Free Your Friendly Neighborhood Criminal by Michael Van Rooy Page B

listed along with a reward.
    At the very tail end of the most recent Free Press article, though, the crime reporter gave the name of company that had rented the house out in the first place—Ultra Realty Rentals and Sales, which matched what Claire had told me. I wondered what kind of business would rent to a bunch of druggies; it could be an honest business fooled by the bad guys, or the realtor could be a front for the bad guys.
    I wasn’t positive either way, so I headed over to the free Express Internet service and dialed into Google, which directed me to a little web page that listed the address of Ultra Realty. I wrote that down on a little scrap of paper conveniently provided right next to the computer along with stupid little golf pencils. Knowing about the realtor would be a good thing and I stared into the distance and thought some more.
    The Express Internet at the library was only usable for fifteen minutes at a time. Which was bad; however, again I didn’t have to provide any ID to use them, which was good, privacy being hard to find and keep. And my search only took me five minutes, really.
    Outside it was a beautifully warm fall day. The kind Claire’s aunt would have called an Indian summer, which would have resulted in Claire’s cousin giving her a lecture on political correctness. This would have resulted in a fight of some seriousness which I would have probably had to break up. Which would have meant someone would have called me a thieving so-and-so.
    Sometimes I’m glad Claire and I don’t live in the same city as her family.
    Outside the library, on the sidewalk, I decided to burglarize Ultra Realty. That meant I’d need tools. I walked a few blocks to a small store that specialized in selling cheap junk at low prices; there a pinch-faced young Asian man greeted me with bustling cheer.
    “Can I help you?”
    “I’ll just look around.”
    “Sure! Ask if you need anything.”
    For a moment I felt nostalgic and thought about going back to my favourite independent hardware store on Main where the owner hated me. I kept trying to make friends with him and it wasn’t working. He couldn’t forgive me for being an ex-con. A few months before he’d gone along with a Winnipeg detective named Walsh to try to force me out of town. After the dust had settled the cop had retired under psychiatric care and I was still coming into the hardware store whenever I could. And the old man kept snapping at me.
    But this guy was worse, he was too damn happy.
    Burglary requires thought and consideration and planning, all of which I was avoiding. Instead I picked up a couple of metres of different gauges of wire, some cheap screwdrivers, and a roll of wide, clear tape. Then a roll of paper towel, some lightweight canvas gloves, a glass cutter and a little pry bar forty-five centimetres long. When I went to pay, the owner kept smiling at me over the cash register. “Thank you for shopping!”
    I nodded and he went on, “And have a nice day!”
    It was barely 3:00 so I found a coffee shop to drink good coffee and wait. I figured the office of Ultra Realty probably closed at 5:00 or 5:30, so I’d wait until 6:00, early enough
for people to be on the street so my presence wouldn’t be as noticeable, because burglary is a profession best practised in peace and quiet.

#12
    T he office was west of downtown past the University of Winnipeg in a pretty battered neighbourhood. It was a region full of gangsters and hookers, drugged-out stoners and sniffers, determined panhandlers, stunned teenagers, and endemic poverty. And dozens of cops, walking in pairs down the sidewalks, driving in singletons in Crown Victorias, fingering their belts, saying please and thank you as long as the citizens were watching.
    A blue blanket, thick and comforting.
    Ultra Realty’s office was on a tree-lined street, an older house turned into an office suite. I walked past it and saw the lights were out before heading down the alley behind it