LANCE
Lance Jennings stood on an air conditioner on the north side of 323 South Third Street. He carried a pry bar and a hankering to steal the drugs he had already sold.
The screen popped off with little trouble. The window opened with a crank, so Lance had to wrap his right hand in a dirty bath towel. He cleared the glass slowly, reached in, and cranked the window to a 45 degree angle. A pry on each side popped it out.
Inside he tried the wardrobe, the drawers under the waterbed. Nothing.
He found the baggie in the toe of a left boot buried in the back of the closet under a windbreaker. He zipped it in his coat pocket. Lance went out the back door, down the breezeway, and walked across a parking lot to his Ford.
Later that evening Lance would pull the coke off of a mirror he had won at a carnival dart game. He didn’t know that in a couple of days John would show up with a temper, no blow, and an aluminum softball bat.