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     Most longtime residents of northern Nevada did not appreciate the recent influx of wealthy Californians fleeing from high taxes and dense living in Silicon Valley and the Bay Area.
     Peach and Tinman, however, found it quite advantageous. The new transplants seemed to think Nevada was quaint and free from all the dangers and modern ills The Golden State boasted, and therefore let their guards down. Which was perfect for a couple of professional heisters plying their trade in the Reno/Tahoe area. So much so that the two brothers were experiencing a boom in their chosen industry.
     This night’s caper happened to be a contract job. Their fence, Jahllo, fingered the target and promised a handsome payday to fill a special order for one of his wealthy clients.
     The house was west of Reno in a new, tony development near Lake Stanley and the Lakeridge Golf Course. The few streets comprising the small, circular community had goofy Italian names like Vista Montagna, Piazza Villagio, and Vista Occhio (roughly translating to Eye View?).
     Only half of the lots in the development had been built on, and Arthur and Camilla Addington’s place, located on Vista Favoloso (no kidding), was the sole home on the gently curved street.
     Tinman cased the house for two weeks and followed the couple, figuring out how they spent their lives. In particular, what they did on weekends. Three nights before the day of the heist, Peach planted himself inside a maintenance building some 200 yards away. He was armed with his newly bought USRP N210. At just under $2000, the high-tech transceiver featured high-bandwidth, high-dynamic range processing capability. In Burglarese, this simply meant it could monitor the signals emitted from the Addington’s security system. Like many of the newer systems installed in homes, it was wireless to make operating more convenient for lazy homeowners. These wireless systems use unencrypted radio frequencies to send signals from the sensors to the control panel. So, every time Arthur or Camilla opened a window or door tagged with a sensor, a command was sent to the control panel, even if the system was not armed.
     If a burglar is patient enough, they may get lucky and even pick up the main passcode when one of the owners arms or disarms the system. Lucky for all concerned, Peach was very patient and, during his surveillance, had indeed amassed the complete set of commands and main passcode. Now, it would have been easy enough to wait for the owners to leave and replay the passcode into the control panel and gain access. But Peach enjoyed his new toy so much he decided to have a little fun.
     At noon on Saturday, the day before the heist, he sent a command to the control panel, triggering a false alarm. The police showed up. They searched the house to no avail and left. At two, he did it again, with the same results. He set off false alarms three more times, and by early evening, the cops were fed up. They informed the Addingtons their system had a glitch and strongly suggested they call a technician. Arthur rang the company’s hotline, finding the closest qualified serviceman was in Sacramento, and seeing the next day was a Sunday, he would not be able to help them until Monday. The polite person on the phone suggested that until then, the Addingtons turn off the system. And they did.
     The next morning, Arthur and Camilla attended church. After which they returned home, changed clothing, and hurried off to their next form of worship, golf. Tinman had found they had a standing tee-time every Sunday afternoon, and they never broke it.
     Shortly after leaving, Peach and Tinman arrived in a recently “borrowed” work van, with plates—also borrowed—from an entirely different vehicle. They pulled confidently into the circular driveway and parked at the front door. Dressed in official white coveralls and caps, they strode around to the rear of the house. Tinman carried a Neoprene insulated hot/cold tote bag.
     Peach waved his hands dramatically over the back door, said, “Open sesame!” then, using the raking method, picked the lock in four seconds flat.
     Inside, they soon found the Addingtons—though possessing not a dram of Italian blood—were nonetheless obsessed with all things Italian: artwork, furniture, music, etc. It, therefore, made perfect sense that they chose to live in an Italian-themed housing development. Not to mention, the view was Favoloso!
     Peach and Tinman were not interested in a safe and did not take the time to look for one. Their target was wine.
