The Glass Harmonica by Russell Wangersky Read Free Book Online Page B

that, and Tony knew exquisitely, exactly, what was slipping away right then, knowing the words Greenaway would be writing so carefully in his notebook.
    That nights and snowplows and wonder were gone, like a chapter slapped closed in a book for good.
    Guilty, Tony thought, guilty like everyone. And stuffed full of things he knew and didn’t dare let out.

32
McKay Street
    BART DOLIMONT
    JANUARY 3, 1991
    F OURTEEN YEARS before Tony’s sentencing and there was another thief on McKay Street:
    I could write the book on this stuff, Bart Dolimont thinks. How to Steal and Get Away With It . It would be a bestseller, too—not bad for a nineteen-year-old with no high school, he says to himself.
    He is outside on the sidewalk, walking towards the O’Reilly house, steps away from the short walk to the front door, taking in every piece of information he can from the dark windows.
    Don’t stop and stare at the house, he thinks. Don’t look around to see if anyone’s watching. If they are, if they aren’t, I’m back-on to them, and they’ll know little more than my height. Looking around will just draw attention. People don’t look at you if you’re confident, if you look like you belong. It turns you into the expected instead of the unexpected, and their eyes wash over you and go on to something else, catching on nothing.
    You go straight up to the front door like you belong there, arm straight out, palm the doorknob and give it a steady, even turn. If the door’s locked, relax your hand enough to let it slide around the doorknob. Turn around, walk away.
    There are plenty of houses in the neighbourhood where people don’t lock their doors, or forget to lock them some nights. Or just don’t push them all the way closed before they go to bed. Plenty of places where a ground-floor window’s open, and all you have to do is cut away the screen and climb in, look around, take the first few things that are worth grabbing and head out on your way.
    Doors are easier, though. If it’s unlocked, walk straight in. If there’s someone there, you can always say you were coming in to tell them their door was open and you were wondering if they were all right. If you hear something, just leave. If you can lock the door behind you as you go, even better. Walk away down the street. Don’t run, even if they start yelling.
    Inside the O’Reillys’, and Bart stopping to listen. No dog—knew that already, he thinks. That’s a good thing.
    I can hear Mister snoring away in the back like a freight train, he thinks. He’s fifty if he’s a day, but works down to the dockyard, so he might be tougher than he looks, ready to mix it up if he wakes up.
    Let your eyes adjust to the light—no rushing. It’s all about nerve. Wait for the walls to slowly swim into view from the darkness, wait until you can see the shapes of the picture frames against the lighter walls, even if you can’t make out the pictures themselves. Take your time, don’t rush into unfamiliar geography. Always take your time.
    No pushing into chairs or knocking over lights. Slow, hands and feet in short arcs. Hit the high-percentage places. Purse on the counter. Wallet in the pants pocket in the bedroom. Move slow but deliberate.
    Best thing is to take stuff that won’t be missed right away. Little things. Don’t get greedy, eventually there’s always lots, even if it’s not here tonight. Find a purse with eighty dollars, take forty. Chances are they’ll be too busy blaming each other to even think there’s been a break-in.
    Sometimes, with big stuff like cameras, stuff you can carry that’s valuable, you just take the whole lot of it and hope you can wait out the heat. Or else have someone who’s interested ahead of time.
    Old coins? See fifty, take ten. Make it so it’s hard for anyone to put their finger on when something went missing—that can