I count to ten outside the door, and then follow him inside, head down, shoulders slouched.
He’s already doing his business, middle urinal with his back to me.
I work fast. I walk past him, doing the perfect cross-body bump. The one that always draws the attention to the opposite pocket of the one I want inside of. “Sorry, dude,” I slur, pounding him on his left shoulder while my middle and ring finger graze the soft leather.
The execution is perfect—right angle, ideal amount of force, on point attention diversion.
I don’t know what happens. One moment I have my fingers on the corner of his wallet, and the next my wrist is up high behind my shoulder blades, face smashed against the bathroom wall.
“You steal from me, I break your arm.” His voice is low and gravelly in my ear and coming