     Jahllo, the Arabian horse trader and fence, had been contacted by an unscrupulous wine collector who was recently outbid for some seriously expensive and rare Italian wines. The man who bested him was none other than Arthur Addington, a well-known figure at wine auctions and collector extraordinaire.             Jahllo’s client was incensed and offered to pay big bucks to relieve Arthur of his new acquisitions and deliver them into his greedy hands. After Jahllo’s cut, Peach and Tinman stood to make a healthy haul.
     When the assignment first came in, Tinman was skeptical. Who collected wine? Wasn’t it for drinking? After he learned the cost of some collectible bottles, he was aghast. But as Jahllo explained, collecting wine was a pretty cagey hobby. It was one of the best-performing luxury assets with an average annual growth of 25%, topping art, jewelry, and coins. Hmm. On second thought, it’s best to leave that bottle corked.
     As they moved through the house, Tinman searched in vain for a door leading to a basement. Where else does one have a wine cellar? It came as a surprise to both to find there was no basement. Not only that, but the wine cellar ended up being just off the expansive dining room, in a nook designed especially for it.
     They stared in awe. Who wouldn’t? It was a Euro Cave Revelation Double L Deluxe Model. Starting at a cool fourteen grand, it was the gold standard in freestanding wine cellars. It featured a revolutionary self-closing, soft-close shelving system to prevent vibrations. For as all oenophiles know, vibration is the enemy of wine.
     Temperature stability, the holy grail of wine storage, is achieved by providing a constant 55°, with the humidity never fluctuating from 70%. UV-free lighting further assures that the wine does not age too quickly. Heaven forbid!
     The gleaming case stood about six feet high and almost five feet wide, capable of holding 200 bottles. Most of the slots were filled. There was no lock.
     Peach swung open the doors and said, “Try not to drop any.”
     Tinman groaned. He was a beer drinker and couldn’t understand all the hoopla regarding wine. The stuff just made him sleepy, and most women wine drinkers became either mean or promiscuous, neither trait particularly alluring. Still, the payday would be a good one. If they could find what they were looking for.
     He pulled out a list provided by Jahllo, and they examined it.
     “The first one looks easy enough,” said Peach.
     “I can barely read it!” replied Tinman with a grudge.
     “I’m on it. I’ve been doing a little learning when I was hanging out picking up the security codes. You know, brushing up on wine lingo and Italianio. Check this out. Dove si mangiar il migliorio gelatio! Pretty good, huh?”
     “What does it mean?”
     “Hey! One step at a time! Anyway, this first one on the list is our primary target. There should be three bottles in here. It’s a 1978 Giacomo Conterno Monfortino Barolo Riserva.”
     “Christ. Can’t they call it something simple, like they do with beer? Give me a Bud. Everybody knows what you’re talking about.”
     “I don’t like Budweiser. Gives me the runs.”
     “It was an example!”
     “Oh. I get it. Yeah, I don’t know why they don’t do that. Maybe the long name makes it more expensive.”
     “Wouldn’t surprise me. Alright, you take that side. We’ll work through them one at a time.”
Twenty minutes later, the insulated tote bag held nine bottles, all carefully rolled in bubble wrap. They had one more to find to complete the heist.
     “Did you know a lot of these wines come from a specific kind of grape?” asked Peach.
     “I don’t care,” replied Tinman gruffly.
     “That’s too bad because it’s true. And this special type of grape is called Nebbiolo.”
     “Big deal.”
     “I’ll bet you want to know what that means.”
     “No, I don’t”
     “Secretly, you do. So I’ll tell you. It means fog. So I was wondering if maybe that came from how you feel after you drink it.”
     “Most likely. Will you please keep looking. The last one is a 1945 Biondi Santi Brunello di Montalcino.”
     “Wow, you really mauled that,” noted Peach expertly. “But, yeah, this is a biggie. Jahllo told me one of these suckers can go for over six grand.”
     Tinman’s hand froze with a bottle partly slid out from its cradle. “You’re kidding.”
     “Who’s gonna kid about something as ridiculous as that?”
     “True.” Tinman glanced at the label, saw it was not the one they were looking for, and slid it back into place. He moved down the line.
