Basically, security is a state of mind. People are afraid to get on planes but there’s a way bigger chance they’ll get killed in their own car. They put all sorts of locks on the front of their house, but leave the backyard gate unlatched, or the garage open, or put in a fence that’s low enough to jump.

In the afternoons, when many people are at work or out shopping, Irene and I take walks in the neighborhood. First we jiggle doorknobs and look for windows left open. Today she has to break a basement window with a little duct tape and a quick hammer tap. Irene is a small person and can slip through. She’s elastic, like a rubber band. Like a mouse. She pulls away the glass and drops through, then listens for the possibility of anyone else in the house. If it’s all good, she lets me in. If she hears voices or footsteps or the tapping nails of a dog, she slips out the back door and we’re done there. We have to leave empty-handed, which we hate to do after having gone to the trouble. But if somebody comes in while we’re already there, we’re forced to deal with them. This involves physical connection and ups the ante. We never bring her gun. A gun carries the possibility of worse consequences.

This house is dark and empty. This is totally the house of rich homos. It’s not that I’m all that perceptive. I’m not thinking this because of their fruity furniture or going through their CDs. Right in the first bedroom we go into, on the dresser there’s a framed photo of two guys with hairy chests, holding each other in their faggotty arms. Both are middle-aged and balding, one heavyset like me.

We don’t discriminate. We don’t make judgments on anyone. We are only there on business. We are after certain things. Jewelry, iStuff, smartphones. We have buyers for these. Irene goes through dresser drawers, nightstands, boxes high on closet shelves. She pulls books out of bookcases and throws them to the floor. You’d be surprised how many people think that inside a book is a sneaky place to store cash. Or that the sock drawer is a genius place to hide jewelry. In the bedroom dresser here, I find a gold chain bracelet under the socks. Then I take a look through the bedside drawers and come up with a few poppers. In the medicine cabinet there are several bottles of Xanax. Someone here must be very nervous. I pocket the bottles. Irene comes in with a Bose radio, drops it in her shopping tote. I show her the bracelet.

Before we leave we usually do a little crazy shit. Like here she finds shoe polish and writes

FAGS MUST DIE