The man in front of me was a business man. He was dressed professionally, in a dark black trenchcoat that ended about halfway down his legs. He carried a leather briefcase in one hand and the other was holding a newspaper in front of his face. He wore a felt fedora (forties' throwback, anyone?) but he couldn't have been any older than thirty-five.

An easy target.

I shifted, my thick, thrift-store parka making almost a plastic sound as the material rubbed together. I reread the line in Shakespeares' MacBeth, where Lady MacBeth is convincing her husband to kill the king. Ah, the thrill of the kill -- yet my type wasn't bloody. It was more of a sneaky type of kill.

The late afternoon train was crowded, thick with people of all ages heading back their homes or out somewhere to eat. This man was probably heading back home to his wife and two point four children. There were mostly strap-hangers, with all the seats full of old ladies with rusty shopping carts and mothers with screaming, cranky, stinky-diapered babies. There were tourists, too -- what tourists would come to Chicago? Anyone who was crazy enough and who was a Cubs fan. Cubs fans didn't survive very long in their team's home city -- they usually went on the road.

The train jerked, coming to an abrupt stop. Without even thinking about it, I fell forward, my hand reaching into the man's trench coat pocket. I stealthily pulled a leather wallet from his pocket (that no doubtedly matched his briefcase) and slipped it into my pocket without him noticing. I stood up, muttering an almost silent "Sorry," for bumping into him. I didn't notice his expression.

I was a pickpocket. It wasn't an honest job, but it was something. I was also something of a compulsive risk-taker. You give me a bet or a dare -- I'll do it, no sweat. I don't care what the stakes are, what the terms are -- give it to me. Bring it on. My pickpocketing skills were known throughout my school -- but no one really questioned it. My parents didn't know about it. My older brother didn't know about it. No one but my school and my two best friends had any idea I slipped wallets out from under rich snotty nosed business people's noses.

My stop arrived quickly. I snapped my book shut, putting it underneath my arm as I exited the train. The platform was fairly crowded -- smelling like damp, musty rain and maybe urine. The walls were moldy, the floor covered in wet newspapers and old soda bottles. People milled around, a couple of college students were chanting along with a bongo drummer's beat.

"Jen, you're late." Ryan Stanford pushed himself off the tiled wall and scowled at me. He was a tall, curly-haired boy with freckles all over his nose. He was the ringleader of our little operation -- the Boss, he liked to call himself. He was extremely intelligent, but he wasn't considered a nerd.

"I know," I said. I glanced over my shoulder. "Where's Chip? Is he here?"

"Yeah, yeah," he said, throwing his book bag over his shoulder. "C'mon. We've gotta get out of here."

He led me out of the station and down the rickety stairs. He jumped the last five, waiting for me to trot down. He scowled further, and then walked with me into Willa's, a small cafe where students frequented.

"Hey, guys." Charles Edwards, nicknamed Chip because he hated his name, came bouncing up to us. "Did you get a pull?" he asked me, lowering his voice. Chip was a bouncy, excited boy with a chisled face and dimples. He smiled easily and laughed even easier. His hair was combed with a cowlick in the front, fifties-style, and gelled that way.

"Yeah," I said. I sat down at the nearest table, beckoning for them to sit down with me. They sat down. I glanced right and left, and then pulled out the leather wallet.

"Nice!" said Chip, grabbing for it.

"Easy, tiger," I said, holding it away from him. "Let me count it first."

I flipped the wallet open, seeing five credit cards, which we couldn't and wouldn't use. I opened the pocket, seeing...no cash.

Ryan groaned and smacked the table with his hand. "C'mon, Jenna!"

"It was one pull, Ry --"

"One pull?" He scowled. "This is the fourth one, Jenna. The fourth one where you pulled an empty wallet."

"It's not like I can see the money in the wallet, Ryan," I said angrily.

"Yeah. It's not like she can see the money in the wallet, Mr. Stanford." A strange man dressed in a dark suit stood over us, his hands clasped before him. "If you two would excuse us, I would like to speak to Miss Roth alone."

Chip and Ryan got up, Chip giving me a supportive glance before leaving. Ryan didn't even look back -- he just disappeared.

The man slid into Chip's seat and folded his hands before him. "So, Jenna, right?" he said.

I nodded. "Who wants to know?"

"I'm an old friend of William Roth."

William Roth was my uncle -- my favorite uncle. He was a pickpocket, too.

"Oh." I shifted uncomfortably, my hands sweating. The sweat wiped off on the leather wallet, and I put it down on the table and wiped my hands on my pants.

"I'd like to interest you in...a job. You want in?

I swear to god, this sounds vaguely like Ocean's 11. "Terms? And you'll have to check with my parents."

Pfft. Yeah, go ahead.

"Atlantic City. Three days. In?"

"In." I was getting in way over my head.

***

The beginning of hopefully a project. Please review. Thanks much!