     Peach said, “All this talk about Italy makes me feel like eating Italian tonight. Maybe we should have your famous calboli.”
     There was no reply, but Peach knew his brother was irritated. He grinned, eager to reignite the age-old argument. “Yeah, nothing like a couple of piping hot calbolis after a hard day stealing stuff.” A pronounced exhale from Tinman told him the explosion was nigh.
     “You know damn well it’s called a stromzone.”
     “Eh, it’s like the old potato, tomato thing. You say it one way, and I say—”
     “It is not the same thing! The difference is I am the cook. And I made up the name because it is a cross between a stromboli and a calzone.”
     “Right. Thus, calboli.”
     Tinman turned from the wine cellar, fists clenched at his sides. “I don’t expect you to understand this, but it’s a question of phonesthetics.”
     “Naturally,” said Peach, facing off with him, the wine now forgotten.
     Tinman smirked. “You don’t even know what it means.”
     “Prove it.”
     “Certain words are more aesthetically pleasing to the ear.”
     “Right! I mean, listen to the sweet sound. Calboli.”
     Tinman shook with rage. “That is not sweet! It’s discordant! And that is why my dish is called stromzone. You see? It rolls off the tongue and produces a harmonious sound capturing the essence of the food.”
     “I disagree. Calboli is better.”
     Tinman’s face turned beet red with ire. “It’s not up to you.”
     “I eat it too.”
     “But you don’t make it!”
     “I help sometimes! I like to knead the dough. It helps relieve my anxiety.”
     Tinman gaped. “You have anxiety?!”
     “Not really. But it sounded good.”
     Tinman, demanding an end to this silliness, stomped his foot hard on the floor.
     “Careful!” said Peach, pointing to the tote bag. “Vibrations.”
     Tinman growled fiercely, and Peach decided it was time to get back to business. They both turned to the wine cellar and, five minutes later, located the final bottle.
     On their way to the back door, Peach said, “So, can we have what we were talking about for tonight’s dinner?”
     Tinman murmured, “I don’t have all the ingredients.”
     “Do you have the flour and yeast?”
     “Of course! And I have some olive oil, red and orange peppers, and ripe tomatoes, but that’s it. So drop it.”
     “I’ll bet Camilla stocks a good fridge. Let’s see if she’s got the rest of the stuff.”
     Tinman started to argue, but Peach veered off to the kitchen. When Tinman stepped in, he was already poking around in the refrigerator. “Okay, so what else do we need? Mozzarella, right? Here we go.” He tossed a bag of shredded cheese on the counter. “Next?”
     “They won’t have it all!”
     “They’re Italian groupies. Come on, spill it.”
     Tinman sighed. “An assortment of meats. Like deli meats.”
     “Okay, we have some sliced Italian roast beef, and, let’s see, something here looks like ham.” He held out a bag. Against his will, Tinman examined it.
     “This is prosciutto.”
     “Is that good? I mean, will it work?” Tinman mumbled under his breath. Peach said, “Was that a uh-huh or uh-uh?”
     “Yes! It’ll work!”
     “Oh, good. Get a bag, will you.”
     “Huh?”
     “A bag to put this stuff in. Bottom drawer to the left of the sink.”
     “And how do you know that’s where the bags will be?”
     Peach looked at him dumbfounded. “Because that’s where people put their bags.”
     Tinman sneered, went to the sink, pulled open the drawer, and stared at a bundle of grocery store bags. He sighed, pulled one out, and returned to the fridge, where he loaded the food. “This still won’t cut it. So there, smart guy. I need—”
     “Ricotta!” cried Peach. “Only half a container, though. Is that enough?”
     Tinman growled and yanked the container from his hand.
     “That should do it, no?” asked Peach. But Tinman had disappeared, heading for the back door.
     As they pulled the van away from the house, Peach couldn’t resist. “We should compromise and call it a strombolzone. See how that rolls right off the tongue? Music to my ears.”