipes from his jacket.

The screen changed again, and a tall, well-built woman with a gigantic floppy hat walked into the lobby.

“Da dame is Alexandra Von Bolsterboggin. Vavavavoom!” the masked burglar exclaimed. “Now, here's where t‘ings get inneresting. Dere's a doctor in dis building-Dr. Muster on da tenth floor. He fixes up ladies' faces—you know, injecting gunk into dere wrinkles, changing da shape of dere noses or lips. Sometimes he changes dere faces so much, ya can't even recognize dem afterward... crazy dames! But here's da t'ing: he works only on rich and famous dames, da kind youse read about in da papers. And because dey don't want people to know who dey are, dey come in da evening, so's da tabloids don't get wind of it. ”

The screen showed Alexandra Von Bolsterboggin walking up to Stan at the security desk. She said something to Stan, and he picked up a phone while Alexandra drummed her manicured fingers nervously on his desk.

“Stan's dialing Dr. Muster on da office intercom, just to check and see if da dame is really expected in his office,” the masked burglar explained. “If da doctor says she ain't, Stan will have no problem with tossing her over his shoulder and giving her da heave-ho, headfirst, right onto da sidewalk.”

Stan put the phone down and nodded shortly to Alexandra, who rushed to the elevators. The second she left, Stan took out a spray bottle of cleaning solution and a rag, and began to spray and scrub at the spot on his desk where Alexandra's fingers had been tapping.

“Okay, so the security guard has a phobia about germs and some lady is going to get rid of her wrinkles.” Clara shook her head, perplexed. “So what?”

“Shaa!” Annabelle snapped back. “I'm thinking.” She slumped down in her chair and stared hard at the monitor, gnawing at the edge of her thumb. She sat like that for so long that Clara had to resist the urge to nudge her. Finally, she sat up straight and began to type,
Can you give me Dr. Muster's patient schedule for tonight?

“Now you're t‘inking!” the masked burglar said. “Tonight, Dr. Muster has a patient due in for major face surgery at eight o'clock. I mean
major!
She's having her nose bobbed, her lips poufed, her cheekbones cheekier. Her own mudder won't recognize her after da doc is finished wit her. She must be pretty important, 'cause I can't get her real name. Da doctor's database lists this dame only as Patient X. Now, you want my opinion on how to do dis job?”

Yes, please,
Annabelle typed in.

“Youse show up at seven forty-five, dressed like some dame who don't want to be recognized—you know, big hat, large sunglasses, a scarf. And youse tell Stan dat you are Patient X, come for your appointment. If youse come any earlier than dat, Stan might get suspicious. Dat means youse got only fifteen minutes to do da job, because once da real Patient X shows up, Stan is going to flip on every stinkin' alarm in da building and da cops will be there in five minutes. Got it? Any questions? ”

Annabelle typed in,
What if Patient X is early for her appointment?

It took a moment, and then the masked burglar said, “Youse have a second person waiting outside. If a car pulls up and a dame gets out, dat second person will have to find a way to persuade her not to go into da building—for example, a good knock on the noggin usually does da job. Any other questions?”

Clara leaned forward and typed in,
What are the chances that this will work?

In a minute, the masked burglar said, “Slim to none. ”

Clara's face fell. “Slim to none?” she said to Annabelle. “That doesn't sound very promising.”

“That's because you're not a burglar,” Annabelle replied.

A
nnabelle sat at the computer, scrolling through all sorts of information—lists of people, a map of the surrounding neighborhood, parties and conventions and concerts that were happening that evening, and all kinds of other stuff.

“Is this all necessary?” Clara groaned after an hour of watching Annabelle tap away at the mouse.

“Oh, no, not at all. In fact, if you ask most burglars, they'll tell you that they don't do any research at all. Oh—but you
can't
ask them, can you... because the burglars who don't do any research are all in JAIL! ” She glared at Clara and went back to work.

Annabelle sat at the computer for so long that Clara's stomach started growling.

