[ He's paying enough attention, enough to sense a sort of spatial, temporal gap between an empty parking lot and then suddenly, company. Sweeney stops what he's doing, metal jammed between glass and door, an uneasy shift of battered knuckles around the grip.
Then, with a protesting creak of metal on metal, Sweeney levers the door open. ]
That sounds illegal, [ he says, sliding the jemmy back up one denim sleeve. ] Could be I left my keys inside.
[ That he ducks down to get at the wires under the wheel probably puts that ambiguity to rest.
no subject
Then, with a protesting creak of metal on metal, Sweeney levers the door open. ]
That sounds illegal, [ he says, sliding the jemmy back up one denim sleeve. ] Could be I left my keys inside.
[ That he ducks down to get at the wires under the wheel probably puts that ambiguity to rest.
From below, without pause; ]
It ain't yours, now, is it?