The Burglar on the Prowl (6 page)

W
hat a feeling!

I don’t know that I can possibly convey what it felt like. I can tell you that my senses were keener than normal, that the blood sang in my veins, that there was a tingling in the tips of my fingers, but the more precisely I record such phenomena the more pathological the whole thing sounds. What I’m hard put to get across is the sheer exhilaration that possessed me, combined with an all-encompassing sense of well-being, and even of appropriateness. I was, it seemed to me, precisely where I ought to be, doing precisely what I was supposed to do.

Which, when you stop and think about it, is palpable nonsense. I was in point of fact where I was manifestly
not
supposed to be, where the law of the land told me in no uncertain terms I was not allowed to be. And I was doing what I was unquestionably not supposed to do.

But I can only tell you how it felt.

And it felt terrific.

For a few minutes I just stood there, monitoring my own response, enjoying every particle of it. The apartment was dark, and I let my
eyes grow accustomed to the dimness. When they were equal to the task, I took a moment to lock all three locks. Then I had a look around.

The room the door opened on was the middle room of the apartment, and it was a combination kitchen and dining room. To the left, fronting on 36th Street, was a very large living room; in back, with windows looking across a courtyard at the buildings on 35th Street, was a bedroom almost as large as the living room. Any one of the three rooms would have served as a perfectly decent studio apartment, so Creeley, whoever he or she was, had an abundance of living space by New York standards. (To keep things in proportion, it’s worth noting that a welfare mother holed up in a broken-down trailer on the outskirts of Moline, Illinois, would have at least as much square footage, and a front lawn and back yard in the bargain.)

There were blackout shades on the bedroom windows, which I lowered, and curtains as well, which I drew. I wondered if perhaps Creeley worked nights and slept days, which would account both for the blackout shades and the tenant’s absence. It would also give me all the time in the world to finish my work.

I turned on a bedside lamp and had a look around. The bed—queen size, of Danish teak—was made, the pillows plumped. That alone suggested Creeley was a woman or lived with one, because what man living alone bothers to make the bed? Oh, I suppose military service gets some men in the habit, but my immediate thought was that Creeley was of the female persuasion, and a glance at the mahogany dresser, topped with little jars and bottles of makeup and scent and such, cinched it. Creeley was a lady, and a reasonably girly girl at that, with dresses sharing her closet with the suits she wore to work, and the jeans she wore for play.

I left the bedroom, closing the door far enough to block most but not all of the light, and with what leaked out I made my way through the kitchen to the living room, where some light came through the front windows from the street. The living room windows had floor-to-ceiling drapes, heavy velvet things that must have
been hanging there since the Korean War. I drew them shut and turned on a lamp or two and made myself at home.

Sometimes I think that’s the best part, when you can just take a few moments to slip into another person’s life as effortlessly as you’ve slipped into their abode. I stretched out on the sofa, sat in the matching armchair, browsed the small bookcase (mostly trade paperbacks, proclaiming their owner as hip and sophisticated but cost-conscious, pretentiously lacking in pretension). I ambled into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Eggs, bacon, a few kinds of sausage, and an array of cheeses from Murray’s on Bleecker Street. No milk, but a half-pint of heavy cream. No beer, no bread, no bagels. No carbs, I noted, and recalled that one of the books in the bookcase was the latest work of the late Dr. Atkins. Ms. Creeley’s refrigerator suggested that she practiced what he preached.

And to good effect, judging from the sizes of the clothes in her closet. If she’d ever been a chubbette, she’d long since banished her fat clothes to the Salvation Army.

Her first name, I learned from the Con Ed bill in her desk, was Barbara, and other bills and payment stubs confirmed this. I didn’t find a checkbook, and assumed she kept it in her purse. Barbara Creeley lived alone, I knew, and generally slept alone, I could tell, though she evidently had High Hopes.

And how did I know all this? Well, the wardrobe told me she lived alone. If she had a boyfriend who stayed over with any degree of regularity, there’d be a few garments of his left at her place for convenience, and there weren’t. The queen-size bed had surely been purchased with the intention of sharing it at least occasionally, and the mattress, with its shallow depression on one side and no evidence of wear whatsoever on the other, told me that she slept alone, and always on the right-hand side of the bed.

