It’s late at night and it’s cold. Two men in denim work jackets are sitting in a green Ford Econoline van. The heavyset man with a mustache and an orange knit cap sits in the passenger seat. His name is Andy. The driver, Ed, is heavyset too — fair complexion, fair hair. The van rolls through a dark neighborhood.
Andy says, “Ed, slow down. You’re driving too fast.”
Ed says, “Andy, don’t worry. Nobody’s around. No one’s going to see us. It’s not like we’re going to get pinched for speeding.”
Andy says, “I’m not interested in getting pinched for speeding or not getting pinched for speeding. I’m interested in not being stupid enough to drive right past the place because we were going too fast. So slow down, please. Slow… down,” he says, stretching the words to make the point.
Ed sighs, says, “Fine,” and slows down the van.
Andy says, “There, 491, the one on the left. Now, Ed, back into the driveway, please. None of this b*llshit where you say you can’t see at night.”
Ed replies, “But Andy, ever since my surgery, I can’t really see so good at night.”
Andy says, “Ed, you’ve got to back into this place. I don’t want to have to be moving all this sh*t around in the light of day or under the streetlights. Please. Back in slowly. Slow… ly,” Andy says, drawing the word out again.
Ed swings the van around and begins backing it slowly off the street. The engine idles between bursts of throttle as the van crawls backward down the long driveway.
Both men get out of the van and close the doors very gingerly, so as not to attract attention. Andy rubs his hand over his face, over his mustache, not to clear sweat or grime — just a nervous habit. He pulls a pair of gloves from his pocket, turns to Ed and says, “Now, Ed, this thing had better start on the first try. I don’t want to be out here gapping points just to get us on our way.”
Ed says, “Look, I took care of that. It’s not going to happen again. Okay?”
Andy says, “Fine.”
Andy goes to the back of the van and opens the two doors, swinging them wide, and reaches up to kill the dome light the instant it blinks on. Then comes the red Craftsman toolbox. It’s very heavy, so he has to work hard to lift it off the floor of the van without a single tool rattling.
Andy says, “Ed, Murray says these people are away until Monday. That means we’ve got all night to get in, get out, and take what we came for.”
Ed says, “That Murray is one slick son of a b*tch, ratting out his own customers like that.”
Andy replies, “Ed, these aren’t customers. A customer is a person who buys something from you and pays you. These are people who bought things and never paid. For that, I suppose Murray can have a clear conscience and simultaneously maintain zero compunction about giving me their names, their addresses, and their alarm code.”
Andy takes a pry bar out of his toolbox and jimmies open the basement door. Somewhere in the dark the alarm panel starts its entry countdown — beep, beep, beep.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Three steps in, to the right.” He puts his hands on the wall in the dark and traces upward, feeling for the alarm panel. He finds it and presses the first button his fingers land on. The panel lights up.
He says, “Okay, let me enter this code here. 12-19-36. Stupid sons of b*tches. They’re still using their birthdays as alarm codes.” Then he presses the pound button. The beeping stops. A flat electronic voice announces: “System disarmed.” “Okay, let’s go get what we came for.”
Ed asks, “What are we here for this time? The silverware or the stereo?”
“Neither,” Andy says. “This time we’re here for something far more poetic and far more profitable.”
“Really? What’s that, Andy?” says Ed.
Andy pulls a Milwaukee Sawzall out of his toolbox and says, “These people have real copper pipes.” He plugs the Sawzall in, squeezes the trigger, and the blade chatters to life. Andy grins. Ed rubs his hands together and says, “Oh, boy. Oh, boy. We’re going to be rich.”