The second—and this is the one you see donewrongin movies all the time—is to hot-wire it. It’s not just touching two wires together. The first thing to try is breaking the ignition lock with a screw and slide hammer so you can get to the ignition switch. If that doesn’t work, sure, pry open the panels to expose the ignition cylinder, get your wire clippers, and go to town.
And by the way, this only works on vintage cars. Anything made this millennium? You’ll need a bunch of fancy equipment and a whole other person.
Basically, it’s a lot of work. Also not my style.
I opt for the third and most elegant way to steal a car: being handed the keys.
I’m currently waiting around the corner from the back entrance of Moulin d’Orange. It’s one of those places where the servers say “pardon my reach” and the menu includes the words “farm to table.” The produce delivery comes every Monday and Thursday at 4:30. Today, it’s running a little late. Todd, the owner of a one-person produce-delivery business, may have been stuck on the phone with a very angry client shouting in a perfect French accent.
His van comes careening around the corner, just missing me, and screeches to a stop in front of the back door. A very frazzledTodd jumps out of the van and starts unloading wood crates of tomatoes and lettuce and zucchini. No oranges for Moulin d’Orange, weirdly enough.
“Let me help you with that,” I say in a slight Southie accent.
Today, I’m dressed in black slacks and a crisp, collared button-down. My hair is pulled back into a severe bun, and my makeup is the kind of impeccable that’s barely noticeable.
Todd gives me a relieved look. “Yes, please.”
He starts loading me up with crates, muttering to himself about inventory, poor guy. He unlocks the door for me, and I sail right into the kitchens of Moulin d’Orange. The occupants are in ordered chaos. Clamoring voices, clinking pots and pans, that sort of thing.
“Set those there,” someone snaps, nodding to an empty space on the counter without looking up from stirring a huge vat of soup. They reach for some seasoning with their spare hand.
I set down the crate, but instead of going back to help Todd, I slip into the back room, where some servers are gossiping. They look up when I enter.
“Hey,” I say. “Not working today. Just checking the schedule.”
They move away from a cluttered desk, one of them nodding to the chart pinned above it. “You want to trade for Saturday? I got double shifts all next week.”
“Sorry,” I say, scanning the schedule. “Going out of town.”
Nobody points out that they don’t know who I am, because I’ve acted like I know who they are and nobody wants to admit they don’t remember meeting someone. They go back to gossiping, but I’ve already slipped a black vest off the back of the chair.
I’m out the back door just as Todd’s coming in with his last load, the produce piled high enough he doesn’t see me. I slip on the vest and walk around the corner, up the alley, and back toward the front entrance on Newbury.
There’s a handful of valets waiting at the station in front of therestaurant, and I hang back just out of sight so I can get the timing right. I watch an older couple get out of a silver Mercedes-Benz. Then a middle-aged man with a blazer and a comb-over steps out of a black Tesla. Behind him is a woman in a BMW. Then a red Jaguar. Meh. But behind that…
A 2026 Rolls-Royce Ghost. Black. Extended Series III.
Bingo.
I walk up to the last valet waiting. He’s a gangly college-age guy, his face pinched into a sour expression.
“Howyadoin’,” I say. “I’m taking over for you. Greg says he needs to chat.”
Valet Guy scowls. “Of course he does.”
See? There’s always a Greg.
He heads to the back, and I step up to the valet station just as the Ghost pulls to a stop in front of it. A politician-type guy steps out, the bland kind with an inoffensive suit and haircut. He hands the keys to the host, taking his ticket. He’s already through the doors of the restaurant when the attendant hands me the keys.
“B3,” she says.
I nod, taking the keys and walking professionally to the other side of the car instead of sliding across the hood like I want to.
Inside are bright blue leather seats, mood lighting, and limousine-like luxury. I’m surprised there wasn’t a chauffeur. Maybe if he’d had one, his car that costs more than four Harvard law degrees wouldn’t have got boosted. Ah well.
I start the engine, smile to myself, and speed off down Newbury.
After a quick stop at one of Infamous Pete’s safe-deposit boxes—where I use one of his PINs to find a wad of cash, a half-empty flask, and an ancient decrepit journal—I take the Rolls just outsideof Salem and pull into the front parking spot at Adams Brothers Mortuary and Crematory, Inc. There are two other cars in the lot: a BMW and a hearse. No mourners milling about the place. No funeral services in the chapel. That makes things easier.
