He turns around. Andy is lining up the bikes, turning them so they face the gate, enough room between them so that they can all jump on and start riding without being on top of each other.

Paul is at the side door. He turns the knob. Shakes his head. George joins him. The window peeking into the garage is covered on the inside. Tinfoil and black duct tape.

Hector has gone around the rear corner of the house, trying the back windows for one that’s unlocked.

He stays low so the tall crest of his mohawk can’t be seen from any of the other backyards. The guys wanted him to wear a cap or something over it. Fuck that. Thing takes almost as long to do as his sister’s hair. Besides, these old houses off Junction Avenue have huge yards and tons of big trees that are like a hundred years old or something. No one is gonna see shit. What the guys really wanted was for him to cut it off. They’re uptight that if someone gets a look at them going in or out the mohawk is gonna get them all busted. Sure, there’s only a couple other guys in town that got ’em. And he’s the only Mexican. But that’s the point. Looking different is the point. Having your appearance spit in people’s faces and piss them off is the point. Cut off the hawk and it’s like caving in. Fuck that.

And where the fuck’s an unlocked window for fucksake?

He’s checked the whole back of the house, tried the kitchen and bedroom and livingroom windows and they’re all locked. Normally, you could slip a jimmy into the crack between the sliding glass door and the jamb, but the owners have a piece of 1×2 laid flat in the door’s guide slot or whatever the hell it’s called. Pop the lock and try to open the door and it’ll just get jammed against the stick.