Smash & Grab (14 page)

“So this still leads down to the vault? Isn't that a security risk?” Steve, one of the interns, asks. I snap a few pictures with my phone once I see some of the others do the same.

“The dumbwaiter can be accessed only from the outside, with the security code and key. So even if someone were to manage to get in here and ride it down, they wouldn't be able to get out without someone on the vault side letting them out. But for argument's sake, even if they could, the dumbwaiter opens up into the space before the actual vault. They'd still be faced with getting into the safe-deposit box area and then the actual vault itself.” She smiles. “Breaking in there would require tools way too big to fit down this thing. But”—she glances down at her watch—“speaking of security and vaults, it's about time for us to head back for your next session.”

Trisha corrals us onto the elevator. I text Quinn and Oliver the dumbwaiter photos and a summary of what she said. Even if it ends up that we can't use it, it's worth investigating further.

My eyes are on
fire. Rosie's had me chopping an insane amount of onions and peppers all morning long. I wipe the back of my hand across them and slide open the window cut into the center of the truck, just above the long counter where we assemble the tacos, to get some fresh air. I look down the street to where a few people are walking into our next target, gripping paper bags with the words
FRIED DOUGH
printed in the shape of a doughnut on them. Lexi's face flashes through my brain, and I half smile as I remember the way it felt to lean in close to her, our faces nearly touching. I thought about trying to find her school so I could figure out a way to accidentally run into her somehow, maybe ask her out for real. But that was before I ended up in Soldado's car. Before Psycho put a gun to my baby sister's head. I turn away and go to the sink to start soaping up my hands. No point in daydreaming about this. I can't get mixed up with anybody right now, anyway. The job has to be my only focus.

“It'll be insane for about the next three hours,” Rosie says, her head popping into view as she sets the large chalkboard menu out on the curb next to the truck. “I'll handle all the money and you take the orders. We have maybe five to ten minutes before people start showing up.”

“Sure.” I look at the space above the order window, where Rosie's hung these laminated food cards with a picture of each kind of taco she makes and what goes in it. The meats, sauces, veggies, and other stuff are basically prepped and ready to be assembled into Rosie's homemade tortillas. She actually uses our abuela's recipe and old iron tortilla press, even though the hinge that holds it together is almost broken off. It's sitting in a place of honor on the counter where the customers can see it. All I have to do is follow the cards and put together the orders as she makes them, which is good because half the stuff she has on the menu is a hybrid of Mexican, Korean, and Argentinean cuisine, and I don't have the first clue about the last two. For Rosie, the truck is more than a way to spy on future jobs; it's a passion. She's always wanted to own a restaurant, and while the taco truck isn't exactly that, it's a pretty good start. Soldado was way smooth giving it to her. Listening to Rosie talk, you'd think it's basically a love letter on wheels.

It's not quite eleven-thirty, the time Rosie says marks the beginning of the lunch rush, but we've already got the music going and the fan on inside the truck, blasting out toward the street so it spreads the scents of roasted meats and Rosie's signature freshly squeezed cilantro-lime-jalapeño lemonade to the people walking by. I've been steeped in it for the past two hours, so I can't even smell it anymore, but it has a definite effect on everyone else. It isn't long before we start to get customers. I size each one up, looking for teller name tags and employee badges to tell me who works at LL National. One or two customers seem promising. I make a note of their names in a little notebook.

I fill orders and Rosie works the money bit, and a comfortable rhythm develops between us right off the bat. We've always been close. Back when she was still in braids and Benny, Gabriel, and I were playing army commandos in the stairwell of their apartment building, she used to pretend to be a hostage we had to rescue, always hiding somewhere clever. We would race to see who could find her first. She always made sure it was me, and then the two of us would sneak up behind Benny and Gabriel and scare them half to death. Plus, she likes to read as much as I do. Of course, most of the time she has her nose in a cookbook, not a novel.

“Hey, wake up. What're you thinking about?” Rosie snaps her fingers in front of my face. The line's gone—for now—and she's leaning on the counter, staring at me.

“That it's good to hang out with you a little bit, cuz,” I say. “It's been a while.”

She smiles and pulls her ponytail up into a bun. “Yeah, I guess it has. You have school and I have the truck, and then there's Soldado….” She smiles softly when she says his name.

