Orange winced, calming the dog at his knee. "Keep it down, will ya? The neighbors know this couple is away to Mexico for the month and I don't want the dog sitter coming over early 'cos she heard your fine dulcetto." He easily and nimbly left the couch, the dog's bulk spilling after him with an excited huff. Larry edged back to the door.

"You afraid of dogs, new guy?"

"Ask me that question again after you've had ten needles in your stomach to ward away rabies."

Orange draws up, glancing down uncertainly at the animal as it drowsily inspects the warm breeze drifting through the room. "It ain't rabid." He pats its heavy ribs as if to reassure it. "But it can smell your fear. People aren't so very different than animals, you know. Even if you can school your expression and your words to model confidence, there's no hiding the stink of fear."

"Thanks for the advice, Doctor Doolittle. Can we get going on this job before the dogsitter pokes her dumb head in?"

Orange scratches his cheek in thought, tilting his chin from side to side. "Okay, sure. So what are you gonna go for first?"

"The doorknob," White gruffs impatiently. "To wipe my prints." He examples this, pulling a dark handkerchief from his trouser pocket.

"Okay. Then what." Orange has shrugged deeper into his coat and was idly playing footsie with the rottweiler, careful not to let the teeth scrape up his shoes too bad.

"You cold or somethin'?"

"Just withdrawals. I'll be sweating like a motherfucker in an hour or so."

White nods, sage about all things related to illicit substance. "You on that Program?" He's inspecting the house, peeking into corridors and fingering windowsills for the deactivated alarm wires.

"Methadone." It's like a curseword, and both men wince. Orange has his hands balled into the coat's pockets. "What are you gonna go for first, c'mon, I'm curious over here." He bounces in place, impatient.

Instead of answering, "You get a haircut?"

Orange rolls his eyes, fixing a cigarette to his mouth without lighting it. "Gotta look professional for the heist. Not gonna have any masks, so might as well leave behind a pretty security tape."

"Really?" Larry bends to the fireplace, running his hands under the brick sill for hidden valuables. He finds a spare set of keys but not much else. "No masks, huh. What are we robbing, a bank?"

"Jewelry store." Orange paces to the breezeway and fidgets with the cigarette he's not allowed to light. The dog wanders over to inspect White's progress, pulling anxiety sharp to the forefront.

White just knows the damn thing is going to bark or growl or snap into his face without warning, and he trails around to the kitchen just to escape it. There's nothing valuable he could see making away with; the decorations were cheap crystal and the appliances couldn't be taken on a bus to a pawn shop in broad daylight. He disappears to the bedroom and rifles carefully for jewelry or heirlooms. Turns the mattress over and remakes the bed.

By the time he's working on the bookshelves, Orange has moseyed around to poke questions through the air. "So what are you looking for?"

"Money tucked away for a rainy day. Hidden things. I think the keys in the fireplace go to a boat, or maybe a vacation home, or maybe this home. Unless there's a car in the garage."

Orange nods. "We're driving it out of here; keys would be a big help. Got anything else?"

"Unless we're going to pack the appliances into the trunk of that car, I'd say this go is a bust."

Orange is scratching his chin in thought again, trailing his thumbnail up and down the curve of his jaw. "That's a thought. Too many serial numbers to file away, though. So what made you toss the bed?"