those White Castle sliders, I knew sooner or later I was bound to pay the price for the renegade behavior I’d so irresponsibly demonstrated the night before.
Relentless, Frank barked the whole time I was in the bathroom.
“Okay,” I yelled as I walked from the john. “What the hell’s your problem, Frank?”
He danced around in front of the door. Then he raced to the blender and barked. He took turns doing that over and over while I buttoned up my pants and drew my belt tight.
When I asked him if he had to go, Frank got excited. He snorted several times, turned two complete circles, then did a burnout across the tile and bounced off the door.
I told him I’d be right with him. I had to collect my thoughts after such a brutal, unforgiving shit. Never again , I swore. I hoped White Castle burned to the ground.
Frank was going crazy. Barking and turning circles. Scratching the hell out of the bottom six inches of the back of my door.
“I’m coming.” I picked Frank up and carried him down to the alley, where I was confident he’d piss on as many things as he possibly could as long as it didn’t involve stepping in snow.
When we reached the sidewalk Frank didn’t disappoint me. He made it only two feet before he pissed on the welcome mat. Then he hiked his leg on a McDonald’s cup. He looked around curiously. Sniffed and snorted. He ran over to a concrete step and moved his bowels underneath a faded green campaign sign that was still stuck in the ground a year and a half after the election.
He finished up with a world-record eight more pisses then he ran the Firecracker 500 up the stairs and waited for me by the door. When I got upstairs, I walked to my desk and grabbed a bottle of Southern Comfort, mixed a splash with some orange juice. I needed a few more So Co’s to get my head in the game. I rummaged through the junk drawer on my desk and found a Vicodin that looked tempting. I dropped it down the hatch and watched Frank chew on his ass while the Chairman of the Board sang quietly in the background. Outside the frost-glazed window snow flurries did ballet in the arctic winter air.
•••••
Doyle rolled into the parking garage in the van that said Naramore Locksmith Co. and parked by the elevator. He set a few orange cones outside the van. If there was one thing he’d learned in the thieving business, the most important tools you could ever have on a job were orange cones. People accepted orange cones, never questioned them. Placing them around a commercial van parked in a handicap slot added just the right touch of legitimacy.
He removed the hockey bag with effort and slung the strap over his shoulder. He moved toward the elevator with a wig covering most of the right side of his face, the side the security camera would film. He held a handkerchief in his right hand and used it to push buttons and open doors. Doyle dropped the bag onto the floor to give his shoulder a rest as the elevator began going up.
Once Doyle decided to hit Mr. Parker, he did what he always did. He wrote a letter to the lock firm on letterhead that he printed up, and they pretty much gave him anything he asked for. In this case: the master keys. Doyle had everything he needed for the job; he’d planned it meticulously; he’d left nothing to chance.
When the elevator opened, he stepped into the lavish hallway of the Indigo and walked carefully to Apartment 202. He knocked loudly to be sure no one was home before he slid his master key into the lock. From previous surveillance, he already knew there was a dead bolt, but he wasn’t worried.
Everybody had a deadbolt, but nobody used it.
He heard the tumblers move, and click . He suddenly found himself inside the living room and he closed the door slowly, quietly. Then he got that funny taste in his mouth, the taste only a home invader would know and appreciate. Short of spending an evening inside one of Cowboy Roy’s girls, it was the greatest moment he would
Relentless, Frank barked the whole time I was in the bathroom.
“Okay,” I yelled as I walked from the john. “What the hell’s your problem, Frank?”
He danced around in front of the door. Then he raced to the blender and barked. He took turns doing that over and over while I buttoned up my pants and drew my belt tight.
When I asked him if he had to go, Frank got excited. He snorted several times, turned two complete circles, then did a burnout across the tile and bounced off the door.
I told him I’d be right with him. I had to collect my thoughts after such a brutal, unforgiving shit. Never again , I swore. I hoped White Castle burned to the ground.
Frank was going crazy. Barking and turning circles. Scratching the hell out of the bottom six inches of the back of my door.
“I’m coming.” I picked Frank up and carried him down to the alley, where I was confident he’d piss on as many things as he possibly could as long as it didn’t involve stepping in snow.
When we reached the sidewalk Frank didn’t disappoint me. He made it only two feet before he pissed on the welcome mat. Then he hiked his leg on a McDonald’s cup. He looked around curiously. Sniffed and snorted. He ran over to a concrete step and moved his bowels underneath a faded green campaign sign that was still stuck in the ground a year and a half after the election.
He finished up with a world-record eight more pisses then he ran the Firecracker 500 up the stairs and waited for me by the door. When I got upstairs, I walked to my desk and grabbed a bottle of Southern Comfort, mixed a splash with some orange juice. I needed a few more So Co’s to get my head in the game. I rummaged through the junk drawer on my desk and found a Vicodin that looked tempting. I dropped it down the hatch and watched Frank chew on his ass while the Chairman of the Board sang quietly in the background. Outside the frost-glazed window snow flurries did ballet in the arctic winter air.
•••••
Doyle rolled into the parking garage in the van that said Naramore Locksmith Co. and parked by the elevator. He set a few orange cones outside the van. If there was one thing he’d learned in the thieving business, the most important tools you could ever have on a job were orange cones. People accepted orange cones, never questioned them. Placing them around a commercial van parked in a handicap slot added just the right touch of legitimacy.
He removed the hockey bag with effort and slung the strap over his shoulder. He moved toward the elevator with a wig covering most of the right side of his face, the side the security camera would film. He held a handkerchief in his right hand and used it to push buttons and open doors. Doyle dropped the bag onto the floor to give his shoulder a rest as the elevator began going up.
Once Doyle decided to hit Mr. Parker, he did what he always did. He wrote a letter to the lock firm on letterhead that he printed up, and they pretty much gave him anything he asked for. In this case: the master keys. Doyle had everything he needed for the job; he’d planned it meticulously; he’d left nothing to chance.
When the elevator opened, he stepped into the lavish hallway of the Indigo and walked carefully to Apartment 202. He knocked loudly to be sure no one was home before he slid his master key into the lock. From previous surveillance, he already knew there was a dead bolt, but he wasn’t worried.
Everybody had a deadbolt, but nobody used it.
He heard the tumblers move, and click . He suddenly found himself inside the living room and he closed the door slowly, quietly. Then he got that funny taste in his mouth, the taste only a home invader would know and appreciate. Short of spending an evening inside one of Cowboy Roy’s girls, it was the greatest moment he would
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