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     As a child, Tinman rarely attended school and never graduated from any institution of learning—higher or lower. So, right now, he felt as if he was the dumb kid in the class who had been sent to the corner to ponder his mental inadequacies.
     It’s not as if he wasn’t intelligent. He was—very. He taught himself words by reading a 1972 edition of the New Webster’s Dictionary and Thesaurus of the English Language. He was on his third reading. He further honed his ability as a wordsmith by doing copious crosswords, at least two a day.
     He was a self-taught pool hustler extraordinaire and woe betide anyone who dared to face him with a cue stick and bad intentions. The problem was, that the game of pool had fallen on hard times. And with few people willing to dump large amounts of cash on a game, his career had hit rock bottom.
     That’s when his brother suggested he follow in his footsteps and become a burglar. His criminal education began shortly thereafter. Tek, the youngest member of the Posse, enrolled at the same time.
     The first course was Rudimentary Casing of a Standard Residential Property. Peach chose two likely locales in wealthy neighborhoods, and his students went to work. For a week, Tinman meticulously studied a house on Bret Harte Ave. He knew the of the occupants’ movements, where they shopped, what they did on weekends, and even the dog’s name. He was certain he was going to ace the course.
     On the night of the final exam, when he, Peach, and Tek prepared to infiltrate the target, based on Tinman’s intel, it turns out he cased the wrong house. The correct one was across the way, on Mark Twain Ave. He had inadvertently gotten his authors mixed up.
     The heist was called off, and Peach gave Tinman a B on the course. He knew he didn’t deserve it, but Peach insisted Twain and Harte could easily be confused as they were born one year apart, and both had magnificent mustachios. It was a stretch, but Tinman was in no position to argue. So he didn’t.
     Next up was Basic Lock Picking. Tinman soon found that basic was a relative term. There was so much to learn. And so many picks. Rake picks, hook picks, snake picks, double ball picks, half-round picks, wave brush hook picks, wafer lock picks, diamond picks, and, believe it or not, the list went on. Each was meant for a particular type of lock. Some were used only for one particular model lock. But at the end of the day, it all came down to how to pick.
     Tinman was surprised and indignant to find that all those TV programs and movies that show thieves, cops, and private dicks picking a lock using just a pick, were inaccurate and misleading. To pick a lock, any lock, one needs not only a pick but also a tension wrench—which looked like no wrench he had ever seen but was an essential part of the process, and therefore, just one more damn thing to learn. Who would have thought being a crook was so difficult?
     Before they got into methods of picking, however, Peach explained the lock components. There were the plug, or key path, the shell which contained the cylinder, the tailpiece, or the back of the plug, and the pin stack or wafers, of which there were bottom and top pins. The top pins, also called drivers, generally had springs above them, and the bottom pins were retained in the lock when the correct key was used. Finally there was the shear line, where all the bottom pins must align for the lock to open. The vocabulary list was enormous and painful, but Tinman persevered.
     Methods of picking a lock ranged from pin-by-pin, the most difficult and time-consuming, to the rake method, the quickest, easiest, and yet most advanced. Go figure. There was also the scrubbing method and the bump key method, along with a few that Tinman decided to ignore. He would be satisfied if he could scrape by with a high C.
     Despite the intricacies of the methods, Peach insisted the trick lay in the psychological state of mind of the one doing the picking. The lock picker had to believe the lock was already open. Become one with the lock, he kept chanting. Tinman believed him—until he didn’t. Then he kept saying that locks were meant to be opened with keys. Which did not go over well with the professor, who promptly took his apartment keys, locked the door, and drove off, leaving Tinman with a diamond pick and tension wrench.
     Three nights in a row, he had to blow for a cheap motel room because he could not get past the Kwikset lock that blocked him from his quarters. He became so frustrated he even tried kicking down the door, which resulted in a throbbing foot and a permanently embedded sneaker imprint. Finally, early in the morning of the fourth day, he attacked the lock with a vengeance. He was determined to beat the son of a bitch, or die trying. He survived. So did the lock. The diamond pick—Peach’s favorite—was down for the count. Mangled beyond recognition. Tinman got a D on the course and was thankful for it because he knew he didn’t deserve it.
