Pish Posh (11 page)

Clara glared at Annabelle for a minute. “I am not a thief,” she said arrogantly.

“Fine,” Annabelle said crisply, and she held out her hand. “Give me the glasses, and this whole conversation never even happened. Poof. It's gone from my brain.”

Clara handed back the glasses, which Annabelle tucked into the box. Then Annabelle collapsed back onto her bed and shut her eyes, as if Clara had already left.

Dropping the whole thing was the most sensible thing to do, Clara thought. But then she began to think of Dr. Piff. She had sworn to herself that she would not disappoint him again. Plus, to be perfectly honest, she couldn't bear the thought of spending night after night in Pish Posh, knowing that something peculiar was going on right under her nose. And that a soup cook had succeeded in defying her.

“Okay,” Clara said.

“Okay what?”

“Okay, I'll stand outside and watch for Patient X. But what do I tell her if she comes early? ”

Annabelle sat up again and looked Clara up and down. “Well, you're a lot shorter than me, but we can roll up the pants. ”

“What pants?” said Clara. “I don't wear pants.”

“Ooh, and I have the perfect top,” Annabelle continued, ignoring Clara.

“Perfect for what?”

“Have you ever been to Sandusky, Ohio?” Annabelle asked.

“Of course not!”

“Well, tonight you are Emily McBickle, lead soprano in the Sandusky, Ohio, Girls' Choir. And silly you! You got separated from your group and are all alone and lost in New York City. ”

“Is that what I'm supposed to tell Patient X?” Clara guessed.

“With tears in your eyes. ”

“I don't cry.”

“Practice. ”

For the next hour, Clara thought of all sorts of sad things—her parents dying, herself dying, Pish Posh closing down—but all she could manage was a weak squealing sound, which made her sound like a dolphin, and she couldn't manage to work up any tears.

“Forget it. You might pop a blood vessel,” Annabelle said finally, rolling her eyes. “Just try not to look so superior.”

A
s it turned out, it was quite easy for Clara to not look As it turned out, it was quite easy for Clara to not look so superior: she was dressed in a pair of cheap stonewashed jeans that were rolled up three times at the cuff and a perfectly hideous lime-green shirt with a giant panda-bear head appliquéd on. The panda's eyes were made of huge clear-plastic bubbles, which contained little black balls for pupils that bobbled around crazily as Clara walked. On her feet she wore a pair of Annabelle's old sneakers.

Annabelle was dressed as Patient X, with a large designer tote bag slung over her shoulder containing burglary equipment, including the Spyfocals.

On the street, Clara's hand automatically shot out to hail a cab, but Annabelle grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her hand down.

“No cabs. We're going by subway,” Annabelle said, and she began walking east at a brisk pace.

“The subway?”

“Of course.”

 

“You
can go by subway, if you want. I'm going by cab,” Clara said firmly. In truth, Clara had never been on a subway. According to everything she had heard, they were filthy and dangerous, and to be avoided at all cost.

“No, you're not,” Annabelle replied just as firmly. “The idea is to be inconspicuous. Cabdrivers are nosy. On a train, people don't look at each other. In fact, it's practically a rule that they don't look at each other. We're going by subway.” And she picked up her pace, not even bothering to look back and see if Clara was following her.

The sneakers were not at all what Clara had expected. Her feet had never felt so close to the ground, yet they were delightfully cushioned and so bouncy that she had a strange urge to run, and a few times she deliberately let Annabelle get ahead of her in order to launch herself into a springy jog to catch up. At the subway station, as they descended the long flight of stairs, Clara covered her nose.

“I smell urine,” she complained.

Annabelle gave her a sidelong look. “Subway stairs always smell like that. ”

Clara breathed through her mouth until they reached the bottom, where there was a large booth and several turnstiles, past which was a concrete platform.

“Here.” Annabelle pressed a thin paper card in Clara's hand.

“What's this for?”