Yes, I checked. Yes, I pulled back the covers and felt each side of the mattress for firmness. Not out of prurient interest, I assure you, but out of a fierce curiosity that may well be every bit as shameful. I disturbed her bedclothing, I thrust my gloved hands into her linen. Of course I made the bed again afterward, but that didn’t erase the psychic stain, did it?

Some years ago a friend of Carolyn’s was burglarized. Whoever it was who did it didn’t take much—he couldn’t, she didn’t have much—but she told us that what she’d lost was the least of it. “He was in my
place
,” she said, shuddering. “He was touching my
things
. I feel like burning all my clothes and having the place tented and fumigated. I feel like moving out, I feel like going back to Nebraska, and you know how I feel about Nebraska. God, I feel so utterly
violated
.”

I understood completely. I’d had the same feeling myself, when my own apartment had been inexpertly tossed. Tossed, I might say, was the operative word; the swine had taken all the books off my shelves and scattered them in a heap on the floor. I’d realized in a rush just what I inflicted upon the people I visited. I told myself it wasn’t the same, that I never made a mess or damaged anything I left behind, but so what? The violation was the same.

Ah, well. Someday I’ll reform. In the meantime, I might as well enjoy it.

I got to work.

There’s a line that originated in the Army Corps of Engineers and has since had widespread circulation on T-shirts and bumper stickers and such. The wording varies, but the gist of it is that, when you’re up to your ass in alligators, it’s hard to remember that your original purpose was to drain the swamp.

Similarly, when I’m immersed in another person’s life, or at least the glimpse of it I get by rummaging through their furnishings and worldly goods, I’m in danger of forgetting what brought me there in the first place. Which, pure and simple, is greed.

Crooks are greedy. It’s not nice to admit it, but there’s no way around it. Otherwise we’d be content to live on what came to us honestly, but we’re not. We want more, and what I wanted—what had brought me here—was whatever Barbara Creeley had that was worth taking.

She made a decent living, that was clear from her address and from the clothes in her drawers and closet, but that didn’t necessarily
tell me she had anything I wanted. Maybe she saved her money, or spent it on travel and high living. Maybe she kept all her money in the bank and anything valuable in a safe-deposit box.

I gave her three rooms a systematic search. By the time I was ready to call it a night, I had turned up the following: a pair of earrings, with what looked to be rubies and diamonds, set in what was definitely gold; a watch for evening wear, a Graubunden, with a platinum case and band; a gold charm bracelet with eight or ten charms in the shape of different animals, along with fifteen gold coins attached as charms, none of them of any particular numismatic value but all of them, like the bracelet itself, worth their weight in gold; and, in the freezer compartment of her refrigerator, in among enough steaks and chops and roasts to comfort Dr. Atkins in the hereafter, a brown manila bank envelope containing $1240 in twenties, fifties, and hundreds.

That wasn’t the only jewelry she had, of course. There was a high school class ring, gold and onyx, that was not without value, and a whole array of earrings and bracelets. There was a gold locket on a gold chain, and in it were pictures of a man and woman whom I took to be Barbara Creeley’s parents.

All of these things were worth taking from a pure dollars-and-cents standpoint, but I’ve found that I tend to balance the cash value of an artifact against its likely sentimental value to its owner. Why deprive this woman of her class ring and her locket for the few dollars they would bring me? I’d be hurting her far more than I’d be helping myself, and it didn’t seem right.

Now if my unwitting hostess had been not Barbara Creeley but Elizabeth Taylor, say, and the object in question had been not a high school ring but a diamond necklace, I wouldn’t care if Richard Burton gave it to her and she couldn’t look at it without getting tears in her violet eyes. Sentimental value only goes so far. But I didn’t notice a pearl richer than all my tribe in the Creeley jewel box, so I took what I’ve told you about and left the rest. It’s not conscience, not inherent decency, just a sense of proportion.