“Oh, go downstairs and eat something, will you?” Annabelle snapped. “I can't think with your internal organs rattling away like maracas!”

Clara was too embarrassed to be angry, but she did mutter something about
foul moods
and
anal-retentive burglars
before she left the room.

After searching through the Arbutnots' refrigerator and cupboards for tomato juice or tuna fish and finding only odd, unidentifiable foods that were either brown or green, she settled on a package of mossy brownish-green cubes of something called Spirulina Treats. The package said they were a delicious phytonutrient-rich snack, sweetened with a touch of honey. At least they were sweet. Clara took the package and returned to Annabelle's room.

“Finished?” Clara asked hopefully as she ripped open the package of Spirulina Treats.

“With the research,” Annabelle said. “Next is the equipment.” She seemed more relaxed now, however.

“Oh, Spirulina Treats!” she said, noticing the package in Clara's hand. “Toss one over here.”

Clara did, and then bit into hers. It tasted like the gunk you'd scrape off the bottom of a pond. Sweetened with a touch of honey.

“They're really good for your immune system,” Annabelle said encouragingly, seeing the face Clara was making.

“They
taste
like they're good for your immune system.”

She and Annabelle spent the rest of the day finalizing their plans and gathering equipment, most of which was tucked away in neat black leather cases stowed in Annabelle's closet: lock picks, computerized alarm disarmers, ropes for climbing (“Just in case,” Annabelle had said, and Clara got the distinct impression that Annabelle was
hoping
she'd have to scale the building). Finally, Annabelle tried on her Patient X disguise: a conservative navy blue dress, black high heels, and a big hat, the brim of which flopped down low over her face. Then she rolled a tube of red lipstick across her lips and straightened her usual tall-girl slump.

“How do I look?” Annabelle asked, smiling and spreading her arms wide.

“Don't smile. And make your voice deeper.”

“How do I look?” Annabelle said in a lower voice.

Clara studied her. What with the outfit and her height, Annabelle could probably pass—probably.

“Not bad,” Clara said. “But put these on, too, just in case.” Clara removed her sunglasses and handed them to Annabelle, but Annabelle waved them away.

“I've got my own pair,” Annabelle explained. She rummaged through her closet, brought out a small leather case the size of a dictionary, and placed it on her bed. Inside, nestled carefully in pale blue silk lining, were two pairs of large, homely, black sunglasses.

“Mine are much nicer,” Clara said frankly.

“You think so? Here.” Annabelle handed Clara a pair. “Try these on.”

Clara held the glasses by one stem, and sneered, “They look like something you'd buy at the drugstore.”

“Oh, don't be such a snob,” Annabelle said. She took them and put them on Clara's face. Then she put the other pair on herself.

“I'll be right back,” Annabelle said. She turned and left the room, and Clara could hear her feet clomping down the stairs.

Clara got up and looked at herself in the mirror. The glasses were horrible—the completely wrong shape for her face, and so cheap looking. I'm
not
a snob, she thought defensively. It's just that I know the difference between tasteful and tacky.

She reached up to remove the glasses when she heard a voice—Annabelle's voice—very distinctly in her ear: “So ... do you still think your glasses are nicer?”

Clara turned around, but the room was empty and the door was shut. Was she hearing things?

“I asked you a question, Clara.” Annabelle's voice was in her ear again. “Do you still think your—”

The glasses! Clara whipped them off and examined them. Right by the bend at the stem was a cluster of pinprick holes shaped in a circle, like a miniature telephone receiver. On the other stem, in the same spot, was a raised black button with a single hole in the center. Clara raised the button to her lips and whistled loudly into it.

“Ow!” She heard Annabelle's muffled cry from the glasses' receiving end.

Placing the glasses back on, Clara heard Annabelle complaining, “—was a crappy thing to do! Are you trying to make me deaf?”

“What are these things?” Clara asked.

