Small Apartments (8 page)

“Bernard never told me diddly squat,” said Franklin. “He just sent me envelopes full of fingernails. Why didn’t the hospital contact me?”

“Bernard has always been a voluntary resident here. He was here of his own volition. Our rules are completely different for contacting next of kin when the resident is not a ward of the state. Only in the event of serious injury or death.”

“Or non-payment,” offered Franklin.

“Right,” agreed Sally Baker. “Or non-payment. Which was never a problem with Bernard. After Bernard died, we tried contacting you by telephone but …”

“I don’t have a phone,” said Franklin.

“Well, yes, we discovered that. We also sent a hospital representative out to your home yesterday but they got lost because there is no such place as Garner Street in the city of Buffalo.”

I can thank the multi-pierced lady at the
DMV
for that one, thought Franklin. He was silent for a moment. “A brain tumour, huh? So Bernard wasn’t crazy after all. He had something growing inside his head and nobody found it until it was too late. Did you know he was diagnosed by Dr. Sage Mennox himself?”

“The
TV
Guru guy?” gushed Sally. “Oh, I just love him. Have you read any of his books?”

“No,” said Franklin.

“He’s a little unconventional,” said Sally. “For instance, we don’t refer to our patients as crazy. But when he talks about building a body that is mentally fit and physically strong, I think he’s right on target. I’ve read all his books and I can say that since I started working in a mental hospital—and this is just between you and me—every one of our residents is either unbalanced, unfocused or impure; sometimes all three. Your brother Bernard may have been unbalanced, but he was free to come and go as he pleased.”

“He was?” said Franklin in astonishment.

“Of course. This is what I’m trying to tell you. Our policy is completely different for volunteer residents. Bernard would take a long walk every morning and return around lunchtime.”

Franklin’s bewildered stare was focused on something a thousand miles away. He rested his elbow in his cupped hand and tugged at his upper lip. “I would like to see Bernard now,” he said.

“Of course,” said Sally Baker. “He’s in the morgue. But first I have some paperwork for you to fill out, and I need to give you this.” She removed a white #10 envelope from the pocket of her plum-coloured silk jacket. “It’s addressed to you from Bernard.”

“What’s in it?” asked Franklin. More fingernails, he guessed.

“I don’t know,” said Sally Baker. “It’s addressed only to you.”

“Oh,” said Franklin. “Silly me. I just thought it might be a good policy to open crazy people’s mail. But now that I know Bernard wasn’t even crazy, and could come and go as he pleased, you’ll have to forgive me for asking such a stupid question.”

B
URT WALNUT PARKED
his silver 1999 Dodge Ram in front of 100 Garner and killed the engine. His visit to the rental property at 559 Potomac had been uneventful. The building was a beige, clapboard, two-storey house with one apartment on each floor. The upper apartment was vacant and in the middle of some renovations. The sink and the toilet had been removed and there was a cardboard box filled with bolts and pipe-fittings on top of a plastic sheet in the middle of the living room. There was also a tool belt, some plumber’s wrenches and a large white bucket of plaster.

The ground floor apartment was the residence of seventy-nine-year-old grandmother of fourteen, Emma Stepnoski. She told Burt that she had heard Mr. Olivetti banging around upstairs early Tuesday morning. She said she knew it was him because of all the profanities. “Those Italians have filthy mouths,” said Emma. She didn’t know where he was headed, but she watched him leave in his truck at around 11:00 a.m.

That information had taken Burt all of seven minutes to solicit. However, he felt obliged to stay another hour drinking coffee, eating fresh-baked lemon cakes and looking at photos of Emma’s army of grandchildren.

On the porch at 100 Garner, Burt Walnut met Tommy Balls on his way to work at the 2-4 store. Tommy was wearing a black Korn
T
-shirt, green fatigue pants and black canvas Converse high tops. The volume in his headphones was loud enough for Burt to hear the unpleasant crackle of modern music through the outside door. Tommy was also high as a kite.

