Nope. Who’d you piss off?

You’re wearing a suit and tie with an overcoat. The suit is off the rack in a drab navy, the thin red tie is a little off center, your black wingtips are scuffed up, the overcoat is moth-eaten cashmere, and your hair is intentionally a little greasy. You look like a down on his luck street bum wearing a Salvation Army outfit. A couple cheek pads and some five o’clock shadow, a small amount of age makeup, and the appearance of weather worn skin finish the image. As a finishing touch, you take a belt off of the flask of cheap whiskey in your pocket, swish it around in your mouth, and spray it all over your tie. You look like you belong in the Courthouse. As a defendant for vagrancy charges.

Which is just what you want. You step out of the stairwell to stand before the records office. They really are all buried in the basement. With a swagger in your step and a slight stagger in your walk you make your way to the window. Working at the desk is the other kind of record’s clerk. Male. Half asleep. Old enough to have babysat Jesus. Good.

“Hello, I’m Marcus Woolshire. I’m representing myself on a charge of public disturbance. I need to see my arrest record.”

The old man grumbles at you something unintelligible (though you’re pretty sure you caught the word ‘broccoli’?), and punches something into the computer. While his attention is on the screen you pull out the high powered magnet from your coat pocket and hold it up against the wall that the computer rests against. The little guy about swallows his own tongue as you can hear the computer degaussing.

The stream of invective that pours from the old man would make a sailor blush. And a cook salivate. It’s a mixture of profanity and food words (Cauliflower fucker? Haricot cunt? Seriously, there’s something wrong with the guy). His face is an amazing shade of purple.

With a whole lot of wheedling you manage to get the old coot to let you in to look for your own records while he calls for IT. That’s the cue for your distraction to come in.

Chrissy is an amazing distraction for any man with a pulse. Even one with a brain that seems to translate everything into food. The old man drools and mutters something about cupcakes. You disappear into the stacks.

After getting your bearings you find a locked door in the back of the office with the words “Sealed cases. Authorized personnel only.” Out come your picks. ABLOY rim lock. Pretty easy crack. 6 tumblers. No problem. You’re in.

Case files are organized by year and date. You have what you need and are walking out the door. Chrissy regales the food fucker with tales of her college days as you walk past with a wave goodbye that the old boy doesn’t even notice. 20 minutes total.

You go over the pics you took with your phone in the car while you wait for Chrissy to untangle herself from the old guy. Fuck me. The family’s in Ely. Wonder if the girls are up for a road trip.

“That could have gone worse.” Chrissy breaks your reverie as she climbs into the car. “The old bastard didn’t even call IT until after I left.”

“You notice anything weird about the guy?”

“He seemed hungry.” She reaches over the shifter and unzips your pants, “Speaking of which... start driving.”