“And so you’ve stalked him?” I mean, to time something this perfectly, Arden would have had to study this man, his habits. I remember the incident at the Breeze Mart then. Arden knew Mr. Shackleford would be there at that time.

“I like to call it recon.”

I watch as Mean Guy places a flat palm on the glass door. But he only pushes it halfway open. He pauses then, peering into the store longingly. With a self-loathing shake of his head, he turns and considers the purse again, his stature stiff with hesitation. Slowly, he lets the door close behind him. And he walks to the purse.

I have mixed feelings when he picks it up. On the one hand, I want him to get what he deserves. On the other, I so don’t want to get caught doing this. I contemplate whether or not this could be a felony. Not that I know what constitutes a felony.

Arden gives me an anticipatory grin.

Mean Guy tests the weight of the bag, holding it by the strap with one finger and letting it dangle for a few seconds. I have no idea what he’s hoping to discern by this. Apparently finding the purse an acceptable weight, he gingerly unzips it. And, oh my God, he opens it wide.

“Score!” Arden whispers next to me.

Mean Guy is overcome with disgust. His nostrils flare as he thrusts the purse into the bushes behind the bench. He stares at his hands as if they’ve become feet.

Against my will, the corners of my mouth tug up into a grin. Arden ducks behind the steering wheel and motions for me to get down. I follow his lead, my heart pounding. “He’s looking around,” Arden explains.

After a few seconds, Arden peeks up, looking through the steering wheel. “He’s putting the purse back on the bench!”

“What? Why would he do that?” I poke my head up over the console. Sure enough, Mean Guy is arranging the purse, setting it prettily on the seat.

“He’s setting someone else up. I told you he was a jackass. Look, he’s going to his car to watch.”

Sure enough, Sporty Spice gets back in his car, eyes on the bench. And we all wait. “We should go get the purse,” I tell Arden. “Our target didn’t take the bait.”

He sighs. “I can’t go get it. He’ll recognize me, because I’ve said something to him before. Do you want to go get it?”

And risk Mean Guy thinking it was me who set him up? Uh, no.

Arden sees my hesitation. “Didn’t think so. All we can do now is watch. Might as well enjoy the moment.”

It doesn’t take long for the next victim to approach. Of all the people in the universe, it’s an old lady and a kid who is probably her bratty grandson. He’s about five years old with a straight-up bowl cut and he’s pulling her faster than her bony legs can walk. They’re about to pass the bench without noticing our little present for them. I will them with my eyes to look at the purse, and at the same time, I want them to pass by it.

Look at the purse, you little punk! No, don’t!

And suddenly, he does.

We can’t hear what he’s telling his poor grandmother, but we can see that he’s excited. He’s about to pull her finger out of its socket, trying to reach the bench. Trying to reach our putrid pocketbook. I’m dying seriously dying for that kid to pick it up and get himself a big whiff of turd pie.

This is wrong, my conscience screams. And risky. Even so, I keep watching.

Turbo Brat lets go of her hand then and Granny almost falls backward, which scares me a little. But she must be used to this kind of behavior because she catches herself just in time and with not a little grace. Meanwhile, Turbo Brat is picking up the purse and opening it. This kid deserves a trophy for being such a terror.

Arden snickers beside me. I giggle. But only a little.

Turbo Brat seems unconcerned with the money, and he doesn’t seem to be assaulted by the smell just yet or maybe young kids are immune to that scent, so he actually sticks his entire hand inside and digs around—maybe for candy or other things that interest five-year-olds more than money—and as soon as I get done laughing, I’ll die and go to hell like I should.

Arden is holding his stomach at this point. “His face,” he chokes out. “Did you see his face? Oh my God—he’s smelling his fingers—I can’t even!”

I can’t breathe. Seriously, I need air. I’m trying to roll the window down but Arden puts a hand on my arm and shakes his head. “Too … loud…,” he says and I think what he means is that we’re laughing too loud so it also means that I can’t roll down the window right now.

Turbo Brat starts to cry when he realizes what’s on his hands and Grandma saves the day by producing a handful of baby wipes. She rips each one ferociously from the travel-size box and begins to devour his hands with them. After she’s satisfied with her cleanup job, they proceed into the store with the purse in tow, probably to report the incident. The ruined five dollar bill still lies on the concrete in front of the bench.

I feel bad for Granny, I really do. But that kid just might have learned a life lesson today, so my sympathy only stretches so far. “Should we go get it?” I ask, finally catching my breath. Not that I’m volunteering. From across the parking lot, I see Mean Guy in his seat, covering his mouth with his hand. He’s still watching.

Arden clears his throat. “I don’t think we’ll have to.” He nods toward the storefront.

A boy on a skateboard is making his way on the sidewalk toward the bench. With a smooth agility, he jumps the board and skids it across the back of the bench, then lands with the poise of a tiger. Using his foot to flip up the skateboard into his hand, he bends down to examine the five dollar bill. He scrutinizes it for so long I wouldn’t be surprised if he produced a magnifying glass. Picking it up, he pulls it to his face and sniffs it, and visibly recoils. Then he puts it in his pocket and skates away.