looked—a galley kitchen opening into a large living room, which opened onto an outdoor balcony. I could smell cooking meat and deep- fried vegetables, human sweat and something that smelled vaguely like vinegar, but more pungent.
The closer I got to the last apartment, however, the more I began to notice a different smell.
A smell that reminded me of Kosovo. Of Iraq. Of Afghanistan.
You never get used to the smell of decomposing people. Smell it once and no amount of deodorizer or lye or bleach will hide the smell from your nose for too long. Dead bodies smell like rotten lamb, and fecal matter, and rotten fruit, and spoiled milk, wrapped in burning garbage, but worse. Dead people smell like no other dead animal for simple evolutionary purposes. It gets the living moving . . . and fast.
In this case, however, someone had gone a long way to hide the smell, because as I stood outside the door, I could decipher it only as an undertone. My guess was that whoever was dead inside the apartment—and my guess was that it was probably both Nick and Maria, because biker gangs aren’t known for leaving witnesses—was being absorbed by an acid, probably in the bathtub.
“You know the guy who lives there?”
I turned and saw a balding man of about fifty. He had about fifty keys on a belt chain and wore a short-sleeved work shirt that was pocked with sweat across the chest. It said RAY in cursive over the breast pocket. I had the sense that he wore this shirt every day but didn’t bother to wash it.
“Know him? No,” I said. “Just know that he owes me money.”
Ray nodded but didn’t say anything. He looked me up and down once but didn’t convey any emotion.
“Have you seen him?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “I don’t normally answer questions from people dressed like you carrying two guns but who have to sneak into my building.”
Interesting.
“Jackie Roach,” I said, extending my hand. The man shook it but didn’t put much effort behind it. He wanted to hear my story. I had one. I always have one. “I work for the banks, tracking down people who’ve skipped on their foreclosures. Mr. Balsalmo, he owes Seminole Savings and Loan a considerable amount of money.” I pulled up my shirt and showed him the locations of my two guns, which he really shouldn’t have been able to see, but I had the sense that this guy had been around a gun or two in his time. “You gotta protect yourself when you have my job. You understand?”
“I understand,” he said, and lifted up his left pant leg, revealing a Saturday night special in an ankle holster. “You do property management for long? Packing is just like brushing your teeth in the morning.”
“Been there, done that, bought the bootleg off eBay!” I said and gave the man a full belly laugh. “One thing Jackie Roach knows is property management. Doing God’s work, buddy, God’s work.”
Ray still wasn’t smiling, still wasn’t exactly happy to see me and still didn’t know quite what to make of me. Being a property manager is a lot like being a prison guard: You see all kinds of miscreants on a day-to-day basis and everyone lies to you.
“You got a letter or something you want to leave?”
“Letters don’t work anymore,” I said. “You know that. It’s all about face-to-face with these people. That personal connection. Gotta be close enough to strangle someone to get your point across, right?”
Still nothing from Ray. He was listening to me, but it was as if he was trying to hear another conversation at the same time. Like he was looking for the subtext.
“Unless you got something,” he said eventually, “maybe you should just head on out. People in this building work for a living, someone like you in the building scares them, you understand? People got kids in here. We don’t need any more drama. Get it?”
I did. And “it” was not good. And accounted for the smell, too, I’d guess. I took a step toward Ray and leaned
The closer I got to the last apartment, however, the more I began to notice a different smell.
A smell that reminded me of Kosovo. Of Iraq. Of Afghanistan.
You never get used to the smell of decomposing people. Smell it once and no amount of deodorizer or lye or bleach will hide the smell from your nose for too long. Dead bodies smell like rotten lamb, and fecal matter, and rotten fruit, and spoiled milk, wrapped in burning garbage, but worse. Dead people smell like no other dead animal for simple evolutionary purposes. It gets the living moving . . . and fast.
In this case, however, someone had gone a long way to hide the smell, because as I stood outside the door, I could decipher it only as an undertone. My guess was that whoever was dead inside the apartment—and my guess was that it was probably both Nick and Maria, because biker gangs aren’t known for leaving witnesses—was being absorbed by an acid, probably in the bathtub.
“You know the guy who lives there?”
I turned and saw a balding man of about fifty. He had about fifty keys on a belt chain and wore a short-sleeved work shirt that was pocked with sweat across the chest. It said RAY in cursive over the breast pocket. I had the sense that he wore this shirt every day but didn’t bother to wash it.
“Know him? No,” I said. “Just know that he owes me money.”
Ray nodded but didn’t say anything. He looked me up and down once but didn’t convey any emotion.
“Have you seen him?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “I don’t normally answer questions from people dressed like you carrying two guns but who have to sneak into my building.”
Interesting.
“Jackie Roach,” I said, extending my hand. The man shook it but didn’t put much effort behind it. He wanted to hear my story. I had one. I always have one. “I work for the banks, tracking down people who’ve skipped on their foreclosures. Mr. Balsalmo, he owes Seminole Savings and Loan a considerable amount of money.” I pulled up my shirt and showed him the locations of my two guns, which he really shouldn’t have been able to see, but I had the sense that this guy had been around a gun or two in his time. “You gotta protect yourself when you have my job. You understand?”
“I understand,” he said, and lifted up his left pant leg, revealing a Saturday night special in an ankle holster. “You do property management for long? Packing is just like brushing your teeth in the morning.”
“Been there, done that, bought the bootleg off eBay!” I said and gave the man a full belly laugh. “One thing Jackie Roach knows is property management. Doing God’s work, buddy, God’s work.”
Ray still wasn’t smiling, still wasn’t exactly happy to see me and still didn’t know quite what to make of me. Being a property manager is a lot like being a prison guard: You see all kinds of miscreants on a day-to-day basis and everyone lies to you.
“You got a letter or something you want to leave?”
“Letters don’t work anymore,” I said. “You know that. It’s all about face-to-face with these people. That personal connection. Gotta be close enough to strangle someone to get your point across, right?”
Still nothing from Ray. He was listening to me, but it was as if he was trying to hear another conversation at the same time. Like he was looking for the subtext.
“Unless you got something,” he said eventually, “maybe you should just head on out. People in this building work for a living, someone like you in the building scares them, you understand? People got kids in here. We don’t need any more drama. Get it?”
I did. And “it” was not good. And accounted for the smell, too, I’d guess. I took a step toward Ray and leaned
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