Smash & Grab (12 page)

“We can get her
close, maybe not exact, but close.” Elena studies the picture Quinn printed out for her and puts her hand on my chin, moves my face right and then left.

“The bone structure's basically the same. Green eyes instead of blue. Their noses are nearly identical. That's a plus,” Whitney murmurs. “Angela has black hair, but I have a wig. We can trim it to match her hairstyle. Her complexion is darker, but we can fix that with a good spray tan.”

I'm sitting in the middle of her basement on a stool, everyone gathered around so they can study me under the overhead lighting. I feel like a lab rat. “Let me see her file again.”

Quinn hands me the manila folder, and I open it up to the girl's profile to examine her picture for the hundredth time. Angela Dunbar, nineteen years old, five foot seven, 125 pounds. We look nothing alike, but I trust Elena and Whitney to make it happen. By the end of the night I will be Angela, and tomorrow morning I'll start the LL National internship program.

“She's studying abroad this semester. She'll never even know you used her identity to get into the bank,” Quinn says. “I'll wipe the document trail in a few weeks, and it will be like the whole thing never even happened.”

He is exceedingly pleased with himself, and it shows. He keeps throwing out little nuggets of information about what he did and how he's covering it all up—using as many big, technical terms as he can muster. Honestly, though, I am impressed. Somehow he managed to pull it off. Now it's the twins' turns. They have one night to make me into Angela.

“Okay, so tan first, then hair and makeup,” Elena says as she pulls me from the stool and marches me into the next room. The entire basement is devoted to movie stuff: costumes, makeup, and hair. The twins' father directs for a living and constructed the basement so that he could basically make his home a permanent movie set. It's actually been in a dozen or so indies over the last decade. One of them with Channing Tatum.

We were about thirteen when their dad made that movie. I slept over on the weekend he was scheduled to film, because Whitney, Elena, and I had an enormous crush on Channing. We lurked around the set, trying to get a good look at him without her father finding out. When we couldn't, we actually stole one of his shirts on the last day, and we each took turns wearing it to school for a while, like it was a trophy or something. Thinking about it now, I realize that was a tipping point. Helping Whitney steal the shirt was such a high; it wasn't long after that when I got the idea for doing BAMs.

I spend the next thirty minutes at the far end of the basement in the makeup room, tucked inside a collapsible tent just big enough to fit me, entirely naked, while Elena and Whitney take turns spraying me down with tanning solution. To distract all of us, I tell them about Christian and the doughnut shop, but as fun as the story is, it's hard for any of us to concentrate on anything other than the fact that every millimeter of my body is on display. Plus, the tanning stuff is freezing. I'm all goose bumps and shivers by the time they're done.

“Well, we've reached a new level of bestie closeness,” Whitney says soberly, her face at eye level with my, um, nether region, and we all crack up.

Whitney does my hair next, braiding it tight to my head and then running a cotton ball soaked in alcohol over my hairline.

“What's that for?” I ask.

“To get rid of the natural oils near your scalp so the wig adheres better.” She walks over to the long, black-haired wig resting on a Styrofoam head and carefully lifts it off. “This is a full-lace, human-hair wig. Very expensive, okay? So be careful with it, because if my dad knows I lent it out, I am toast.”

“I have no idea what ‘full lace' means, but I will be. Promise.”

She shows me how to apply the wig glue to get the wig on just right, and then Elena gives me a pair of colored contacts and gets to work on my makeup.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” She stops dabbing foundation on me. “If Harrison is who you think he is, you could be in real danger. I mean, if he'd throw your dad under the bus and then be sleazy enough to hit on you two days later, don't you think he might be capable of much worse?”

“Gah,” I moan dramatically. “I already went through this with Quinn. Since when do any of us run from a risk?”

“That's different and you know it.” She sits on the makeup table. “This isn't a game.”

“Yeah. I know,” I say, sobering up. “But I need to do this.”

How can I make her understand? I mean,
really
understand? I need someone to blame, and it's easier for me to hate Harrison because he never tucked me in at night or took me to breakfast on the beach Saturday mornings, just him and me, a bag of bagels and a coffee cup full of apple juice between us, our toes dug into the sand. Trying to figure out a way to expose Harrison is like a BAM, a way to distract myself from the fact that I have a father who
did
tuck me in but who lied to me about who he is, and a mother who's debating whether she wants to stick around and support the man she stopped loving a long time ago. I can't wait around to get blindsided anymore. I'm done with that. It's my turn to do the blindsiding.

“I give you Angela Dunbar, UCLA sophomore and bank intern.” Elena walks me out to face our friends. Leo's mouth drops open. Oliver stops fiddling with his lighter. Weirdly, nailing her look has me nervous, as if it's making the whole thing too real all of a sudden.
Am I rushing into this too fast?
I want to spy on Harrison, but I'm scared about keeping up this new identity eight hours a day for several weeks.