“What's it
for?”
Annabelle asked incredulously. “It gets you into the subway. You swipe it at the turnstile. ” She gazed at Clara curiously for a minute, and then said, “Cripes, you've never been on the subway before, have you?”

“You have lipstick on your teeth,” Clara said diffidently.

Annabelle rubbed at her teeth with the edge of her thumb. “I've never heard of someone who grew up in New York and has never—”

“It's seven thirty-five, Annabelle.”

“Okay. Just swipe the card through the slot there. That's it. And just push through the turnstile—harder. There you go.”

On the subway platform was a smattering of people milling around. They were very average looking. Nobody seemed particularly dangerous. The urine smell was gone, replaced by a dry, hot, tinny odor, which grew even stronger when the train thundered into the station. The noise grew so loud that Clara took a few steps back in alarm, but Annabelle grabbed her by the arm and practically shoved her through the train's doors when they slid open.

Before Clara sat down, she examined the molded plastic seat for filth. It looked clean enough, but she brushed it off just in case. The door slid closed with a
shoosh
and the train lurched into motion. Just as Annabelle had said, the other passengers didn't look at each other, but stared straight ahead, out the window. Their eyes jiggered back and forth, like the panda's eyes on her T-shirt.

“It's not so bad—the subway,” Clara said after a few minutes.

Annabelle slid her eyes toward Clara and shook her head. “You're a strange duck.”

They rode the rest of the way in silence and got off at the Seventy-ninth Street station. The stairs at that station smelled of urine, too. When they reached street level, Clara could see Dr. Piff's office building directly across the street. That was when she felt the first pang of nervousness. It was one thing to plot out a robbery from a computer screen, but it was quite another to actually do it.

“Wait.” Clara grabbed Annabelle's arm as she started for the office building.

“For what?”

“Maybe we shouldn't.”

“You've just got the jitters. That'll pass. Let's go.” But before she could take another step, Clara grabbed her arm again.

“What?!”
Annabelle snapped. “Clara, it is seven forty-four. If we are going to do this, we have to do it now. Do you want that envelope?”

“Yes,” Clara said almost inaudibly. And she did.

“Okay then.” And they both walked across the street to 464 Fifth Avenue. Annabelle took the Spyfocals out of her bag. She put hers on and handed the other pair to Clara, then took one long, last appraising look at her.

“Okay, who are you?” Annabelle asked.

“Emily McBickle, lead soprano in the Sandusky, Ohio, Girls' Choir.”

“Fabulous. Now tuck yourself into the six,” Annabelle said.

“What?”

“The six.” Annabelle pointed to the 6 in the metal 464 sculpture. Clara went to the sculpture, ducked her head, and curled herself up into the hole of the 6, wedging herself in snugly.

“Ready?” Annabelle said. Clara nodded.

“Be careful, Annabelle.”

She watched as Annabelle walked to the building and disappeared inside. Through her Spyfocals Clara could hear the sound of Annabelle's heels clicking against the marble floor, and then the soft thump of a heavy door closing behind her.

“Who are you here to see?” Annabelle heard a man's voice ask. He had a strong British accent, so she knew he must be Stan Heckle.

“Dr. Muster. I have an appointment at eight,” she heard Annabelle reply. Good—she had lowered her voice to sound older.

“Your name?”

“Patient X,” Annabelle said. There was a pause, during which Clara held her breath, straining to hear what was happening. Had Stan Heckle looked at Annabelle and realized that she was too young to be Patient X? Clara's muscles contracted, and she felt a subtle tremor course through them.

In a moment, she heard Stan say, “Hello, Dr. Muster. I have a Patient X in the lobby. She says she has an appointment with you. ” He sounded as if he really didn't believe that she did, but apparently Dr. Muster confirmed it, because there was a soft click and then Stan said to Annabelle, “All right, then. You can go on up.”

So that was that. She was in. Clara's muscles began to relax. Now all she had to do was wait and keep a sharp look-out in case Patient X decided to arrive early.

