by Linda Bennett
2026 Derringer Award Finalist (Best Short Story)
First published in Midnight Schemers and Daydream Believers – June 2025, Superior Shores Press.
Saturday afternoon and Nick tells Michael it’s time to take the new guy out with the crew.
Michael shrugs. Sure, he’ll do it—Nick’s the boss—but Michael’s not a fan of the new guy. He thinks Frankie’s too cocky, with a mouth on him that’s going to get him in trouble one day, and even though he’s mid-twenties, he seems like an overgrown kid, all stupid jokes and dumb backwards baseball caps.
But the rest of the crew like him. Even Nick likes him, reckons he’s got finger skills second to none. Michael frowns. They’d first spotted Frankie working single-o outside Waterloo, lifting wallets and phones. He’d got himself quite a stash by the time Nick and Michael cornered him behind some rubbish bins.
“This is our territory,” Nick had said, giving him a hard stare. “Either shove off and go do your thing somewhere else—or we’ll give you a trial, see if you’re a good fit for us. But if you muck it up…”
Frankie, who told them he’d been living rough for a couple of months, jumped at the chance. Now he’s sleeping on Nick’s floor, making himself useful and not complaining about the grub. Nick’s a good boss, but they all know he can’t even boil water.
Now Michael parks Frankie outside a Costa and tells him to keep his distance. “Circle round and watch. You know who’s who?”
Frankie nods. “Tank’s the stall, you’re the mechanic, Cal’s the shade and I’m—”
“The learner.” Michael gives him a withering look. “You’re not hands on yet. Got it?”
“Got it,” Frankie says, grinning and giving Michael a two-finger salute, like they’re in the army or something. “You’re the boss, boss.”
The street is dense and busy, the way Michael likes it. He scans the crowd for a mark, checking and discarding with ease born of long practice.
Old Asian lady? No.
Middle-aged guy in trainers? No.
A couple of young mums with small children—maybe. One of the babies is squirming in a fancy pushchair, red-faced and tearful. Both women are wrangling baby gear and bags and look exhausted.
Perfect.
Michael gives Tank the nod. Tank steps forward and stumbles as he passes the women, bumping the blonde off balance. Tank’s a great stall with perfect timing. The blonde tries to catch herself but lurches into her friend with the pushchair. Their bags cascade across the ground and a baby bottle rolls into the gutter.
“Whoops!” Michael is so close behind them that he nearly steps on a Browns Fashion bag. His voice is soft and soothing. “Steady on, ladies. Here, let me help.” He hunkers down, easing into position as the women grab at their things. He’s super helpful and within seconds, their phones and wallets are in his pocket. He hands the baby’s bottle to the blonde.
“That’ll need a wash, I reckon.”
She nods, hovering between annoyed and grateful. Michael dusts his hands off and keeps walking, checking out of the corner of his eye for Frankie.
The kid’s nowhere to be seen.
* * *
“So where were you?” Detective Sergeant Leonard has summoned Frankie for an update, wants to know what’s happening. It’s late, nearly midnight and the feeble light inside the DS’s patrol vehicle makes him look old and tired.
“I ducked, dude.” Frankie wrinkles his nose. The patrol car smells of sweaty cop and stale cigarette smoke. “Minute I saw those girls, I ducked. I knew them, both of them.”
“From where?”
“Around. Clubs and stuff. Whatever, man, it doesn’t matter. But if they’d seen me with the crew… Anyway, I nipped off for a bit.”
“What did you tell Michael?”
“Aw.” Frankie grimaces. “I told him I got bored, and I told him they were doing it wrong.” He rolls his shoulders. “And it’s the truth. Their techniques—I mean, what are they thinking?”
DS Leonard scowls. “It’s not your job to change the way they work.”
‘I know, but seriously. It’s like watching a herd of elephants crashing around.”
“OK,” the DS says. “But—”
“I don’t work like that,” Frankie says. “The way I work is art, man. I’m an artist.”
“You’re a thief.” DS Leonard shifts his bulk on the seat. “Don’t blow this, okay? You’re damn lucky it was me that caught you. Another cop would have thrown your arse in jail.”
“I won’t. Hey, is this yours?” He holds up an iPhone. DS Leonard reaches into his pocket and rolls his eyes when he finds it empty.
“Give that back and get out of here.”
Frankie laughs and hops out the car. “Art, man.”
* * *
The following Saturday they’re back at the pitch. This time, Michael wants him closer to the action, so Frankie pulls his cap down and stays in tight. They pull the wallets off a small group of men in dark jackets, they lift a couple of phones, and it’s all going well. Then Frankie sees Michael give Tank the eye. Coming toward them is a woman in sunglasses with a big handbag swinging at her side. Before Frankie can do or say anything, Tank’s moving into it, bumping her off balance, setting the con in motion.
But something’s wrong. Frankie scans the street and instantly spots two undercovers eyeballing the woman. He looks again—it’s the blonde from last weekend.
Aw, crap.
It’s a setup. Must be. But it can’t be DS Leonard—they’re nowhere near ready to go yet.
Michael goes into his kneeling down let-me-help-you number, and the woman’s phone and wallet disappear inside his jacket. He stands up, dusting his hands, smiling. The undercovers are walking faster now.
Frankie stops thinking and starts moving. He slides past Michael, his hands drifting like birds, and then he’s got the wallet and the phone, safe and sound. He keeps walking, doesn’t look back, doesn’t turn around, not even when a commotion erupts behind him and the two undercovers whip past at top speed.
A block away, he spots a boy, early teens, the kind who’d be keen to earn a few pounds. He makes the deal, sends the boy back to where Michael is still protesting his innocence while the woman yells and points.