I twirl around and Oliver starts to clap. “Great job, baby,” he tells Elena as she drops down beside him. He kisses the top of her head, and she grabs his arm and wraps it around her shoulder.

“I know,” she says. “My sister and I are makeover geniuses.”

“And me. Don't forget me,” Quinn says. “The guy who made it all possible. Slaving away for hours. Night and day. Without sleep. Without food. Or water. Or video games. Or company. All alone. Into the wee hours.” He looks at Whitney and sighs loudly.

“There's no way we could forget you.” Whitney laughs. She leans over to kiss him.

His face goes bright red, which is hilarious because he tries so hard to be cool about girls. Our little group is slowly pairing off: Elena and Oliver, Whitney and Quinn. Leo and I are the odd man and woman out, but that's okay. Leo doesn't mind, because he's already plotting his next conquest, and unless it's serious or if the guy hasn't come out yet—which has happened once or twice—he won't bring him around to meet us. Which leaves me. But I can be alone. I'm perfectly fine with that.

Still, I suddenly find myself thinking about Christian again and wishing I hadn't left so quickly the other day. I keep picturing his eyes. They felt so familiar. And then there was that moment when we almost kissed. Seeing him again would be nice, but I don't even know what school he goes to or where he lives. It shouldn't bother me. I don't want it to bother me, but somehow, frustratingly, it does.

When a car pulls
up alongside me and slows, I know who it is.
Soldado.
I've been expecting him ever since I lost the medal and word got out about my scholarship. He's sitting in the backseat of an old car I don't recognize—beige and nondescript—but I can see the familiar outline of his head through the tinted windows.

“Hop in.” Twitch is behind the wheel, but it's Psycho ordering me around. He's hanging out the window, his eyes so dark they look pupil-free, just two giant black holes staring, dead. It's hard not to feel intimidated. The dude is infamous. Youngest kid in the neighborhood to get jumped in to Florencia Heights. He's got a line of ink up one arm—a dozen skulls—one for every person he's killed.

I look up and down the street. There were a bunch of kids walking by a minute ago, but now the whole street is deserted. They probably took off the second Soldado's car rounded the corner.

“Where we goin'?” I ask, trying to buy some time. I can't miss another day of school.

The back window rolls down. “Just get in,” Soldado says wearily. He looks up at me, his mouth set. He doesn't seem angry, but I know he's heard about the UCLA scholarship. Gossip spreads through this neighborhood like a disease.

I walk around to the other side of the car and slip into the back. I set my backpack between my feet. The second the door closes, Twitch jerks away from the curb and starts cruising down the street. I stare at the school as we drive past.

Soldado turns so that he's facing me, his leg propped up on the seat, his foot tapping up and down. “You know you're my boy,” he says. “Straight up always have been.”

I nod.

“And I take care of you, don't I? Protect you. Give you ways to keep your family outta trouble and pay back what they owe.” He scratches the side of his nose and looks out the window as we pass a group of Florencia boys milling around the grocery store parking lot. They make thirteens with their fingers, showing allegiance to Florencia and the Eme at the same time. Soldado lowers the car window, lifts his chin in the air, and does the same.

Sometimes I think he's trying to pass himself off as a mexicano version of a Mafia don. He's smart the way the guys who run large syndicates and crime rings are. Not book-smart but street-smart. People-smart. He can look at a guy and know how to use him, how to work him over. He's done it to me before—when he offered the jobs to me and my boys—and I can feel him working up to it again now.

“I've been hearing things about you,” Soldado says. He picks at a piece of string stuck to his jeans and tosses it to the floor. “Things that make me worry for you. I thought you and me were on the same page, cabrón. I thought you had my back. Now I hear you're getting sloppy. Leaving clues behind.”

My stomach drops. Gabriel must've told him.

Twitch eyeballs me in the rearview mirror, and Psycho turns all the way around in his seat and cracks his neck. Somewhere outside, a baby's crying and someone's honking a car horn, and music's playing faintly, giving a festive rhythm to the way people amble down the street, but inside the car, the air is still, loaded. Soldado and I have always gotten along. Maybe we don't see eye to eye about everything, but we've been friends a long time. My mom took him in for a bit when he was nine and stuff at his house got really bad. And when I got jumped by a couple of gangbangers from a rival hood, he came to my rescue. Then there's my dad's debt. Soldado bought me the time to take care of it. The Eme wouldn't have given it to us if he hadn't stepped in. It's uncomfortable as hell right now, having his boys look at me like they have to teach me a lesson.

“Come on, bro. I got the medal back before anyone found it. And the whole college thing was just a stupid what-if….”

“Forget the whole college thing. That's not what's bothering me. The medal, yeah, that's a concern, but what's really got me wondering is your attitude. You losing your enthusiasm for the work?”

Yes.
“No.”

“Don't lie,” he says. “It wastes time.”

“What do you want me to say?” I shake my head and stare out the window. “You want me to ask you to take me off this next job? We both know you can't.”