     He proved equally inept at Illegal Car Entry when he snapped a Slim Jim in half while it was still inside the door, then set off the car alarm while attempting to get it back out.
     Opening Padlocks 101 was also a disaster. Peach told him the Duckbill Tool was perhaps the simplest burglar tool. Even an idiot could figure it out. It looked like a sickle with a long bill at one end. All one had to do was place the end of the bill between the top of the lock and the shackle. It was then a simple matter to hit the other end of the tool with a sledgehammer, and, in theory, it would force the shackle past the internal “locking dog,” essentially breaking the lock in two. Works like a dream, Peach declared. If one doesn’t aim wrong and hit one’s thumb instead of the end of the tool, noted Tinman. D minus for the course. Double ouch.
     By now, Tinman was desperate to redeem himself. He thought he saw an opportunity in Infiltrating an Occupied Domicile. Peach forewarned his students that the final exam for this course would be to enter a house containing sleeping people, spend ten minutes exploring the insides, steal some small token as proof of the excursion, and escape undetected.
     Tinman knew he would have to practice. His manner of walking was more like marching, and he fought hard to tone it down. Peach told him the secret was to emulate a cat’s walk, carefully placing one foot in front of the other and leading with the toes. He snuck around his apartment for a week imagining someone sleeping in his single bed. By the seventh day, he thought he had it down. He even felt like a cat, which was weird because he loathed cats. But he could definitely see where they would be good thieves. He was ready.
     Tek was first up. The three drove to an upper-middle-class neighborhood where Peach had chosen the house. Tinman waited in the car while Peach and Tek took off for the assignment. Twenty minutes later, they returned and slid into the car.
     “How did it go?” asked Tinman.
     “The kid nailed it first time out,” said Peach. “Nice job.”
     “Thanks,” said Tek, without a hint of smugness. “Here’s the token.” He held up a candle. The idea with the token was it should be something of little expense so the homeowners would merely think they’d misplaced it. This way, if the house proved to be a possible target for a genuine heist, the owners would not be on their guard.
     They drove a few miles to another neighborhood, not as upscale, the houses having been built many years ago. Tek waited in the car while Peach and Tinman disappeared into the dark.
     Peach led Tinman to one of the houses. “Okay, this should be a cinch. The owners are old. Like ancient. Even if they hear you, you’ll have no problem getting away before they can get their walkers out of their bedrooms.”
     “You’re taking it easy on me, aren’t you?” asked Tinman. “Just because we’re brothers, I shouldn’t get preferential treatment.”
     “You’re not,” said Peach. “There’s a dog.”
     “Oh, I see! Now you’re making it harder on me because we are brothers!”
     “Not really. It’s just that if you’re ever going to pass this course, you have to prove yourself more than you have. Now, it shouldn’t be that big a deal. The dog is as old as the people. Maybe older, given dog years and all. In fact, I think it’s kind of deaf, from what I’ve seen. Unless you slam a door or shoot off a gun, it won’t hear a thing. Let’s go.”
     They slid along the side of the house until they got to a window near the rear. Peach said, “It’s all yours. I’ll wait in the bushes.” Then he slipped to a hedge a few yards away.
     Tinman took a deep breath and stared at the window. In class, he had managed to figure out the intricacies of opening a latch from outside. And he had the correct shim! It took him only a minute to get it open, and he beamed behind his ski mask. This was going to be a piece of cake. Then, he would be back in the teacher’s favor. Oh boy!
     Silently, he slid the window up. He turned to Peach, who gave him the thumbs-up and egged him on.
He placed his hands on the sill and led with his head. Which hit something and bounced off. He peered through the opening. Nothing. He could see straight into a den, lit by a dim table light. He tried again, and again his head boinked back. Now he was freaked out.
     He retreated to the bushes and whispered, “There’s a problem. I have the window up, but when I start to go in, something invisible keeps stopping me. Like some high-tech force field.”
     Peach screwed up his face and crept to the window with Tinman right behind. Peach placed his hand through the opening and touched the obstruction. He sighed and said, “Real high-tech. It’s that kind of           plastic insulation you install with a blow dryer. Don’t worry, it won’t bite.”
