A giant flat-screen television. Up twelve flights. In August.
“Terrible idea,” I said, gasping for air.
“Didn’t hear your suggestions,” my partner wheezed, head down, hands planted on knees.
We were in a cramped, dingy living room posing as delivery men. Our fugitive was in the next room but neither of us had the energy to kick the door down. Even turning the knob seemed impossible.
And that wasn’t even our biggest problem.
“We’re not paying you to rest,” the wife hissed. “And peel that hideous sticker off that TV before you go.”
“Can we arrest her too?” I whispered.
The Weekday One Hundred 