Tommy noticed the old fireman standing on the porch as he checked his mail in the breezeway. Burt nodded with a neighbourly smile and motioned for Tommy to remove his headphones so he could respond to friendly conversation. Tommy complied, but the first stages of pothead paranoia were beginning to creep in. This guy on the porch looks like a cop, Tommy thought. Or worse, someone from my mom’s church. He remained in the breezeway with the door closed.

“Hi,” said Burt through the glass.

Tommy nodded.

“I see you’re checking your mail. You live here?”

Shit, thought Tommy, this guy is a cop. He was beginning to get nervous. He did not want to freak out right there in the breezeway. “What’s the problem,” asked Tommy. “Are you a cop?”

“No,” chuckled Burt. “I’m a fireman. I just want to ask ya a few questions about your landlord, Mr. Olivetti. Come on out, I won’t bite ya.”

Tommy’s pulse slowly returned to normal. He stuffed his mail into his green army surplus backpack. “I haven’t seen Mr. Olivetti,” said Tommy. “He’s supposed to come fix my sink. It drips.”

“Uh huh,” said Burt. “Well I don’t figure he’ll be getting around to that any time soon. He got burned up in a fire at his house last night.”

Tommy opened the outside door and stepped onto the porch. “Is he all right?” he asked.

“Nope. He’s dead,” said Burt.

“Wow,” said Tommy.

“Yeah. Wow,”
said Burt Walnut. “When did you last see your landlord?”

“Last week. He was here to cut the lawn. I feel bad and everything, but I’m late for work,” said Tommy.

“Uh huh,” said Burt. “Who else lives here with you, son?”

Tommy pointed to the windows as he spoke. “There’s a nosy old guy who lives in that apartment named Mr. Allspice. And there’s a weird fat dude who lives in that apartment named Franklin.”

“What makes the fat fella weird?” asked Burt.

“For one thing the dude has got this giant horn that he blows at all hours of the day. It’s like one of those Alpine horns that the dudes in the cough drop commercials blow. You haven’t heard anything till you’ve heard that fucking horn blowing through this building. And he’s just, like, I don’t know, a real hermit. Yesterday he wouldn’t even open his door just to hand me a lousy empty pop bottle.”

“You don’t say,” said Burt as he wrinkled his brow and feigned disbelief. He was giving Tommy an audience for his outrageous stories.

“Yeah. He made me yank the bottle through the doorway while the security chain was still attached. For whatever reason, that dude did not want anyone looking inside his apartment last night.”

“What’d you need with an empty pop bottle?”

“Nothing. I just needed it, that’s all.” Tommy’s ears began to turn red.

Burt sensed that he had somehow spooked the kid, so he moved on. “About what time was all this nonsense with the pop bottle?” asked Burt.

“Um, it was almost the end of the seventh
Magnum, P.I
. episode, so it had to be just before eight o’clock,” said Tommy. “Hey, what’s going to happen to this building now that Mr. Olivetti is gone?”

“He has a daughter out west who is coming in to settle his affairs. I’m sure she’ll let ya know where things stand with the apartment building and so forth,” said Burt. “Well, I’ve made you late for work. You’d better get going.”

Tommy Balls hiked his backpack onto his shoulders and walked off towards the 2-4 store. Damn. Burning to death, thought Tommy Balls. That tops the list of ways I don’t want to die. When I go, I hope I’m getting laid and sucking on a fat doobie.

Burt watched Tommy until he was out of view then turned to look inside Franklin’s window. He cupped his hands around his eyes and pressed his nose against the dusty glass. That’s a mighty small apartment, thought Burt. He noticed the big horn the kid was talking about leaning against an orange vinyl-covered chair. On the table by the window there was a pair of binoculars on top of a pile of newspapers. Burt banged a couple times on the window and an old hound dog popped his head up from behind the coffee table. The dog stretched and made his way over to the window slowly. He blinked his tired eyes up at Burt. One ear was flopped back on top of his head. Burt tapped the glass with his fingernails. “Hey, fella. Ya bite?”

