Small Apartments (6 page)

F
RANKLIN KNEW HE
had worked his way into a hell of a fix. Part of his problem was solved, but he still had to figure out what to do with Mr. Olivetti’s Chevy pickup truck. Why didn’t Bernard teach me how to drive a stick shift? he lamented. It would have been a much better plan if the truck were out at the house. Now he could be sure that the police would come looking for it. Well, what’s done is done, he thought. Besides, if I drove him out there in his truck, how would I have gotten home? He needed a plan for the Chevy, but he couldn’t think straight. All he cared about was that it was ten minutes till midnight and he would be sitting at his window with his binoculars in just a few moments.

He drove slowly past Mr. Olivetti’s Chevy and parked on the opposite side of the street. I’ll worry about that damned thing after, he thought.

Franklin could not suppress his anticipation. What would Little 101 do? How much would she show? How far would she go? He had no idea what to expect. His pants were ready to explode. He broke into a fat man’s run across the street all the way into 100 Garner. He threw his keys onto the table, left the lights off and pulled his orange chair up to the window with his binoculars in hand. Her window was black. The blinds were down and the curtains were drawn. Franklin checked his watch: 11:56. He fingered the knot on his head. I should probably put some more ice on that, he thought. His dog started licking the salty sweat from his leg.

“Knock it off,” hissed Franklin. “Go get a drink of water.”

Her bedroom light popped on. A dark shadow passed behind the shades and they began to slowly rise. He placed his elbows on the windowsill and then pressed the binoculars against his eye sockets until they ached. From behind her silky curtains he saw her. She was swaying back and forth, moving to some silent rhythm. He was pitching a Big Top in his pants. I may not make it to the bubble bath tonight, he thought. A second silhouette stepped into the window frame. The mother? thought Franklin. No, not the mother. It was another girl, another teenager. Maybe the friend—what was her name—Suzy! The two girls were hugging and dancing, running their hands slowly up and down each other’s backs. This is better than I imagined it would be, thought Franklin. Good golly, I can barely stand it!

Both girls moved out of the window frame. The curtains opened slowly as they danced back into view. Franklin could now see what they were wearing: white cotton tank tops and plaid men’s boxer shorts. They danced side-by-side with their backs toward him, arms akimbo. Their hips swayed playfully, bumping their young buttocks against each other. He could see they were giggling and talking with one another. Then they stopped dancing, grabbed their waistbands, pulled down their shorts, and sat their bare rears on the windowsill. They were mooning him. But there was more. There was something written on their butts. There was a black letter drawn on each perfect cheek. Franklin nearly dropped the binoculars out onto the porch as he frantically focussed to read what was written on their butt cheeks. ? … E … R … U, Peru? No, not U,
V
. P-E-R-
V
. Perv! They had spelled out “Perv” to him on their consummate, teenage asses.

The two girls, convulsed in laughter, pulled up their shorts. Then Little 101’s room returned to darkness.

Franklin slumped back in his chair and let the binoculars fall to his lap. He looked at his watch. The whole show had lasted four minutes. One moment you’re on top of the world, the next you’re in the shitter. It was like having a woman point at your penis and laugh, he thought. As it happens, he knew how that felt, too.

Franklin grabbed Mr. Olivetti’s keys off the table and stepped out onto the porch. He had no choice but to figure out how to drive a standard shift well enough to get the truck far enough away to avoid suspicion.

Franklin stormed out into the street, looked east on Garner,

blinked his eyes, then released a yelp of raw elation. He broke into another fat man’s run. There was no mistaking it—the shattered glass. There was no explaining it—the vacant space. Someone had stolen Mr. Olivetti’s tan 1994 Chevy S-10 pickup truck while he was being humiliated by two wicked, lovely teenage strumpets. Some marvelous, wonderful, beautiful, punk-ass sonofabitch. God bless this crummy city, he thought. “God bless Buffalo, New York!” screamed Franklin into the midnight sky.

“Shut your hole, fatso!” called back one of Franklin’s neighbours.

B
URT WALNUT CROUCHED
in the wet grass and soot along the outside perimeter of what used to be Albert Olivetti’s tool barn. He picked up bits of dirt and charred wood, studied them, smelled them, and, for the most part, put them back down. Burt was wearing a navy blue wind-breaker with the letters
LFD
emblazoned on the back in white. He was wearing a red tartan flannel shirt over a white
T
-shirt, blue jeans, Wolverine work boots and a red, white and blue Buffalo Bills cap. He made his way around the scene with his eyes fixed on the ground, kicking soot and debris, and bending down when it seemed pertinent.

Billy Browski had changed out of his fireproof coat and pants and replaced his helmet with a well-worn
LFD
baseball cap. “What d’ya make of it, Burt?”

“Don’t look like arson from the outside,” said Burt Walnut. “How about from the inside?”

“Hmm,” said Burt.

“We found this Zippo lighter in the dirt not three feet from the body. Could be he sparked something he was working with, fuel or paint thinner maybe. Could be he was just smoking where he shouldn’t have been.” Billy tossed the plastic Baggie holding the soot-covered lighter into Burt’s hands.

“Hmm,” said Burt.

“I for one can’t figure out what this fella was supposed to be working on out here,” said Billy. “Not just because of the late hour, that’s not so unusual when you’ve got no wife telling you it’s time to come in. You know what I’m saying there, Burt. But we found a rubber grip hammer melted to this fella’s skin and bone and I don’t know what the hell he was out here hammering. There was nothing laying around the body or the worktable that needed hammerin’. Unless it was wood. And any fool knows that you use a mallet with wood. Judging from these tools, this fella’s no beginner carpenter.”

