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
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
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