I tidied up as I went along, and when I was finished I went
through the whole apartment, making sure I left everything as I’d found it, except of course for having removed the few items I’ve mentioned. I took a last look around, turned off the lights in the living room, opened the velvet drapes, and had just turned from that task when I heard footsteps on the stairs.

Hell.

I moved quickly through the apartment, killed a light in the kitchen, switched off the bedside lamp. The footsteps paused at the second-floor landing, and I had a moment where I hoped, all logic notwithstanding, that this was not Barbara Creeley on the stairs but someone planning a late visit to J. Feldmaus.

No such luck. The footsteps resumed, and I heard human speech (What other kind is there? Parrot?) but could not make out what was being said. Either Barbara had company or she was talking to herself. Well, the locks would delay her, and by the time she got past them I’d be down the fire escape.

I opened the curtains, raised one of the blackout shades, and took hold of the window.

And the damned thing wouldn’t budge.

I checked to see if it was locked, and learned it was worse than that. The damned thing was nailed shut. Evidently Barbara (or some previous tenant) had been paranoid about an intruder coming in off the fire escape, and had taken up hammer and nails to safeguard herself. Cross-ventilation wasn’t a problem, you could still open the window from the top, but you couldn’t get out that way. What was she going to do if she had a fire?

More to the point, what was
I
going to do?

They’d reached the top of the stairs now, and it was clear there were two of them, because I could hear two voices, one basso and one soprano, or perhaps mezzo. So Barbara, who typically slept alone on the right side of the bed, had found someone to bring home with her. That made it her lucky night, but it certainly wasn’t mine.

She had trouble with the locks, and I gave thanks for that. It sounded as though she and her companion had had a few drinks, not infrequently the case before two people decide to go home together,
and her dexterity had gone the way of her inhibitions. Sooner or later she’d get it right, however, and then where would I be?

I raised the shades, opened the curtains. And now what? The closet? Twice in my career I’ve hidden in closets, and both times I went undetected, but somehow I knew the third time would be the charm. I couldn’t hope to get away with it again.

“Jesus, gimme the fucking keys,” said young Lochinvar, and I knew my time was running out.

I hit the floor and dove under the bed.

I
tried not to listen.

I’d been willing enough to snoop around in Barbara Creeley’s private life earlier, but that was different. She wasn’t around at the time, and all I was doing was going through her things and getting what sense I could of the person who owned them. Now, though, she was in the apartment with me, and so was he. It wasn’t hard to guess what they were going to do now that they’d managed to get through the door, and unless an excess of passion made them rip off their clothes and do it in the kitchen, they were going to do it right on top of me.

I’d been home, for God’s sake. I’d put away my burglar’s tools, I’d stowed them in my hidden compartment. I was all settled in for the night. Why couldn’t I have gone to bed?

But no, that would have been too easy. So instead of lying comfortably in my own bed I was wedged underneath Barbara Creeley’s. There was no room to spare, and there’d be even less when a pair of bodies piled on top of the mattress.

And if anybody looked under the bed, well, then I was sunk. It was not a refuge I could leave in a hurry. All I could do was stay there and wait for the cops to drag me out.

“Kinda sleepy,” the woman said.

“Yeah, well, you’re gonna get the best night’s sleep you ever had,” the man said.

“Ca’ keep m’eyes open…”

“Roofies’ll do that.”

“How’d I get here?”

“You live here, you dizzy bitch. Jesus, you’re built nice, aren’t you? Hang on now, just let me get your clothes off.”

“Sleeeeepy…”

In spite of myself I listened, and somewhere along the way it dawned on me what I was listening to. One thing he’d said—“Roofies’ll do that”—was enough to clue me in, once I’d allowed it to register. Roofies is one of the names for Rohypnol, that miracle of modern medical science known as the date-rape drug. Barbara Creeley, who’d already been burglarized (even though she didn’t know it yet), was about to get raped (even though she didn’t know that, either).

