nd even Penn's old apartment up stairs for good measure.
And if by some amazing freak I actually got caught, I figured on getting a break for sure. After all, not only was I more or less the executor of Penn's estate, but I'd been burglarized twice and I was just trying to catch whoever did it. So I got into my rusty old '85 Camry and drove off. The muffler needed fixing, which was highly noticeable in the silent night streets. One of these days I'd have to accept the fact that I really was rich now, and could afford a new vehicle.
The Arts Council was a mile and a half away, but I only spotted a singl e moving car, a nondescript mid- sized sedan which followed me down Franklin for a while, but then turned off onto Washington. There's not a lot of action in S aratoga Springs on a late Thurs day night in mid-May.
I parked on a narrow backstreet one and a half blocks away from what would soon become the scene of my crime. Hammer and gloves in hand, I stepped out into the eerie three a.m. darkness, then eased along an old nineteenth-century alley toward the rear of the Arts Council building.
The alley was pitch black. The streetlights didn't make it back there, and the moon and stars were smothered by clouds. The rain that had drizzled off and on for two days had stopped for now, leaving be hind a strong wind th at whooshed down the alley, rat tled a fence, and whistled through a couple of half-open garbage cans. The only other noise I could hear above the wind was a solitary streetlight buzzing way off in the distance.
But then I heard a scream.
I stood still. Then c ame another scream, from the di rection of the Arts Council, even more bloodcurdling than the first.
I gripped my hammer tight. Somewhere in the dark ness ahead of me was a damsel in major distress. My duty was clear: charge forward, attack the villain, save the girl, and maybe get on Oprah .
On the other hand, I could always just sneak back into my car and hightail it the hell out of there. Maybe dial 911 after I made it safely home and locked the doors behind me. As Groucho Marx used to say, "Are you a man or a mouse? Squeak up!"
Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately), I didn't get the chance to find out which I was, because life inter vened. There was a scrambling noise in the alley. Then something slammed hard into my ankle.
I jumped severed feet high, and screamed myself. And then the cat—that's what it was—screamed, too.
The same scream I'd heard earlier. My damsel in dis tress. As the cat tore off for parts unknown, I felt my heart come back dow n to its usual spot. I even man aged a laugh, but stopped quickly because it sounded so hollow. I gripped my hammer more tightly than ever as I headed up the alley toward the Arts Council.
Just as I had remembered, the building's back door was well hidden. On one side of it the wall jutted out ward, and on the other side were some large yew bushes that hadn't bee n trimmed in years. I'd been in side the building several times before, while judging children's poetry for the annual Saratoga County Apple 'n' Arts Festival, and I didn't recall seeing any alarm systems. I was about to find out for sure.
The back door had a large glass panel that glinted invitingly in the darkness. This whole Donald Penn business is a real boon for local glaziers, I reflected, as I took a deep breath, brought back my hammer...
And walloped the windowpane. Smash —the whole pane jumped right to the floor. I waited breathlessly for an alarm. But nothing happened. I couldn't believe how easy this was. I put on my gloves and reached in, felt around for the lock, and opened the door.
Broken glass crunch ing under my feet, I stepped in side the dark forbidden hallway. Every nerve in my body was tinglingly alive. People who say burglary is as exciting as sex are full of shit; burglary is much more exciting. To heck with writing, this was my new career right here.
I edged upstairs, holding on to the rails. Next time I'd bring a
And if by some amazing freak I actually got caught, I figured on getting a break for sure. After all, not only was I more or less the executor of Penn's estate, but I'd been burglarized twice and I was just trying to catch whoever did it. So I got into my rusty old '85 Camry and drove off. The muffler needed fixing, which was highly noticeable in the silent night streets. One of these days I'd have to accept the fact that I really was rich now, and could afford a new vehicle.
The Arts Council was a mile and a half away, but I only spotted a singl e moving car, a nondescript mid- sized sedan which followed me down Franklin for a while, but then turned off onto Washington. There's not a lot of action in S aratoga Springs on a late Thurs day night in mid-May.
I parked on a narrow backstreet one and a half blocks away from what would soon become the scene of my crime. Hammer and gloves in hand, I stepped out into the eerie three a.m. darkness, then eased along an old nineteenth-century alley toward the rear of the Arts Council building.
The alley was pitch black. The streetlights didn't make it back there, and the moon and stars were smothered by clouds. The rain that had drizzled off and on for two days had stopped for now, leaving be hind a strong wind th at whooshed down the alley, rat tled a fence, and whistled through a couple of half-open garbage cans. The only other noise I could hear above the wind was a solitary streetlight buzzing way off in the distance.
But then I heard a scream.
I stood still. Then c ame another scream, from the di rection of the Arts Council, even more bloodcurdling than the first.
I gripped my hammer tight. Somewhere in the dark ness ahead of me was a damsel in major distress. My duty was clear: charge forward, attack the villain, save the girl, and maybe get on Oprah .
On the other hand, I could always just sneak back into my car and hightail it the hell out of there. Maybe dial 911 after I made it safely home and locked the doors behind me. As Groucho Marx used to say, "Are you a man or a mouse? Squeak up!"
Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately), I didn't get the chance to find out which I was, because life inter vened. There was a scrambling noise in the alley. Then something slammed hard into my ankle.
I jumped severed feet high, and screamed myself. And then the cat—that's what it was—screamed, too.
The same scream I'd heard earlier. My damsel in dis tress. As the cat tore off for parts unknown, I felt my heart come back dow n to its usual spot. I even man aged a laugh, but stopped quickly because it sounded so hollow. I gripped my hammer more tightly than ever as I headed up the alley toward the Arts Council.
Just as I had remembered, the building's back door was well hidden. On one side of it the wall jutted out ward, and on the other side were some large yew bushes that hadn't bee n trimmed in years. I'd been in side the building several times before, while judging children's poetry for the annual Saratoga County Apple 'n' Arts Festival, and I didn't recall seeing any alarm systems. I was about to find out for sure.
The back door had a large glass panel that glinted invitingly in the darkness. This whole Donald Penn business is a real boon for local glaziers, I reflected, as I took a deep breath, brought back my hammer...
And walloped the windowpane. Smash —the whole pane jumped right to the floor. I waited breathlessly for an alarm. But nothing happened. I couldn't believe how easy this was. I put on my gloves and reached in, felt around for the lock, and opened the door.
Broken glass crunch ing under my feet, I stepped in side the dark forbidden hallway. Every nerve in my body was tinglingly alive. People who say burglary is as exciting as sex are full of shit; burglary is much more exciting. To heck with writing, this was my new career right here.
I edged upstairs, holding on to the rails. Next time I'd bring a
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