“You think you guys'll get married?” I ask. Rosie's nearly twenty, and Soldado's twenty-four. They could. Everyone thinks they will.

“He's gotta leave Florencia Heights for me to give it serious thought.” She smooths her apron out. “I'm not marrying a career gangbanger.”

This will never happen. He can't leave. She knows this.

“So why'd you start dating him in the first place, then?” I ask. Rosie's always had plenty of choices when it comes to guys. She didn't have to settle on Soldado.

“Because he's the only guy who ever gave me the butterflies. And he's good to Mama and Benny.” She hesitates, her eyes far away for a second. “And I have hope he'll get out. If I make a success of this truck, who knows? We could open a few more. Maybe rent out a space somewhere.”

Soldado isn't leaving Florencia Heights. No way. I can't picture it. He loves the notoriety and the power. He's always wanted it. How can she not see that? But then I think about my own mom and dad. He's screwed up like crazy, and she's still taking him back. Sometimes people see what they want to and not what's true. Or they think being in love can change someone. But I don't think it can. I think a person's who they are all along. All love does is blind a person to that truth. Better to always have your eyes wide open.

More customers interrupt us and we stop talking. Just before noon an armored truck pulls up to LL National, and I watch as the guy in back gets out and makes the week's delivery. I mark the date and time in my notepad. A bank this large probably has two deliveries. It's Monday, so my guess is the next one might be on Friday, which would be perfect for this job. The take come Fourth of July weekend will be fatter for it.

Rosie watches me write while she takes a clean rag to the order counter to mop up some spilled salsa. “What about you? I know you didn't want to start doing the jobs. Benny didn't, either. But do you ever get off on the rush part? Running in and out, beating the clock? Benny's always so wound up after.” Of all our family members, Rosie is the only one who knows we do the jobs. She doesn't like it, but she gets why we have to because she's involved, too.

I finish my notes and pause, thinking. “A little.” I feel sort of ashamed admitting it, but the thing is, leaving a bank with a bag full of cash? It's like conquering the hardest level in Call of Duty or getting a home run or something. You against the bank. A series of obstacles and a ticking clock. Getting out alive? It's a high. I can't even try to pretend that it isn't. Leaving a bank with my blood pumping, my heart roaring in my chest, my brain and every nerve ending on alert. It's the most awake I'll ever be. Aware of everything. It's hard not to like that feeling—feeling bad for the tellers and witnesses doesn't make it go away. And the most screwed-up thing of all is even though I want out and to be as far away from the Eme as I can, a part of me will miss the jobs. Just one more example of how the Eme messed me up, messed us all up.

“Can I help you?”
Harrison's assistant peers at me from over the top of her computer screen, the light from it making her glasses reflect the Michael Kors handbag page she's obviously drooling over instead of doing whatever it is she does for Harrison.

“I wanted to stop in and see if Mr. Harrison was available to answer a question? I'm one of the new interns. He talked to us at breakfast, and I was so impressed by something he said. I mean, I know he's busy. I just figured I'd try.” I smile innocently at her and lean over a bit so I can see her screen. “Isn't that one hot?” I say, pointing to the bag. If I weren't currently reduced to selling half my purse collection on eBay right now, I'd be all over it, too.

She minimizes the page and gives me a guilty smile. “Very.”

“So can I pop my head in? I promise I'll be quick.” I'm already walking toward his door, praying she won't head me off, when Harrison opens the door himself, cell phone to his ear, and nearly runs right into me.

“Angela—right?” He finishes up his call as I nod. “Orientation going okay?”

“Yes. Actually, we're breaking for lunch, but I wanted to see if you had a minute so I could get your advice about something.”

“Well, I'm headed out right now. Tell you what. Walk with me and I'll try to help if I can, okay?” He taps his assistant's desk. “I'll be back in time for my one o'clock.”

I look past him at his office, where I'd been hoping to go so I could slip the bug under his desk or a chair or something. But how am I going to get inside before he closes and locks the door? The bug's just a slim rectangular piece of plastic, barely wider than a penny. I can hide it easily. I just need an opportunity.

“Oh wow, that's really beautiful,” I say, palming the bug as I make a beeline to the large ivory-inlaid box sitting on his desk. I turn around. “May I?”

Harrison lifts an eyebrow, but nods.

