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years, time to show some interest in the community, things that matter, world without end, and blah, blah, blah. I don’t hear any of it because it doesn’t matter.
    They make me stock little Hello Kitty trinkets and action figures on creaky shelves for eight hours with only a thirty-minute break for lunch.
    I spend that time on the pay phone outside, talking to the Fixer.
    I don’t know his name, he’s a go-between. Talks to my lawyer for me. He’s been my buffer between the real world and the world of thieves for almost ten years. My father trusted him with his life and so do I, because it’s not just bad business for guys like this to sell out the people they protect—it’s suicide. That’s why you never know their real names. That’s why it’s always business and no small talk. There are friends and there are enemies and thereare phantoms who walk in your place, selling the illusion that you actually exist. They buy your houses. They pay your taxes. They make sure there are no photographs of you on the Internet. The phantoms know the score, and they walk real soft, but they don’t do it for free. Good thing I happen to be a little rich.
    I tell him I need a few things arranged by tomorrow morning. Money things. Cash in hand and the key to my safe deposit box. The gear I asked for last week. I’m about to take one hell of a risk and here’s the plan. He tells me sure, man, just call up anytime and make my life a living hell. We talk price and he calms down. We work it all out. All the leads are laid carefully from end to end.
    Tomorrow morning, my gear. My money. On the grid again.
    Back to the store and it’s all a blur. Everyone ignores me. No one makes eye contact. I’m invisible. I’m just going through the motions with my hands, pretending to be something I am not. They have no idea who I really am.
    Perky little Sunshine tells me what a great job I’ve done when my shift is over at five. I should expect a raise soon. Awesome. I’ll be able to buy a car with the extra fifty cents.
    She shakes my hand and sends me out with a big grin, feeling good about her contribution to the community. I leave the store through a glass doorway with silly bell-chimes on it that look like Mickey Mouse, and the black Lexus is on the curb, waiting to take me back to the halfway house.
    We ride in silence.
    Inside, I’m screaming.
    And slowly . . . the rage solidifies into a stream of thought.
    Focuses like a laser.
    The plot begins to become visible again.
    Two days to do it.
    The prize, just beyond my reach.

3
    00000-3
    THE GETAWAY
T he sun sneaks up and blinds me through the open window of the bunk room. I pull on jeans and a plain black T-shirt my father bought for me, and I wash my face and look at myself in the bathroom mirror. I ask myself if I know what I’m doing.
    A voice comes back and tells me full ahead, no fear.
    They serve us a breakfast of greasy bacon, eggs and home fries, and then we sit in a little room for a few minutes and “open up” to an underpaid social worker in a clean pink shirt who looks like he has a lot more problems than we do. He gives us a “worksheet” that has neat rows of way-too-general yes and no questions printed on it, which we have to fill out while we eat. Do I feel I can be of use to society? Am I feeling productive today? Is there something I would like to talk about with a friend or a relative? It’s a circle jerk that makes my stomach hurt. Maybe it’s just the bad food.
    The rage, under control now, just enough.
    So I can navigate.
    Time to run like hell.
    •  •  •
    T he law partners drop me off at Toy Jam and Franklin tells me to play nice at school. Guess he’s trying to be funny. Washington just grunts. Gives me a look of tired contempt I’ve seen many timesbefore. Franklin just looks bored. I can tell they both had a long drive from the safe house, wherever the hell it is.
    Perky Sunshine is happy I’m early. They got a new shipment of Godzilla