* * *
Michael is livid. Not only did he have to deal with the cops trying to bust him, but to make it worse, the new guy—the damn kid!—is the one who saved him. When the cops made him turn out his pockets, he was shocked to find them empty. He hadn’t felt Frankie make the lift, hadn’t even seen him go by. And then a young boy runs up, holding the stuff—his lift!—saying he’d found these on the pavement, were they hers?
Now Nick has them both on the carpet. Michael clenches his fists. He’d like to smash something, or someone, very soon.
“Frankie,” Nick says, narrowing his eyes. “How did you know it was a setup?”
The kid is leaning back, hands behind his head, legs splayed. Like he owns the place.
“I recognized her,” he says. “She was dressed different, but she was one of the hits from last Saturday. When I saw her back again—man, it just smelled wrong.”
Michael says nothing. The woman hadn’t looked even vaguely familiar to him. His heart sinks. He knows Nick, knows his style. Nick likes people who are quick and on their game. Until the damn kid showed up, that was Michael. But now maybe it’s not.
Nick tells them there’ll be a showdown. Michael versus Frankie. Winner will be mechanic going forward.
“No.”
Michael looks up. What? What is the kid saying?
“No,” Frankie says again. “I don’t want to go up against Michael. I’ve shown you what I can do against him—he didn’t even feel my lift.” Everyone is looking at him now. “I want to go up against you.” And he nods at Nick.
* * *
Three days later and the crew is on the street again, but this time it’s the Nick and Frankie show. The guys have bets riding on the outcome. Nick picks first and sends Frankie to a girl sitting on her own outside a café.
“Watch and phone,” he says. Some of the guys smirk. The girl’s in a sleeveless sundress with a thin gold watch on her left wrist. There’s a bag at her feet and she’s reading a book. No phone in sight.
“No problem,” Frankie says. He can do this in his sleep but today it doesn’t really matter how well or badly he works. His lift is not the one that matters—it’s the lift he’s going to get Nick to make that really counts.
Just you wait, mate. Just you wait…
He holds back until there’s a crowd pushing by, then moves in. He uses the did-you-see-that-guy technique and within moments, the girl’s bag is up on the table and she’s scrabbling through it. Everything’s there, she says, relieved. He smiles, helps her put the bag back down at her feet. With her phone in his pocket, he goes for the watch.
“Thank you so much,” she says, accepting his handshake. “That was so kind of you. You can’t trust anyone these days.”
Doesn’t he just know it? Her skin is cool beneath his fingers and the clasp slides apart easily. He gives her a flirty smile and then he’s gone.
The guys give him a slow clap when he shows them the goods.
“One minute, sixteen seconds. Damn, brother, that’s fine work.” Tank is wide-eyed. Frankie’s heard that Tank has dreams of moving from stall to mechanic, but he’s got big, meaty fists, so it’s probably not going to happen. Michael, still refusing to be impressed, just glares at him.
Now it’s Nick’s turn. Frankie scans and finds DS Leonard’s mark at the ATM, stuffing an envelope with cash.
“That woman in the red scarf,” he tells Nick. “Wallet and phone.”
“Nah, too easy. See that tall guy behind her? He’s just put an envelope of cash in his inside pocket. I might even split the dough with you.”
Frankie shrugs, but inwardly he’s pumping high five. He nods. “And the phone,” he says, striving for cool.
“Sure,” Nick says and strolls off. Frankie drifts forward, the guys hot on his heels. Tank’s running the timer, they’re all watching Nick closely.
Nick moves in. Frankie is impressed by how smooth Nick is. He moves alongside the mark and lifts the envelope within thirty seconds, the phone a few moments later.
“Fifty-six seconds.” Michael’s grin is broad, radiating triumph as Nick performs a theatrical bow. “You lose, Frankie boy.”
Frankie shrugs, but his heart rate is escalating. Two breaths later, the crew are hemmed in by cops. DS Trish, still wearing her red scarf, flashes her badge and whips out handcuffs. While she’s still reading them their rights, Frankie melts away into the crowd.
* * *
“Excellent job,” DS Leonard says the next night. They’re sitting outside a McDonald’s this time. “A clean collar, well done.”
“Art.” Frankie throws him a grin.
“I’m grateful.” DS Leonard nods. “And you’re good, I’ll give you that. In fact, if you like, I can hook you up with another crew.” He takes a bite of his cheeseburger. “My guys this time. Now we’ve got rid of Nick’s lot, we get our territory back again.”
“What?” Frankie stares at the DS, who shrugs and wipes his mouth.
“So I make a bit on the side. Who doesn’t, these days? You in, boy?”
“You’re asking me to join a crew you run? Pick pockets—steal—for you?”
“That’s a bit blunt, but yes.”
“Wow,” Frankie says. “You’re not worried I might tell your cop buddies about this?”
DS Leonard shakes his head. “Who you gonna tell? Trish and Don are with me.”
“Wow.” Frankie removes an iPhone from his pocket and holds it up.
DS Leonard laughs. “You’re not catching me like that again—”
“No, I’m not.” Frankie stands. “This is a recording of you soliciting me to become part of a criminal enterprise.”
DS Leonard laughs, then stops in disbelief as Frankie produces handcuffs out of thin air and snaps them onto his wrists.
“What—” he begins, but Frankie cuts him off.
“You have the right to remain silent,” he says, then reels off the rest of the caution as DS Leonard listens, open-mouthed. Frankie takes the cheeseburger out of the DS’s hand and drops it in the bin. He smiles.
“When the mark—that’s you—doesn’t see the anti-corruption cop—that’s me—coming, it’s true art.”
###
© 2025 Linda Bennett. All rights reserved. First published in Midnight Schemers and Daydream Believers (Superior Shores Press, 2025). No part of this story may be reproduced without the author’s permission.
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