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Trip on This: Chapter Two (Part Two)

Chapter Two (Part Two)

It’s almost dusk, which is my favorite time of day.  I love the changeover from light into dark for all the promises the night holds.  I am outside Gina’s apartment complex which, of course, has a security system.  It is two days after my nightmarish experience with aerobics, and I spent yesterday recovering.  This is the first time I’ve been able to walk without limping.  I’m still not a hundred percent, but I’m not expecting any difficulties.  I’m wearing all black which is the norm for San Francisco, and I’m carrying my workout bag.  Gina is yet again at the club, and if she follows her pattern, she’ll be going out with ‘the girls’ afterwards.  Probably go to some fucking bar in the Mission, perhaps even the Lex—slumming it.  Would be just like the bitch.  I press the button to her apartment to make sure she’s not there, wait a full minute, then press a button at random.  I bullshit my way in by reciting a garbled message about my being worried about my mother who lives in the building.  I make my voice as soft and weak as possible, and I’m in.  It continually astounds me that even in high-class areas such as this, it’s easy to get into a secured building with a well-crafted lie and a feminine voice.  I trot up the stairs to the third floor where Gina resides, use my handy-dandy set of lock picks from my workout bag, and I’m in.  It takes me a grand total of thirty seconds.

I stand for a minute, soaking up the atmosphere.  I love standing just inside the door of an apartment I’ve broken in for no other purpose than to remind everyone else that I am, indeed, the woman.  When I’ve had my fill of gloating, I flip on a light.  The hallway is short and a lemony-yellow.  It leads to the living room which is a sunshine yellow with abstract paintings on the wall.  I can tell from the signature that they were done by Gina herself, and some are quite good.  Most are shit, of course, but I wouldn’t mind one or two of them.  Momentarily, I consider boosting the one resembling the Golden Gate Bridge, but that wouldn’t be professional.  Besides, chances are she’s not going to the cops if I just take what I’m after.  I lift her painting, and all bets are off.  Artists are hell on wheels when protecting their creative property.

The room is beginning to depress me with its unrelenting cheerfulness, so I cross over to the kitchen which is the size of a postage stamp.  I can tell from the pots and pans and the condition of her stove that Ms. Gina is not one to cook.  I open the freezer and there in plain sight is what I’ve come for.  Four test tubes.  I slip them into my bag and substitute the four test tubes nestled in my bag.  I shut the door quickly and head for the door.  One of my strengths is that I have no interest in anything other than finishing my job, so I’m not going to steal any other valuables.  Clients trust that I will go in, get what they need, then get out.  Since I get most of my clients by word of mouth, I have to be trustworthy.  It’s not worth it to me to slip a little something extra in my pocket because then I have an unhappy client if he finds out about it.  I take what I come for and not a penny more.

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