Spygirl by Amy Gray

Author:Amy Gray [Gray, Amy]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 978-0-307-48091-0
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2003-09-27T04:00:00+00:00

How to Pick Locks and Not Set Off Alarms

I wandered out to the fire escape and found a note on the door that said, “To the tenants of 254 East 21st Street. It has come to management's attention that occupants of the fourth floor have been using this fire escape landing for smoking. This is strictly prohibited. Lit cigarettes have been thrown down the grate and have set fire to the tarred roofing below, despite repeated warnings, causing the fire department to be called to this site on several occasions to put out small fires. This exit will be locked from now on. If anyone is caught tampering with this fire exit or in any way attempting to tamper with this exit, eviction proceedings will be initiated against this tenant.”

I sucked my breath in, leaned my back against the door, and slid down until I was sitting, slumped with my head slung over my stomach, defeated. Going downstairs to smoke seemed like an unbearable chore.

I heard voices coming down the hallway. “Yeah, dude, I almost got it in a turquoise velour. But my boyfriend liked it better this way.” It was Wendy and Assman. Assman said hi to me and turned right into the men's room. Wendy was wearing a rainbow velour, butterfly-style boatneck dress and white cowboy boots. She had a gold charm around her neck that said her name in thick, diamond-studded, ghetto-style script.

“Hey, chiquita.” She looked at the door behind me. “What's going on?”

“They locked us out of the fucking fire escape.” Wendy put her wrist to her forehead in horror.

“No fucking way!”

“Way,” I deadpanned. Renora, the new girl, emerged behind her. She'd assimilated quietly, although during her second week at the office Evan had us each chip in fifty cents for a bottle of Maker's Mark on her birthday, which seemed like more than the usual show of goodwill toward a new colleague. Hormones seemed to be palpably raging since her arrival. She was wearing one of her two indie-girl outfits, a cotton skirt that looked like it had gone from black to a blotchy gray after years of washing, and a tight black V-neck long-sleeve T-shirt. (Her other outfit was the same skirt with a blue long-sleeve shirt.) She also had on a tiny pair of men's shoes that she told me she'd gotten from her friend Randy, who was a stripper she met in England. Randy had gotten them from a guy who was in love with her whose flat she and Renora both stayed in. They were ancient-looking shoes with hand stitching that looked like typical civilian wear in circa-1820 London.

“Hey,” Renora said, halting awkwardly before me as Wendy slumped in front of the door.

“Hi,” we said in unison.

“What's going on with the fire escape?” she asked softly.

“They locked us out,” I said.

“Really?” she said, looking panicky. This was the first time the three of us girls had ever hung out together, I observed to myself.

There was also a new glossy red sign posted on the door, warning that an alarm would sound if the door was opened.

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