     Tinman gnashed his teeth. How embarrassing. And in front of the teacher, no less. His face felt hot, and he knew it was red behind the mask.
     Peach reached into his satchel for something, but Tinman knew he had to handle this himself. He spied a little twig on the ground and picked it up. Peach pulled out a utility knife and said, “I’ll take care of it.”
     “Never mind,” said Tinman, shouldering him to the side. “I got it.”
     He jabbed with the twig, and Peach cried, “No!” But it was too late. The twig pierced the taut plastic with a loud pop, akin to a gunshot or a door slamming. The barking that erupted was even louder. Lights clicked on in the upper windows, and a walker began clunking down the stairs. Tinman was so shocked he didn’t even feel Peach shove him toward the street. He barely remembered running to the car. But as they drove away, the reality hit. And so, here he was, relegated to the backseat, the dumb kid sent to the corner to ponder his mental inadequacies.
     They dropped him off without a word from anyone. He plodded up the stairs to his apartment. Inside, he stood staring at nothing for how long he wasn’t sure. He knew he had to do something to regain his dignity and belief in himself. To do what he knew he could do well. He thought about shooting pool, but his heart wasn’t in it.
     He would cook. At low times in his life, he always retreated to the safety of the kitchen. He felt protected there and confident in his abilities. He didn’t know what to cook, so he let his body go on autopilot.
     Fifteen minutes into prep, he realized he was making his homemade tomato pasta sauce. He also knew it wouldn’t be enough to sate him. So he picked something big. Stuffed shells. That would take a sufficient amount of time to heal his shattered ego.
     As he chopped the ingredients, he turned on his little TV. He never watched the thing, but he needed voices to drown out the tongue-lashing his brain was unleashing.
     An infomercial came on for Capital Golden Home Storage Investments. He didn’t realize he was even listening until, like a bolt of lightning, an idea came. He dropped his knife and spun to the TV. As the ad continued, his eyes sparkled. By damn, he had an idea for a caper. And it was foolproof. He wasn’t sure how he knew. He just knew. His heart pounded as he suddenly saw a way out of burglar school purgatory.
He ran for his phone and called Peach. As it rang, he knew this was his last chance to prove himself. But he was confident. And he had more than some dumb apple to present to the teacher. He had stuffed shells, one of his brother’s favorites. When Peach answered, Tinman dangled the bait, and the teacher was on his way.
     An hour later, the shells were dished out, and Tinman presented Peach with a hearty plateful. Tinman ate nothing. Instead, he laid out his plan for the heist, bit by bit, mouthful by mouthful. He knew he was on to something when Peach stopped eating and began earnestly listening.
     “And the minimum purchase is ten grand?” asked Peach.
     “That’s right. And the company provides the equivalent in actual gold bullion.”
     “And the safe is free with any minimum purchase?”
     “Yup. And they give the make and model of the safe on the commercial.”
     “That’s handy.”
     “I figured it might be.”
     “Sure. We can have the full set of specs before the jug ever arrives. But how do we pick a target.”
     “We get Catfish in on the deal. He sets up the mark just like in a con. Cozies up to a likely chump in one of those yuppie bars downtown and tells the guy what a great deal he just got in on. He gets to keep his gold near him, unlike normal gold transactions. They chummy it up. Catfish makes the hook, then sets up another meet to confirm he went for it. Then we simply case the sucker’s house and wait it out.”
     “Yeah,” said Peach, his master thief’s brain clicking away. “I’m sure there’s a normal delivery time, so we’d have a ballpark.”
     “That’s what I was thinking.”
     Peach dropped his fork, and that old familiar smile spread over his face. “That’s good stuff, brother. I always knew you had it in you. Not the mechanical side, but the brain power for being the planner.”
     “Thanks. So it’s a go?”
     “You bet your ass. That’s a thing of beauty!”
     Tinman’s body relaxed. He was saved. “How do you like the shells?”
     “They’re the bomb! Like always. I give them and your plan solid A pluses!”
     Tinman smiled. He was satisfied. Because he knew he deserved them.