16

“This is the stupidest thing we’ve ever done,” Junior complained. He and Rashad, both wearing khaki maintenance staff uniforms, were strolling down the hall of the third floor of the Monopoly.

“It is not stupid. It’s the beginning of our brilliant careers.”

“Our brilliant careers in Wharton Youth Correctional. I think I’ve lost my mind, Rashad. You know that class Miz Rainbolt teaches where you talk about values? Remember that one? I can’t believe what I’m doing. Hitting up white ladies on the Boardwalk to impress Rachel Rose, and now I’m robbing the Monopoly with you.”

“We are not robbing the Monopoly. We are robbing that cracker’s equipment room in order to make the most stunning film that’s ever been made on the pageant and Atlantic City.”

“You want to explain to me the difference? You want to explain to the ACPD the difference when they’re snapping the cuffs on?”

“Cool it, Junior.” Rashad rattled the big wad of keys he sometimes carried as an affectation. He’d attached to it the master key Junior had lifted from his mom.

“I don’t know why we have to do this, man.”

“Junior, your weakened powers of cogitation amaze me. Women don’t steal your strength, son, they steal your brains.” He tsked. “That naughty Rachel Rose. At least we can put her to work, playing Miss A, 1937. She’s pretty enough. And blond and blue-eyed just like her—Bette Cooper. She’ll be perfect.”

“That I get. But why can’t we just use that old camera we’ve been using?”

“That adjective describes it precisely—old. Old and tired and unprofessional. When you’re making a film that’s going to be seen by the Master Himself, by My Man, Spike Lee, you use the top of the line. The best.”

“You think this is how Spike got started? Stealing video equipment from a surveillance office of a casino hotel? From a man who’s known to be stark raving crazy? Who’ll probably come and slit our throats in our sleep?”

Rashad didn’t deign to answer that. Instead, he recited his wish list. A professional camcorder with hi-fi stereo, autofocus, 8:1 zoom. Editing equipment. A topflight VCR. A slew of blank tapes.

“I’m sorry I ever told you about this stuff. I’m sorry my mother told me. I’m sorry I was ever born.”

“Now, now, Junior. Let’s don’t get melodramatic. Save it for the movie.”

“Furthermore, I can’t believe we’re doing this in broad daylight.”

“You’d rather do it in the dark? Don’t be silly. I told you. People never see the obvious. Here we go now. Maintenance. Accounting. Security Operations.”

Junior groaned as Rashad tapped on the door.

“Oh, man,” Rashad said loudly, for show, though there was nobody to hear except Junior. Wayne had stepped out for just a minute. They’d waited till they saw him go through the door marked Gents, then locked the door from the outside with the master key, trapping Wayne inside. “I hate it when you tell them you’re gonna be here, nobody’s home. Can’t rely on nobody these days. I guess we’re gonna have to let ourselves in.”

Rashad slipped the master key into the equipment room lock and turned it. They didn’t have long. Wayne would be hollering.

The room was dim and cold. Racks and rows of state-of-the-art show-and-tell equipment glowed and hummed and whirred.

“Come to daddy, babies,” Rashad purred.