“What are the police saying?” asked Burt. “What does Fred say?”

“You know Fred. Mum’s the word until the autopsy is performed. He’s calling it an ‘open investigation’.”

“Mmm-hmm,” said Burt. “I got two questions right off the bat. One is, if this fella started the fire himself, by accident say, why didn’t he run out of the barn? Even if he spilled gasoline all over himself from head to toe, and was getting burned up in the most hopeless sort of manner, the man would run around like a chicken trying to put out the flames. This fella here, he just burns himself up and drops right in front of his worktable. He’s even still got the hammer in his hand. Unless this fella was part lemming, I’ve never known anybody to give up that easy.”

“Can’t argue there,” said Billy.

“The second question is, where’s this fella’s vehicle?”

“Fred says he’s got two vehicles registered to him. He’s got a 1987 Lincoln Continental, which as you saw is under a few hundred pounds of lumber in that barn stall over there. And he’s got a 1994 Chevy S-10 pickup.”

“Well there ain’t no engine in that Continental,” said Burt. “So unless he was pushing that around town, he’s been driving the Chevy.”

“Well there’s no sign of the Chevy truck on the property,” said Billy.

“Mmm,” said Burt. “Well there ain’t nothing right about that.”

Erie County Sheriff Fred McNally finished talking with one of his deputies and walked over to where Burt Walnut and Billy Browski were standing. The three men had known each other for more than forty years. They were hometown boys. They grew up playing the same sports and competing for the same girlfriends. Fred removed his tan cowboy hat and scratched his short, salt and pepper hair.

“This fella’s got a daughter lives in Phoenix,” said Fred. “I’ve got to head back to the office and call her.”

“Billy said this fella’s got a Chevy truck still unaccounted for,” said Burt.

“That’s right. I put out an
APB
on it,” said Fred.

“You mind if I sniff around the house?” asked Burt.

“There weren’t no fire in there,” said Fred, smiling. “Not unless he was baking cookies while he was out in the barn. No, I don’t mind. I got a couple deputies going through there right now. What’s your take on this barn fire, Burt?”

“A lot of things don’t add up. It don’t strike me at first glance as accidental.”

“Maybe this fella was just crazy,” offered Billy. “Like that bald fella is always saying on the
TV
talk shows. His mind was
unfettered
and
uncooked
. What’s that guy’s name?”

“Mennox,” said Fred. “My wife reads all his books. She says I need to stay mentally strong, or some such. She says this job of mine is leading me down the Road to Crazy. Nights like these I think she’s right. Well, we’ll know more about how this fella died when Bob is done with the autopsy report. I’ve got to go call this daughter in Phoenix. Give my best to the wives.”

“Will do,” said Billy.

“G’night, Fred,” said Burt Walnut.

T
OMMY BALLS WAS
passed out cold on his corduroy couch when his mother knocked on his door at 10 o’clock Wednesday morning. He had passed out during the first five minutes of the last episode of the
Magnum, P.I
. marathon.

“Thomas,” called Tommy’s mother between knocks. “Open the door. It’s your mother.”

“Fuuuuck,” moaned Tommy Balls. “Hold on, dude.”

“Open the door. It’s not right to leave your mother standing in the hallway.”

Tommy swept the remaining weed on the coffee table into a Ziploc Baggie and stuck it in his back pocket. He dumped out the water from the gravity bong and left the bucket and the soda bottle in the bathtub. He gave his apartment a quick inspection: filthy. Reluctantly, he opened the door.

Tommy’s mother was forty-nine years old and petite, with a sharp nose and frosted auburn hair. She was wearing a cotton floral print church dress and white gloves. In her hands she carried a bible, a hardcover copy of
Am I Crazy
by Dr. Sage Mennox, and a white wickerwork handbag adorned with pink plastic flowers.

“Really, Thomas. How can you leave me standing in that filthy hallway? And I am not a ‘dude’, I am your mother.”

Tommy Balls moaned and rubbed his red, puffy eye sockets.

“Your apartment is a sty, per usual, but I am not here to quarrel over that this morning.” She straightened herself up as tall as her 5’3” frame would allow. “Thomas, come to church with me today.”

“It’s Wednesday.”

“Yes, Thomas. There are services on Wednesday. The Lord is available seven days a week, not just on Sundays.” Tommy’s mother opened her Dr. Mennox book to the first flyleaf and read aloud: “Those who ignore their faith ignore their responsibilities, for faith is the first responsibility.”

“Even if I wanted to, on principle alone, I would not go to a church that had services on Wednesdays. Besides, I have to work today.”

Tommy’s mother walked her fingertips over the dog-eared corners of her Dr. Mennox book and cracked it open: “Work has its purpose and its rewards, but should never serve as an escape from your problems.”

“Mom! Can it with that Dr. Mennox crap. That guy is such a quack.”

Tommy’s mother’s eyes began to well up with tears. He could sense the shit storm coming.

“I’m not going to just write you off, Thomas, I am your mother. Are you hoping that I will just ignore your drug addiction? Hmm? Are you hoping I will just pretend that everything is hunky-dory? Well, I will not. I have eyes, Thomas. I see what is happening to you. What sort of life are you making for yourself? You are well on your way down the Road To Crazy. I will not stand idly by while you punch your ticket to eternal damnation!”