The car slows at a light. We're headed toward my house.

“That's true. But we can't afford to have any mistakes on this one. I need your head straight.” He shakes his head. “You know what your problem is?” he asks, leaning over so he's close enough that I can see the bloodred inside of his mouth. “You don't know how to be grateful for what you already got. You can't make peace with your fate, man, and until you do, you ain't gonna be satisfied, are you? Never mind that I hooked you up with the best gig goin'. You stand to make more than any of my Florencia boys on any job they've done—all of 'em—guys who pledged their lives to the gang, and you turn up your nose to it. You think college is gonna save your family? A degree don't mean jack where your family's safety is concerned, vato. You don't keep them protected and they won't live to see the day you can finally move them out of here.”

We make a turn and we are on my street, driving straight for my house. I can see Maria sitting out front, behind the fence that separates our yard from the street, a coloring book across her lap, her fist around a crayon, running it back and forth over the paper. She's bent over her work, so she doesn't see us coming. Abuelo's supposed to be watching Maria, but he's not outside. She's alone. I look over at Soldado and then at Psycho. “Why are we here?” My heart starts hammering against my rib cage.

Twitch parks the car across the street, directly opposite her. The engine idles.

“You think what you do gets back to only me? The Eme has ears everywhere. In Florencia Heights and out. If they think you're flaking on this job and they get pissed off enough, I can't stop them green-lighting you or your family. Even if I want to,” Soldado says. He nods at Psycho, who gets out of the car and starts across the street. “The most I can do is give you a heads-up that it's comin', cabrón.” He folds his arms across his chest. “You want out? Tell me. But understand it's gonna come at a cost.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, nerves thrumming.

Psycho's reached the fence and is leaning over it, talking to my sister. She looks up, smiling at him, her hand still running her crayon over the coloring book. Psycho reaches around and lifts his shirt so I can see the gun tucked into his waistband. I nearly gag; the nausea is instantaneous.

“No. No, no, no!” I lunge for the car door. My hands are shaking so bad I can't grab hold of the door handle.

Soldado blocks my path with his bulk and shoves me back. “
She's
your cost,” Soldado says quietly. “Got the word last night. I begged them, vato,
begged
them to reconsider, but the job is too big and the other guys can't handle it without you. The Eme's already got too much invested in it to start changing out players. You don't get back in the game, you don't give it your all, and she's green-lighted.” He leans over. “Every homeboy in a twenty-block radius will be committed to taking her out.”

As if he can hear Soldado, Psycho turns and looks into the car at me and grins.

“I can only do so much to help you, bro. Keep bein' stupid and this goes beyond my reach. I got your back, but I'm not prepared to die if it comes down to it. And we both know they'd still get her in the end—maybe your whole family and mine, too, if it comes to that. Just to prove a point.”

I look past him as Psycho jumps the fence and moves behind my sister, his gun in his hand now and pointed at the back of her head. I feel like I'm sitting at the epicenter of an earthquake. My whole world's about to shake apart.

“I'll do it, I'll do it!” I scream.

Soldado lowers the window and signals to Psycho, who strokes my sister's hair in a way that makes my blood run cold before he puts the gun away and walks to a car parked just behind us. I hadn't noticed it until just now.

“They told me to threaten you, and now they see I did,” Soldado says, tilting his head back toward the car. “And I did it without hurting anyone, which isn't the way they initially wanted me to approach things. See? I'm still trying to protect you, homes. Do me a favor and quit screwing around.” He leans his head back on the seat and sighs. “Let's go over this one more time. The job happens in less than three weeks. Fourth of July weekend. My guys are already working on the tunnel you and your team will use to get inside. Now all we need is to figure out the vault layout. I want you to case the bank, cozy up to one of the tellers for intel—when the money gets delivered, security camera locations—what we need to know to get in and get out. Rosie's got the food truck out there already. You just gotta work with her awhile—starting today—and survey the joint while you work. Then you hit the vault when the time comes. Nothing you can't handle. Just do what you're told. Understand?”

I don't trust myself to answer. I still feel like I might throw up. I force a nod instead.

“Hey, cheer up, vato,” Soldado says as I open my car door. “It'll all be good. One month from now you won't have a worry in the world.”

I step out of the car and walk across the street to my yard and Maria. I can feel the guys in both cars watching me. I look back once, forcing my face into a blank expression, calm and decided, but inside I am one giant ball of panic, alarm screaming out of every pore. I scoop up Maria as soon as I'm inside the yard and hug her to my chest.

“I can't breathe,” she complains, squirming to get away, but I don't let go. I kiss her forehead and both cheeks and try to calm down. She never saw the gun. She has no idea what just happened. She's okay. But I'm not. If anything had actually happened to her…

I could never live with it. This next job has to go off perfectly. Whatever it takes, I have to make sure. No screw-ups. No distractions. No thoughts about the future. The job is all that matters now. Everything and everyone I care about depend on it.