I will my hands not to shake as I pick it up and pretend to examine it, turning it over in my hands so that the lid falls off and lands on the carpet. “Oh my god! I'm so sorry!” I hurry to pick it up and then replace it—my back to the door, pressing the sticky side of the bug onto the bottom of the box as I do. I hold my breath as I set it down.

“Angela, I'm afraid we need to go if I'm going to get back in time,” Harrison says, from closer behind me than I expected. I feel his hand touch my elbow, and I jump a little.

“Sorry! I guess I got distracted.”
Did he see anything?
I can't be sure. I don't know when he came back into the room. I try not to imagine that his hand at my elbow is gripping me tighter than is normal,
but is it?

“So what was it you wanted to talk to me about?” Harrison prompts, his eyes twinkling as we wait for the elevator doors to open.

“Actually, I was hoping to ask you about your time at UCLA. I've only just transferred there and have been a bit overwhelmed about deciding a minor. Do you mind if I ask what yours was?”

The elevator doors open as he starts talking, listing the courses he feels I should pay close attention to, what minors would be best if I hope to work somewhere like LL National. By the time we're walking through the lobby doors, I'm feeling calmer. I did it! The bug is in his office. And Quinn is parked somewhere near the building, listening.

“Where are you headed?” Harrison asks.

“I don't know. To wherever I can get a salad or something before we're due back from lunch.”

He looks up the street. “There's a food truck up there. Probably more than one. Fast and usually amazing. I'm headed there myself. You're welcome to tag along if you'd like. Actually, you'd be doing me a favor. I've got a present on hold for my wife at the jewelry store around the corner. If you wouldn't mind, maybe I could show it to you and you can tell me if you think it's a good choice. A twenty-fifth anniversary present. So, you know, it's gotta wow.” He winks at me. Ugh.

“Sure,” I say, even though now all I want to do is get as far away from him as I can. This whole nice-guy routine he's working is unnerving.

We get closer to the truck, and the aroma of the food is ridiculous. Spicy and mouthwatering. Whatever they're making, I want five. Wow. “ ‘Cocina de mi corazón.' ” I read the words printed in graphic black letters on the side of the truck. The vehicle itself is bright red, with a series of colorful, elaborately designed hearts that remind me of the kind you see in Day of the Dead decorations or as part of a cool tattoo.

“ ‘Kitchen of my heart,' ” Harrison translates. “One of my favorites. It's this hybrid of Argentinean, Korean, and Mexican food. Absolutely amazing.”

If I were with anyone else, this would be the perfect lunch stop.

“It's not parked in the area all the time. Lately it's been setting up out past the Bank of America building a few blocks down. We got lucky,” Harrison says as his phone rings. “You go ahead. I'll get mine in a second.” He directs me toward the counter, and I look over the wooden menu tent propped up next to the truck.

“Can I help you?” the guy behind the counter asks, and I look up. Christian is standing in front of me in a stained apron, with a basket of tacos in one hand. My heart nearly stops.

“Christian,” I say, completely forgetting that I'm not Lexi right now—I'm Angela. I freeze.
Crap!

He leans over. “I'm sorry…do we know each other?” His eyes take me in, from the top of my head to my heel-clad feet, and he smiles a little. “I feel like I'd remember you if we had…” He narrows his eyes and looks harder at me. “Wait, there is something familiar….”

It is all I can do not to panic and run. “Just give me some, uh, chips and a carnitas taco, please. And a Diet Coke.” I hold out my debit card and pretend to be bored.

He takes it, still frowning at me, and turns toward the stove.

“Have you ordered?” Harrison asks, off the phone now.

“Yeah,” I say. I need to get out of here. Now. But it would look weird if I didn't get my lunch first.
Please, please don't let him recognize me.

All at once, there's a gust of wind, just enough to blow a stack of menu flyers from the counter to the sidewalk.
A total gift from God,
I can't help thinking as I turn and begin to chase them down. I'll take my time and with luck, Harrison will get my card and meal from Christian before I collect all the menus. I stoop over and start gathering the fluttering papers.

What I don't expect is for Christian to be outside the truck a second later, stooped down next to me, grabbing for flyers, too. His arm brushes mine as he leans closer.

“Lexi,” he says quietly, and my heart goes straight into my throat, choking me.

How does he know? I thought the disguise was solid enough to fool anyone who didn't know me really well. We've only met once, and I didn't look anything like this.
How can he know it's me?