Burt looked around behind him, then turned back to the window. He placed his fingers on the glass and pushed it up easily. He climbed in, closed the window and gave the dog a few gentle pats on the head. The table by the window looked like a good place to start. Wednesday morning’s
Buffalo News
local section was folded over to the story about the barn fire at the Olivetti house. Could be a coincidence, thought Burt. He picked up Franklin’s binoculars and looked through them at the yellow building across the street, then laid them back on the table.

Franklin’s dog climbed up on the couch and settled in for a nap.

Burt walked around the cramped room with his thumbs hooked in his pockets. He lifted up the end of the alphorn and gave it a good once-over. He blew a little air through it softly and it made a whiny honk. On the wall above the table was a makeshift shrine to the nation of Switzerland. There was a six-foot by four-foot Swiss flag thumbtacked to the wall covered with postcards, magazine photographs, and dangling Alpine bric-a-brac. Burt studied the items briefly, not quite sure how long he had before Franklin’s return. On Franklin’s twin-sized bed were a grey
T
-shirt and a pair of tan shorts. He picked them up and smelled them. It was a smell he knew better than any other: smoke. I don’t figure this fella was roasting marshmallows by a campfire last night, thought Burt. I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts he was roasting his landlord in that tool barn.

Burt gave the dog another pat on the head and left Franklin’s apartment through the door. In the foyer, he collided with a surly, red-faced little man, both arms full of groceries.

“Are you the new tenant?” asked Mr. Allspice.

“No sir,” answered Burt Walnut.

“Are you a friend of this fat clown?” Mr. Allspice asked, motioning towards Franklin’s door with his shiny head.

“No sir, I ain’t that neither. My name’s Burt Walnut and I’m a Fire Investigator with the Town of Lackawanna. Would you perchance be Mr. Allspice of 2A?”

“I am he,” said Mr. Allspice.

“Would you mind if I asked you a few questions,” said Burt with a friendly smile.

Mr. Allspice made no effort to cloak his annoyance. “Let me put these bags down,” he said as he pushed past Burt and into his apartment. Burt held the door open and followed him in.

“A Fire Investigator, hmm?” said Mr. Allspice, lighting a cigarette. “Do you have any identification?”

Burt showed him his gold Town of Lackawanna Fire Investigator’s shield. That seemed to suffice.

“What’s this all about?” asked Mr. Allspice.

“I’m regretful to inform you that your landlord Albert Olivetti was killed in a barn fire at his home late last night.”

Mr. Allspice’s abrasive demeanor softened and he sat down in his chair. “Albert’s dead?” Felix Allspice had rented his apartment from Albert Olivetti for thirteen years. He would not have called them friends, but they were definitely acquaintances.

After Felix Allspice’s wife died, he sold the house and took the first apartment he looked at. He felt a kinship towards Albert because he too had just lost his wife. As far as the house was concerned, he needed to get away from it. He wanted to forget about the unbearable final months of his wife’s stomach cancer. He wanted to forget the doctors, the Hospice people, and even his own family. There was not a room in his house where he could stand and not hear the echoes of his wife’s agonizing death moans. After his wife passed away, both his sons and his daughter had asked him to move in with their families.

“This apartment is only temporary,” he had said. “Daddy just needs some time to himself.”

A year turns into two and on and on, until one day an old fire investigator informs you your landlord is dead and you realize you have been living in the same damned small apartment for thirteen years. Mr. Allspice thought about Albert living alone all those years in his big house. Now he was with his wife. Lucky Albert. He wasn’t a bad sort, thought Felix Allspice. But he did rent to some real losers.

“Was that fat oaf next door involved?” asked Mr. Allspice.

“Why do you ask?” asked Burt.

“It just wouldn’t surprise me,” said Mr. Allspice. “He is a bad element. He is unclean. His mind is unbalanced, unfocused and impure. He’s miles and miles down the Road to Crazy. Do you know that he blows a giant horn in that apartment? You have never heard such a racket. I ask you, what sort of person takes up a giant mountain horn as a musical instrument? He keeps all hours. I hear him moving things around over there in the middle of the night all the time. Yesterday morning I heard him banging around in there like he was wrestling a bobcat. Last night I heard a commotion out front and went to see why the porch light was off. I found him packing the trunk of his car.”