It struck me that I ought to do something, but what? If I tried to squirm out from under the bed, I’d alert him long before I was in a position to do anything. I’d gone in headfirst, more or less, so I’d be coming out feet first, and by the time my head cleared the bedframe he’d be in a position to break something over it. And even if I somehow got out before he reacted, well, then what? I never studied martial arts, never put on a pair of boxing gloves, and the last time I was in a fight was when I was eleven years old. My opponent was Kevin Vogelsang, and he gave me a bloody nose, which I probably deserved for chirping “Tweet, tweet, tweet” at him. (His last name means Birdsong. If it had been Feldmaus I’d very likely have gone “Squeak, squeak, squeak” at him, and gotten the same bloody nose. I was a real pain in the ass when I was eleven.)

The point is I’ve never been much at physical combat, nor am I the hulking sort who can intimidate an opponent by his mere physical presence. In fact I had a feeling it might be the other way around. I hadn’t had a look at the Roofies guy, but he had heavy footsteps and a deep and resonant voice, and I’d formed the image
of a large fellow who spent a lot of time at the gym lifting heavy metal objects. There was always the chance that my strength would be as the strength of ten because my heart was pure, but what good would that do me? His strength was very likely the strength of eleven, even if his heart was darker than the inside of a cow.

My impulse was chivalrous, but you couldn’t have told as much from what I did, which was stay right where I was, as idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean, while the scoundrel had his way with her.

I’ll draw a veil over the next ten or fifteen minutes, if it’s all the same to you. I couldn’t shut out the sounds, nor could I stop my mind from inventing pictures to go with them, but I’m going to keep all that to myself. Barbara Creeley had to endure it, but at least she didn’t have to know about it, and neither should you.

I said she didn’t know about it, but that’s not to say she was unconscious throughout. At one point her voice rang out clear as a bell: “Who are you? What are you doing?”

“Shut up,” he explained.

“What’s going on?”

“You’re getting laid,” he said, “but you won’t remember a thing in the morning. You’ll just wonder why you’re sore down there, and where the wet spot in the bed came from.”

And he laughed savagely, but she didn’t say anything, and I guess she must have slipped back under the fuzzy blanket of Rohypnol. According to what I’d heard and read about the drug, he was right that she wouldn’t remember much, if anything. A couple of Roofies, ground up and stirred into a drink, made the drinker essentially comatose, albeit with occasional interludes of apparent lucidity. Sometimes the victim even participated in the lovemaking (if you want to call it that), making the usual moves and uttering the usual grunts and sighs, but not from a truly conscious plane, and without anything much imprinting itself on her memory.

There you have it—Rohypnol, clearly a drug for our times. What
beats me is why anyone would want to use it. Where’s the pleasure in having sex with someone who’s not even capable of knowing what’s going on, let alone matching your moves with moves of her own? Isn’t it a little like romancing an inflatable doll?

Then again, they evidently sell quite a few of those dolls, enough to warrant mass-producing them. There would seem to be a substantial number of men who don’t care if their partner’s having a good time, or if she’s even there at all. And I can see where a woman all goofy on Roofies might have it all over a plastic lady. You wouldn’t get winded blowing her up, and you wouldn’t have the worry that she might suddenly deflate at
le moment critique
.

I guess Barbara Creeley functioned satisfactorily in her role as a flesh-and-blood inflatable doll, because her partner seemed to be having a good time. He moaned and grunted a lot, and said “Baby, baby” and that sort of thing, and made a lot of noise as he reached the finish line. Then the bed stopped creaking and rocking above me, and all was mercifully silent for a moment, and then his weight shifted and he got up from the bed.

“Not bad,” he said. “You’re a pretty good piece of ass for a dead girl.” And he laughed that deep-throated laugh I’d heard earlier, and said, his tone mock-earnest, “Well, darling? Was it good for you?” and started in laughing all over again.

I stayed where I was.
Not bad for a dead girl.
But it was just a drug, wasn’t it? Just a couple of Roofies, enough to sedate her but not enough to kill her. He couldn’t really mean it literally, could he?

While I lay there and wondered about it, he clomped around the apartment, making more noise than a man generally makes getting dressed. I heard him yanking drawers out, spilling things, and I had a pretty good idea what was going on. But I couldn’t do anything about it. I kept knowing what the son of a bitch was doing, and I kept being unable to do anything about it.

