The Go/No-Go Line

I doubled back down the alley.

I could hear the Fire Department radio traffic coming from the emergency vehicles to my left. Never understood why they had to monitor the radio while they were supposed to be devoting their full attention to whatever it was that brought them out in the first place. Perhaps they were only killing time until a better emergency came along.

I had a long walk ahead of me and the longer they stayed on-scene, the better. The lights, the sounds, the prospect of catastrophic personal injury were enough to keep inquiring minds from paying too much attention to me.

I paused at the cross-street and waited long after I needed to before crossing into the next block and following that alley to the fence.

I say “fence” but it really didn't present much of a barrier. It was more of a compromise, an impression of a border that did little to protect the property, but gave legitimacy to claims of trespass, should the Club choose to prosecute.

Trespass seemed to be a significant concern to the Club and its members judging by the license plate style signs that were nailed to every other section of the fence. But even the signs themselves seemed to acknowledge their irrelevance. They were still legible, but it seemed as though they were retired from their primary function and had embarked on a second career as collectors of rust and examples of illegibility.

I made it to the end of the alley and again I waited and I watched.

Had I been made?

Was I being followed?

What were my options?

To my right, I could see the light bar of a police car parked across the intersection and blocking access to the accident scene.

On my left, I could see some of the houses had contributed their occupants to the floor show audience. One couple in calf-length heavy coats and fuzzy slippers had been so forward thinking as to bring their folding chairs and cellphones: they were in for the duration and providing play-by-play for distant friends.

Ahead of me was the comforting gloom of the golf course.

There wasn't much in the way of cover, but once I was far enough beyond the reach of the light pollution, I'd be okay.

As I made my way across greens and along the edges of the fairways, I took another inventory of my pockets: poop sacks and a flashlight, keys, wallet and phone.

Phone.

I had been sold by some ponytail-wearing “genius” on buying a smart phone that would solve all my problems even before I knew I had any. It would remember where I parked and tell me where I was going and what I was supposed to do when I got there. The twenty-first century Swiss Army knife and it was useless to me.

If it could talk to me, it was capable of talking to others about me.

I should have ditched it right there, but I couldn't escape the idea that it might come in handy even if I didn't know precisely how. Instead, I turned it completely off, retraced a portion of my steps and then set off in a slightly different direction.

In stark contrast to the imperial elegance of the nearby clubhouse, the grounds keeper's buildings were drab, workman-like affairs built as cheaply as possible. A country club lives or dies on the experience it provides to its members and the people responsible for that experience are given a shitty pole barn to work out of? Didn't make any sense.

I took a moment to survey the perimeter.

There was an underground power line feeding the building, but there was also a lone delicate strand of wire running in lazy swags from the building, along the driveway, toward the clubhouse.

I took another look at the building.

It was cheap and hastily built, but it was new enough that if they had bothered to bury the power lines then they would have the phone lines at the same time.

Once more around the building.

I saw it this time: the keypad on the corner next to a side door.

It was going to be all about the response time.

Police were only a couple of blocks away. If they got the call, they could be on the scene in a matter of seconds. If they got the call.

They wouldn't, at least not right away.

I had watched scenes like this play out too many times. The patrol sergeant would have assigned the road blocks and that, by itself, would have made for a big night; a welcome break from paperwork and patrol and the endless personnel problems.

An accident with injuries in a wealthy part of town and he would be hell-bent on making a good impression and demonstrating leadership. Careers are made on how opportunities such as this are handled.

A second call would be a challenge, a departure from the textbook. Does he pull his road blocks, or take more resources off the street?

What are the odds it's a false alarm?

If more units get involved, would his role in controlling the scene be as apparent?

That would get me critical time. Question was, could I find what I needed before the patrol sergeant figured out what he needed?

If I was a betting man, I would have wagered that there would be no response. If I was a betting man, I would have assumed that the alarm company had instructions to call a club official and not the police. If I was a betting man, I would have put money up that the possibility of embarrassment was more potent than the prospect of some damaged equipment, or lost supplies.

I don't bet.

Another circuit around the building to check again for cameras.

Didn't see any. Couldn't be sure there wouldn't be any inside.

There was a window on the backside of the building. That meant one of three things: a desk, a bench, or a washroom.

A quick scan of the roof line ruled out washroom.

Damn.

Desk or workbench: either way, they would make getting in and out that much easier.

Go time.

I pulled out a couple of the poop sacks and pulled them over my shoes. Crude, but effective.

I pulled my coat up over my head and ran the zipper up as far as it would go. Also crude, but it would obscure me enough to make identification difficult.

It was probably over-kill, but as I always say, “Better safe than arrested.”

Peering through the gap in my coat, I made my approach to the building right below the window.

I used my last poop sack as a shapeless glove with which I pulled the flashlight from my pocket. I used its dumb end to break the glass.

In that moment, it sounded really loud: like all the cymbal crashes in the 1812 Overture put together.

This was another of those moments where experience shows. Beginners would look around to see if anyone had noticed; real operators recognize that by the time there's a sound you can't cover, the go/no-go line has already vanished from their rear view.

Once you go, you keep going.

I reached my bagged hand through the window and slipped the catch. Surprisingly, for an industrial building, the window slid smoothly up.

Right then, I began to feel the effect of having picked up that seventy pound dog.

I really do try to stay active, but I don't routinely snatch weights anything close to that and nowhere near what I used to. I was not certain I could hoist myself up and through.

I heard the drumbeat of my pulse in both ears. Pain shot through my right shoulder as I pulled myself up.

I could feel the friction of bone on bone and the weight of the sands of time.

I kept thinking of all the times I had done this exact thing in windows all over the world. I could do this in my sleep. I could do this without thinking.

I could do this...at one time.

Up and over, up and over: it was my mantra. Up and over.

It took a couple of false starts and a lot of muttered oaths, but I did get up and, after an inartful dismount, I did get over.

I felt like an upholstered egg roll standing an a pair of deli-style toothpicks as I pulled myself to my feet.

I snapped on my flashlight and scanned the ceiling in the corners of the room.

First break: no cameras. Motion sensors, but no cameras.

Clock ticking.

I unzipped my coat, popped my head out and quickly scanned the rest of the room. On the far side, by the door, was the red cabinet.

Perfect.

I picked up a pruning saw and a large wrench and began a make-work project for the crime scene investigators and the insurance adjusters.

Once at the cabinet, I was able to pry it open with the wrench and a lot of leverage. I was not the sort of threat that OSHA had in mind.

Spray paint, spray lubricants, fertilizer and weed killer. They also kept propane torches in there; I didn't understand that one.

At the back of one of the lower shelves I found what I was looking for: the perfect tool for combating a golf course pest. I dropped the wrench and quickly filled my pockets.

I checked my watch: about four minutes. Time to go.

I pulled open the door and disappeared into the shadows.