The glass was frosted, which meant it was a bathroom. It was open a couple of inches. Somebody must’ve left it open yesterday when all the people were here after the funeral. See? This was gonna be even easier than he thought. He’d told that fuck French Fry it would be a snap, but no, he didn’t want to do it. The spade found out about what had happened upstairs, read it in the paper, and he freaked, said he didn’t want to go in there. What the hell was he afraid of, ghosts? He pushed the window open all the way, then hauled himself up onto his palms on the sill, got one leg inside, then the other, and lowered himself in nice and quiet, bracing his foot on the sink. He didn’t like doing this himself—he was a “made” man, after all—but he didn’t have much choice. Anyway, what the fuck, there was no one here. It was gonna be easy. Just grab the rug and get the fuck out. The cop was gone. He just saw the guy leave out the front. At least French Fry was good enough to give him that idea.