“The card,” he says, holding it up briefly so I can see my name, my real name. Oh my god, I'm an idiot.

“Why do you look like…” Christian starts.

“Angela?” Harrison holds out his hand to help me up. Christian's eyes flick from mine to him and back. He raises one eyebrow.

I stare at Christian for a second, take a deep breath, and stand up. After a beat, he does, too. I thrust the collected flyers into his hands, hoping beyond hope that somehow he'll pretend he doesn't know me.

“Here you go.” I give him a pleading look.

“Thank you…Angela,” he says purposefully, and I mouth the words “Thank
you
” right back at him. “Give me a sec to get back inside and I'll get your order.”

Harrison peruses the bottles of hot sauce and grabs some napkins while I wait for Christian to come around to the window with my food.

When he does, he gives me a little smile that sends both panic and butterflies careening around my stomach. He holds out a bag, and his mouth twitches. “Your order, miss.”

I feel my face heat up. “Thanks.”

“You work at LL National?” the girl behind the counter asks. Her eyes focus on the employee badge hanging around my neck.

“I'm interning there, yeah.”

She hands me some of the flyers. “Would it be weird if I asked you to put these in the lunchroom there? We'll be parking here every day over the summer. You do and I'll give you your next lunch free.” She raises her eyebrows expectantly.

I can feel Christian watching me. “Sure. Sure,” I tell the girl as I stuff the flyers and my debit card into my bag.

“Enjoy your lunch,” Christian says. That he doesn't try to say anything else or throw me any weighted looks is a relief.

“Thanks,” I say, meaning it in more ways than one.

“No problem.” He leans over the counter and grins, and even though none of this is funny, I find myself grinning right back. Grateful. He's not going to expose me to Harrison, even if he has no idea what's going on. Well, I helped him out with his medal; one favor deserves another, I guess.

I join Harrison on a bench opposite the truck, and we dig into our meals. Talking about the kinds of inane things you talk about with people you barely know: the weather, the orientation, summer plans. I don't glance at the taco truck, not even once, but I swear I can still feel Christian watching me.

“So, should we get that anniversary gift?” I ask Harrison when I just can't stand it anymore.

Harrison wants to buy
his wife a heart pendant with scrollwork and about a dozen diamonds in the center. It makes me think of something you might find around a medieval princess's neck—elaborate to the point of being tacky.

“Well, what do you think?” he asks.

“Perfect, really. If I were her, I'd love it.” I'm lying, of course. If I were her, I'd hate it, but I've never been into jewelry like this. I like bling, but the heart shape makes this necklace feel cheesy. I liked the heart on the food truck better.
The food truck.
Just thinking about it makes my nerves jingle.

Harrison motions to the salesperson. “Okay. Wrap it up.”

I watch her pull out pretty silver paper and a ribbon, and an unexpected lump forms in my throat. My father bought me a ring when I turned sixteen. I don't wear it every day because it's my birthstone—an opal—so it's a little too fragile for constant wear. Harrison will still get to buy his family jewelry. My dad may never get the chance again. It's so unfair that I can barely keep from screaming.

“I need to get back,” I say. Suddenly, being with him for even one minute longer and acting like I think he's this amazing mentor-type person is unbearable.

“Oh yes. Well, thank you,” he says absently as he signs his receipt.

I duck out of the store and begin the short walk back to the bank.

“Angela.” And when I don't turn around right away, “Lexi.” Christian's jogging from the food truck toward me. I wince and stop in my tracks, waiting for him to catch up.

“So. Nice hair. But I gotta tell you. I like you better blond.” He folds his arms across his chest and grins.

I shake my head and look down at the sidewalk. What am I supposed to tell him about all this? Certainly not the truth, but then what? I grasp for some halfway-plausible explanation, but there's nothing. I've got nothing.

“So you want me to guess?” he asks. He paces back and forth in front of me. His jeans fit loose everywhere except his backside, and as panicked as I am, I'm also human. I can't help noticing how sexy it is. “You're a spy stealing bank secrets?”

When I roll my eyes, he says, “You just became part of the witness protection program? Or you're just, um, really into older, married banker-type dudes and don't want your friends to know?” He reaches out like he wants to touch my hair, but at the last minute he decides not to. “Tell me it's not that last one.”