<div class="floatleft">(http://i.imgur.com/09e2GrS.jpg)  </div>The rain in LA tries to start out every year with a cleansing of the streets, with January and February bringing a respectable amount of rain, and the cool nights are peppered with rain coats, hats, and umbrellas-- three things most Angelinos do without the rest of the year.  Izzy was in that February rain with a dozen others, making her way down 4th street toward a parking garage.  The crowd was thinning out as she passed under the illuminated sign, people parting their stoic distance with chatter, laughter that echoed in the wet street.  Her shoulders were low and her hands were thrust into the pockets of her leather jacket, the hoodie beneath soaking up much of the persistent rain, and a black tendril of wet hair was plastered across her left eyebrow beneath.  She was tall for a woman, almost half a head taller than a passing drunk girl in four-inch heels-- that one reeled past, much the opposite of Izzy's composed stance, wearing her dates' coat over her dolled-up hair and made-up face.  Izzy glanced up from the shadow of her hood and smirked as the girl was carted toward the garage, her beau fumbling anxiously with his keys as they disappeared into the electric light.<br/><br/>She reached a crosswalk where a few other of the late-night clubbers milled about, and she tested the zipper of her coat once more before adjusting her dark jeans on her hips-- they always seemed to sag lower on her lean waist after a long night dancing, and out of habit she checked that her wallet was still tucked neatly into the pocket before she entered the crosswalk at the chiming and flashing green of the crossing signal.  Her black eyes seemed fixed on the white stripes of the road, and she seemed deep in thought... a night of action, of long stares and refusing the offers of questionable drinks had led her here.  Her mind wasn't fixed on the missed opportunity of a blonde in a halter-top that had made out with her before ruining the moment by babbling about her boyfriend-- no it was working over a dozen angles, remembering the rush of a job and the opportunities that might wait ahead.<br/><br/>Izzy didn't look like a thief, not by any stretch... her Joan Jett style and casually swaying stride could have placed her as many things-- a bartender working her way to the bus stop, a gay bar-cruiser looking for action, or a musician without a gig, maybe.  But she was a thief, and nights like this she knew that this was the thing in her heart that set her apart from so many of these club-hopping prats and the agitators that catcalled them all.  She would be planning like this-- on her feet, in her bath, as she lay awake in an empty bed-- letting the city seep its way into her first, then ebb its way out into action and a plan.  This was how she spent her nights, taking what she could and not wasting time on the in-between.