“They're called Spyfocals. My dad gave them to me for my birthday last year. What do you think of them?”

“I think they're just a fancy version of walkie-talkies. ”

There was utter silence on the other end. Clearly, Clara had offended Annabelle.

“Annabelle?” Clara said. No answer. Who would have guessed she'd be so sensitive? Clara thought, shaking her head.

And then, amazingly, Clara found herself looking into a tiny movie screen—actually two movie screens that combined as one—on the inside lenses of her glasses, She was watching a film of Annabelle's house. The image kept changing, as if the camera were moving down Annabelle's hallway, until it stopped in front of Mr. Arbutnot's office. A fist shot out on the screen and knocked on the door.

“Come in.” Clara could hear Mr. Arbutnot's voice, and the office door opened. Now Clara realized what she was watching.

There must be a camera in the glasses, and I' m watching things through Annabelle's eyes, she thought.

On the screen Mr. Arbutnot looked up from his desk and smiled when he saw Annabelle.

“Feeling better?” he asked.

“A little. ”

“Your friend cheered you up, then?”

“Who, Clara? Nah. She's in no shape to cheer anybody up.”

“Really? What's the matter with her?”

“Well ... you promise you won't tell anyone?” Annabelle said.

“Of course not.”

What is she doing!? Clara thought. She's going to give away the whole thing!

“Foot fungus. Oh, it's awful. Turns her toenails brown, and the smell...”

“Annabelle!” Clara cried.

“Isn't there something the doctors can do about it?” Mr. Arbutnot asked.

“They've tried everything—antibiotic creams, footbaths. Nothing seems to work. ”

“Poor kid.”

“I helped her paint her toenails red. You know... so the fungus doesn't show as much.”

“You're a good friend, Annabelle.”

“I hate you, Annabelle,” Clara hissed, her face crimson.

“Well, I'm glad to see that you are up and about, in any case.” Mr. Arbutnot smiled at his daughter, then tilted his head. “But why are you wearing the Spyfocals?”

“Oh. I just thought ... since I won't be using them anymore for jobs... I guess I was feeling a little sentimental.”

“Don't worry, Annabelle. Once you start getting involved with school and friends, you won't even miss burgling houses. It will be a fresh start for both of us. ”

“Sure, Dad. Hey, Clara asked if I can go over to her parents' restaurant for dinner tonight.”

“Okay, I guess that's fine. But sweetheart?”

“Yeah?”

“You're still a little young for lipstick, don't you think?”

“Oh. Sure, Dad. I was just messing around. Well, I guess I better get back upstairs. The nail polish is probably dry by now. If only I could help her with the odor ... ”

Then the screen in Clara's glasses went blank, and she was looking out through the lenses once again. In another minute came the sound of feet clomping up the stairs. The door opened and Annabelle walked in. She removed her Spyfocals and grinned.

“Foot fungus?” Clara said angrily.

“Oh, relax. My dad won't tell anyone.”

“But I don't
have
foot fungus!”

“You still think Spyfocals are just fancy walkie-talkies?”

“No,” Clara grudgingly admitted, taking them off and handing them back to Annabelle.

“Hang on to them,” Annabelle said lightly.

“What for?”

“Well, we'll have to have some way of communicating while we're on the job. ”

“
We?
” Clara shook her head. “No, not we. I'm hiring
you
to do this. ”

“First of all, I'm not taking your money,” Annabelle said.

“You had no trouble taking my jewelry, ” Clara grumbled.

“Second of all,” Annabelle continued, ignoring her remark, “I need another person to watch for Patient X.”

“Then
find
another person. Another professional,” Clara said.

“Rule number one in burgling: the more people you involve in a job, the more likely the job will get all botched up.” Annabelle's face had turned very serious now, and her dark eyes bore down on Clara's. “If you want to get your envelope from this doctor's office, then we do this job together. Otherwise”—Annabelle laid her Spyfocals carefully and deliberately in their silk-lined case—“find yourself another burglar. ”