Eventually he walked off, and I didn’t hear him for a while and wondered if he might have left. Then his footsteps returned, and I heard a buzzing sound. I couldn’t place it, until he spoke and cleared things up for me.

“Your name’s Barbara,” he said, with the air of having just discovered this fact. “Hey, Barbie Doll, how about if I give you a shave? Be a nice surprise for you when you wake up. Make things a little smoother and sweeter for the next man in your life, too.”

The shaver went on buzzing.

“Nah, the hell with it,” he said, and there was a noise which it didn’t take too much imagination to identify as the sound of the electric shaver hitting the floor. “So long,” he said. “Sleep tight, you stupid cow.”

He slammed the door on his way out, and he didn’t stop to lock the locks. I heard his heavy footsteps on the stairs, and I heard the door slam down on the first floor. And then, when I didn’t hear anything more, I set about wriggling and squirming, and the heroic devil-may-care burglar got out from under the bed.

He’d left a godawful mess behind. I’d figured out the noise he was making was a by-product of a search for something to steal; having taken what he could sexually, he was looking to turn a cash profit on the night as well.

Her black leather handbag was on the floor where he’d flung it, its contents strewed all over the place. I scooped up a lipstick and a comb and her checkbook and a set of keys and returned them to her purse. Her wallet, a little French purse of green leather with gold tooling, lay in a corner where he’d flung it; I picked it up and saw that her driver’s license was halfway out of its frame, and figured that’s how he’d learned her name. The license identified her as Barbara Anne Creeley, gave a date of birth that made her thirty-two years old, and showed a picture of a pretty woman with dark hair and about as winning a smile as anyone can manage while being photographed by some
schmendrick
from the Department of Motor Vehicles.

I carried the wallet over to the bedside, past the heap of clothing she’d been wearing. She was sprawled on her back, her head angled to one side, and her mouth was open, which never helps one to look
one’s best, but it was the same woman, no question about it, and she’d have struck me as prettier if she’d been less pitiable. She was naked, and that bothered me enough so that I covered her with a sheet, even at the risk of waking her. But of course it didn’t wake her. She was alive, her breathing was deep and even, and she was in no danger of waking up, not for hours.

I went through her wallet and saw that he’d left her credit cards. Her bank card was there, too. He couldn’t use it at an ATM unless he knew her PIN number, but he might have taken it anyway, and I was glad to see he hadn’t. He was an amateur, it was clear to me, and not a real thief at all. There are some burglars who will rape a woman if they encounter her in the course of a burglary, not because they’re rapists by inclination but because she’s there and they like her looks so what the hell. Similarly, there are some rapists who, having enjoyed a woman’s favors, feel they might as well put a few dollars in their pocket. He was in the latter category, and that’s why she still had her credit cards, but that’s also why the place was such a mess; it was all part of the rape.

And of course there was no money in her wallet.

I put her purse in order, with the wallet in it. I found the various drawers he’d upended, restored their contents, and put them back where they’d come from. It seemed to me that he’d taken some of the jewelry I’d passed up, but I was glad to see he’d missed the locket with her parents’ pictures, although he’d managed to take her class ring, the son of a bitch.

In her bathroom, he’d hurled a couple of bottles against the wall, but all but one were plastic and didn’t break. I cleaned up the one broken bottle, and got rid of the shards of glass so she wouldn’t cut herself. I found her Lady Remington that he’d switched on and then hurled to the floor, and wasn’t surprised to discover that it no longer worked. The pink plastic case was cracked, and when I moved the switch nothing happened. I laid it in the wastebasket, then changed my mind, wrapped it in a paper towel, and tucked it away in a jacket pocket.

I got the place as neat as I could, short of scrubbing the floors on
my hands and knees, and then I went in for a last look at her. It was the closest I’d been to a naked woman in longer than I cared to remember, and all I felt was sad.

I went to the door, opened it. Then I sighed heavily and returned to the bedroom for one final stab at chivalry. It didn’t take long, maybe five minutes, after which I let myself out of Barbara Creeley’s apartment, picked her locks shut, and went home.