American tabloid

21

Lenny’s spare fuck-pad key unlocked the door. Littell hacked the jamb down to the bolt to fake a forensically valid burglar entry.

He broke the blade off his pen knife. The B amp;E shakes had him hacking too hard.

His trial break-in taught him the floor plan. He knew where everything was.

Littell shut the door and went straight for the golf bag. The $14,000 was still tucked inside the ball pocket.

He put his gloves on. He allotted seven minutes for cosmetic thievery.

He unplugged the hi-fl.

He emptied drawers and ransacked the medicine cabinet.

He dumped a TV a toaster and the golf bag by the door.

It looked like a classic junkie-pad boost Butch Montrose would never suspect anything else.

Kemper Boyd always said PROTECT YOUR INFORMANTS.

He pocketed the money. He carried the swag to his car, drove it to the lake and dumped it in a garbage-strewn tide pool.

o o o

Littell got home late. Helen was asleep on his side of the bed.

Her side was cold. Sleep wouldn’t come-he kept replaying the break-in for errors.

He drifted off around dawn. He dreamed he was choking on a dildo.

o o o

He woke up late. Helen left him a note.

School bodes. What time did you get home? For a (dismayingly) liberal FBI man you certainly are a zealous Communist chaser. What do Communists do at midnight?

Love, love, love,