They were kneeling in the shadow of a sea-grape tree. “One of them beady-eyed dogs from Asia,” said Bud Schwartz, “or maybe it’s Africa.” Dozing under the electric bug lamp, the animal showed no reaction to the sizzle and zap of dying moths.
Carefully Bud Schwartz inserted four Tylenol No. 3 tablets into a ten-ounce patty of prime ground sirloin. With his good hand he lobbed the meat over the fence. It landed with a wet slap on the patio near the pool. The weasel-dog lifted its head, barked once sharply and got up.
Danny Pogue said, “That’s the ugliest goddamn thing I ever saw.”
“Like you’re Mel Gibson, right?”
“No, but just look.”
The dog found the hamburger and gulped it in two bites. When its front legs began to wobble, Danny Pogue said, “Jesus, what’d you use?”
“About a hundred milligrams of codeine.”
Soon the animal lay down, snuffling into a stupor. Bud Schwartz hopped the fence and helped his crutch-less partner across. The two burglars crab-walked along a low cherry hedge until they reached the house. Through a glass door they saw that all the kitchen lights were on; in fact, lamps glowed in every window. Bud Schwartz heard himself take a short breath; he was acting against every instinct, every fundamental rule of the trade. Never ever break into an occupied dwelling—especially an occupied dwelling protected by four thousand dollars’ worth of electronic burglar alarm.
Bud Schwartz knew the screens would be wired, so busting the windows was out of the question. He knew he couldn’t jimmy the sliding door because that would trip the contact, also setting off the alarm. The best hope was cutting the glass door in such a way that it wouldn’t trigger the noise detectors; he could see one of the matchbook-sized boxes mounted on a roof beam in the kitchen. Its tiny blue eye winked insidiously at him.
“What’s the plan?” asked Danny Pogue.
Bud Schwartz took the glass cutter out of his pocket and showed it to his partner, who hadn’t the faintest idea what it was. Bud Schwartz got to his knees. “I’m going to cut a square,” he said, “big enough to crawl through.”
“Like hell.” Danny Pogue was quite certain they would be arrested any moment.
Bud Schwartz dug the blades of the glass cutter into the door and pressed with the full strength of his good arm. The door began to slide on its rollers. “Damn,” said Bud Schwartz. Cold air rushed from the house and put goose bumps on his arms.
Danny Pogue said: “Must not be locked.”
The door coasted open. No bells or sirens went off. The only sound came from a television, probably upstairs.
They slipped into the house. Bud Schwartz’s sneakers squeaked on the kitchen tile; hopping on one leg, Danny Pogue followed his partner through the living room, which was decorated hideously in black and red. The furniture was leather, the carpeting a deep stringy shag. On a phony brick wall over the fireplace hung a painting that was, by Bud Schwartz’s astonished calculation, larger than life-sized. The subject of the painting was a nude blond with a Pepsodent smile and breasts the size of soccer balls. She wore a yellow visored cap, and held a flagstick over her shoulder. A small brass plate announced the title of the work: “My Nineteenth Hole.”
It was unspeakably crude, even to two men who had spent most of their adult lives in redneck bars and minimum-security prisons. Bud Schwartz gazed at the painting and said: “I’ll bet it’s the wife.”
“No way,” said Danny Pogue. He couldn’t imagine being married to somebody who would do such a thing.
As they moved cautiously through the house, Bud Schwartz couldn’t help but notice there wasn’t much worth stealing, even if they’d wanted to. Oh, the stuff was expensive enough, but tacky as hell. A Waterford armadillo—how could millionaires have such lousy taste?
The burglars followed the sound of the television down a hallway toward a bedroom. Bud Schwartz had never been so jittery. What if the asshole has a gun? This had been Danny Pogue’s question, and for once Bud Schwartz couldn’t answer. The asshole probably did have a gun; it was Miami, after all. Probably something in a semi-automatic, a Mini-14 or a MAC-11. Christ, there’s a pleasant thought. Ten, fifteen rounds a second. Hardly time to piss in your pants.