“You come with me,” Nish said to Travis.

Nish had come up to him in the hotel lobby and told him he had been thinking about the sunglasses and what to do with them.

“You should have taken them back right when Andy handed them to you.”

“I didn’t, okay. And I can’t give them back now.”

Travis didn’t suppose Nish could. How would it look: Nish, nearly two days later, handing over something and saying it must have landed in his pocket when he dumped the vendor’s table?

“But I can put them back,” Nish said, smiling.

“What do you mean?”

“If Andy can lift them, I can lift them back, don’t you think? I’ll just have to make sure I don’t get caught.”

“You’re going to sneak them back?”

“Reverse shoplifting. Like a film running backwards. C’mon!”

The two of them, alone, started off down Yonge Street. The springlike weather was holding. Nish wanted to try walking without the crutches, and he seemed fine except for a slight limp.

They walked down the other side this time until they were past the Zanzibar strip club–Nish had good reason to steer clear of it–and then, a half-block below, they crossed back over.

Nish had the stolen sunglasses in his pocket. When they reached the vendor’s table he began trying on various glasses and twice asked the vendor for the little hand-held mirror so he could see what they looked like. They all looked ridiculous.

Travis moved on down the street to wait. He was uncomfortable standing there and knew that two young kids would make the vendor suspicious, especially if they weren’t buying anything.

As he was waiting, two familiar faces cut through the crowd outside the Zanzibar. He knew them both immediately–one tall and balding with a ponytail, the other dark with a nasty scar on the face. It was the two crooks from the Hockey Hall of Fame!

They came to a stop right beside Travis, not because they recognized him, but because they were hungry. When Travis turned his back so they wouldn’t recognize him, he saw he was standing right next to a hot-dog vendor, and that was where the two plotters had been headed. They ordered bratwurst and Cokes, and while they were waiting for the vendor to finish cooking the big sausages, they talked.

“You’re certain we can trust him?” the short dark one asked.

“For five thousand dollars you can trust anyone.”

“He leaves the fire exit open–that’s what he said, eh–after six p.m.?”

“That’s when they close today. There’ll be just the two security guards after that–and one of them’s one of us.” The one with the ponytail laughed, enjoying his little secret.

The two plotters finished their food and drinks and were off down Yonge Street. Travis shifted carefully as they passed, always keeping his face out of sight, and when they were gone he let out his breath as if he were letting a balloon go.

Nish came running up.

“Done! He never even noticed.”

“Good,” said Travis. “But now we’ve got another problem.”