like three sentences, is that all you know how to say?” I asked him through the door. “Open the door, I’m a cop, what the fuck—is that all you know how to say?”
“I’d open the door, Tina Finn,” he warned me.
“Oh yeah? Why?” I said to the door, kind of bold and cocky. It was weird. All of a sudden I felt like I was flirting with someone in a bar. “What are you going to do to me, Officer?”
“I’m going to arrest you,” he announced.
“I’m not the one trying to break in and harass an innocent citizen in her home, dude,” I retorted. “I put a call in to 911, you’re the one who’s in the shithouse.”
“There’s a stay on the apartment, Tina,” he informed me through the door. “No one’s allowed to fuck with the locks. You’re in violation of the law.”
“Except I didn’t fuck with the locks, Pierre,” I said. “I put in a spring bolt and some chain guards. The locks are fine. When I’m not here? The locks work just fine. When I am here? YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED IN.”
There was a pause, and then a bump right at my shoulder. “Shit,” I heard him mumble. He must have been right up against the door. For a second I thought, wow, this door is so thin I can hear everything—and if I can hear everything, he can probably bash it open with one of those little battering-ram things cops carry, whether or not I have the spring bolt in place. And then I thought, is he the kind of cop who carries those things? What kind of a cop is this guy anyway? Does he have a gun on him? He didn’t have a gun or a uniform the last time I saw him, but there was no knowing if he had any of those things right now. I took a step back, because it did occur to me that if he started whacking at the door I didn’t want to be leaning against it. But that did not seem to be on his mind. For the moment, at least, he was quiet.
And then someone else started talking.
I couldn’t hear what the other person was saying. The voice was much softer, more distant; I heard a murmur, and a question. Pete answered, only now I couldn’t hear him either; he was practically whispering to whoever was out there. This should have been good news—let’s face it, having an angry cop screaming at me to let him in was not an ideal situation—but the whispering voices actually made me more anxious than the yelling had. I stepped back to the door and put my ear up against it to see if I could hear what the other person was saying or what the angry Pete Drinan was saying. But now I could barely hear Pete. He wasn’t up against the door anymore; he was over by the elevators. The other person asked him a question that I couldn’t hear, and he answered, and again I couldn’t hear. I thought the other person might be his brother, that would make the most sense, but it didn’t really sound like Doug. This person was talking more thoughtfully, and Drinan was talking thoughtfully back. I truly couldn’t tell what was going on.
Given my options, I decided to go for it. I slid back the spring bolt very quietly and carefully, which was exceptionally difficult; those spring bolts hold pretty tight—what use would they be if they didn’t? Luckily, Drinan was far enough away, and the conversation was apparently riveting enough that he wasn’t super-attuned to the sound of a spring bolt being slowly scraped back. He had already thrown the tumblers in the three door locks, so all I had to do was make sure the chain guards were in place and open the door as silently as possible.
He was past the elevators, his back to me, and he was talking to whoever lived in the other apartment. It made so much sense when I saw it that I almost laughed out loud about how paranoid I was being. The lady—I could see it was a lady with kind of messy brown hair—was standing in her doorway, like all the yelling had woken her up and she had come out to investigate. But she didn’t seem angry. She had her hand on Drinan’s arm, and every now and then
“I’d open the door, Tina Finn,” he warned me.
“Oh yeah? Why?” I said to the door, kind of bold and cocky. It was weird. All of a sudden I felt like I was flirting with someone in a bar. “What are you going to do to me, Officer?”
“I’m going to arrest you,” he announced.
“I’m not the one trying to break in and harass an innocent citizen in her home, dude,” I retorted. “I put a call in to 911, you’re the one who’s in the shithouse.”
“There’s a stay on the apartment, Tina,” he informed me through the door. “No one’s allowed to fuck with the locks. You’re in violation of the law.”
“Except I didn’t fuck with the locks, Pierre,” I said. “I put in a spring bolt and some chain guards. The locks are fine. When I’m not here? The locks work just fine. When I am here? YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED IN.”
There was a pause, and then a bump right at my shoulder. “Shit,” I heard him mumble. He must have been right up against the door. For a second I thought, wow, this door is so thin I can hear everything—and if I can hear everything, he can probably bash it open with one of those little battering-ram things cops carry, whether or not I have the spring bolt in place. And then I thought, is he the kind of cop who carries those things? What kind of a cop is this guy anyway? Does he have a gun on him? He didn’t have a gun or a uniform the last time I saw him, but there was no knowing if he had any of those things right now. I took a step back, because it did occur to me that if he started whacking at the door I didn’t want to be leaning against it. But that did not seem to be on his mind. For the moment, at least, he was quiet.
And then someone else started talking.
I couldn’t hear what the other person was saying. The voice was much softer, more distant; I heard a murmur, and a question. Pete answered, only now I couldn’t hear him either; he was practically whispering to whoever was out there. This should have been good news—let’s face it, having an angry cop screaming at me to let him in was not an ideal situation—but the whispering voices actually made me more anxious than the yelling had. I stepped back to the door and put my ear up against it to see if I could hear what the other person was saying or what the angry Pete Drinan was saying. But now I could barely hear Pete. He wasn’t up against the door anymore; he was over by the elevators. The other person asked him a question that I couldn’t hear, and he answered, and again I couldn’t hear. I thought the other person might be his brother, that would make the most sense, but it didn’t really sound like Doug. This person was talking more thoughtfully, and Drinan was talking thoughtfully back. I truly couldn’t tell what was going on.
Given my options, I decided to go for it. I slid back the spring bolt very quietly and carefully, which was exceptionally difficult; those spring bolts hold pretty tight—what use would they be if they didn’t? Luckily, Drinan was far enough away, and the conversation was apparently riveting enough that he wasn’t super-attuned to the sound of a spring bolt being slowly scraped back. He had already thrown the tumblers in the three door locks, so all I had to do was make sure the chain guards were in place and open the door as silently as possible.
He was past the elevators, his back to me, and he was talking to whoever lived in the other apartment. It made so much sense when I saw it that I almost laughed out loud about how paranoid I was being. The lady—I could see it was a lady with kind of messy brown hair—was standing in her doorway, like all the yelling had woken her up and she had come out to investigate. But she didn’t seem angry. She had her hand on Drinan’s arm, and every now and then
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