The streets were nearly empty in this part of the city. In the strange evening hush, she began to think about Pish Posh. She wondered what people had thought that night, seeing the empty little round table at the back. She suspected that they would be relieved to see that she was not there. In her mind she could hear them chattering gaily; no one would be nervous about being kicked out, no one would wonder if they were becoming a Nobody. The image was so clear: Pish Posh would be a much happier place without Clara in it. They didn't see that it was
she
who made sure that the restaurant remained special. If she let everyone stay, Pish Posh would be no different than any other restaurant in New York.

Curled up in the 6, Clara felt a nasty pang of self-pity. It expanded by degrees, and she imagined herself being caught by Stan Heckle and being bundled up in a mailbag and taken to the Hudson River, where she would be strangled, and then be found (headless!) by some man walking his dog. And even though she didn't have a head, Annabelle would be able to identify her from the panda-bear shirt, and it would be in all the newspapers (both the fact that she was dead
and
that she was wearing bad clothing). But no one would come to her funeral, not even her parents, because they would be too busy at Pish Posh, and as her small, expensive casket was being lowered into the ground—

“Clara!” a voice called in her ear, and she jumped and hit her head on the top of the 6's hole. “I'm on the sixteenth floor, right outside Piff's office.” The screen on the glasses came on, and Clara could see the door with the nameplate inscribed with Dr. Piff's name. A hand suddenly obscured the view and waved at her—Annabelle's. “Just wanted to say hey. I'm shutting off the monitor because you should be watching the street anyway. ”

Clara checked her watch. “There's only nine minutes left until Patient X's appointment. Do you think you can pick the lock?”

“Pick the lock? Sure. I can
pick the lock.
And as soon as it's picked, the alarm will go off and Stan will be up here before you can say ‘Handi Wipes.' I have to disable the alarm system first, don't I? Oh, and by the way, I made sure to rap my knuckles against every spare inch of Stan's desk, just for fun. He's probably gone through a whole box of Handi Wipes already, trying to remove my filthy germs!”

“Just hurry, Annabelle,” Clara said, her anxiety returning at the mention of Stan. She suddenly was aware of all her nerve endings, could feel them stretched across her body like a fidgety vine. She kept one eye on the street, watching for cars that might pull up, or a woman who might be headed for 464 Fifth Avenue, while straining to hear Annabelle's progress inside the building. Soft plunking sounds could be heard through the Spyfocals.

“What are you doing, Annabelle?” she whispered.

By way of an answer, the screen on the glasses came on again, and she could see Annabelle holding up a box with a keypad on it. There were wires coming out of the box, and these were attached to another box with a keypad, attached to the wall outside Dr. Piff's office—the alarm box. Annabelle was tapping in some numbers on the keypad—the soft plunking sound—and in a second a message ran across the alarm-box screen:
Password cleared.
Then the screen showed Annabelle's hands holding a metal device, which she stuck in the door's keyhole and flicked a few times. Dr. Piff's door opened. Then the video shut off.

“Show's over for now,” Annabelle said. “Keep your eyes peeled. ”

The next few minutes were excruciating. Every sound that Clara heard through the glasses made her jump. The street was still quiet though—no sign of Patient X yet. Clara checked her watch: 7:56. She should be arriving any minute now. The timing was very, very tight. The masked burglar icon was probably right: their chances for success were lousy. And yet, Clara thought with a quiet thrill, they might just be able to do it. A tiny smile nudged at the corner of her lips. She could understand why Annabelle didn't want to stop being a burglar.

“Oi, you!” a voice said. “Get out of there. Now.” A flashlight was shining directly into Clara's face, so that for a second she was blinded. She blinked against the glare, lowering her gaze to avoid it, and saw the perfectly shined black shoes, the navy blue pants, crisply pressed, and clipped to the man's belt hook a gun holster, with the gun quite evidently inside of it.

“I said, now.” The voice was calm and menacing. Clara scrambled out of the 6 so fast that her sneakers squeaked loudly against the metal. She could hear Annabelle's voice coming through the Spyfocals' transmitter: “Clara? What's happening out there? Is something wrong?”