TWO: RENT DELINQUENT

I'm watching the original Dragnet show on the History Channel when the intercom buzzes. I don't know how the show rates as History-maybe just because it's really old. It was one of my dad's favorites.

I get up from the couch and walk into the hall where the intercom is stuck on the wall. I assume the buzzer is a tenant who's forgotten their key and wants me to let them in. I don't mind except after 11 PM when I give them a little attitude.

It's not a tenant. It's two police detectives.

I let them in, grab my keys and take the stairs up to meet them.

I have a pretty good idea why the cops are here. Morgan, John. Apartment 602. Moved in two months ago with his wife Morgan, Janet. Have not seen her since. Almost no furniture. Last months rent cheque bounced. All the precursors for a visit from the law.

They ask me the usual questions in the elevator. When did he move in? When was the last time I saw him? Any parties or complaints from other tenets? They must have a page in the police procedural manual. How to interview the superintendent.

I cooperate. No sense making waves with the law. I've called them myself before. No doubt I'll call them again.

I ask if they've got a warrant. They say no. All they want me to do is open the door so they can look in. They're not going to enter the premises.

The tall one with donut sugar on his tie knocks hard on the door.

"Police, Mr. Morgan," he says in a loud voice. "Open the door!"

Three other doors on the floor open. People stick their heads out and quickly pull them back in when they see me with the cops. No response from 602, Morgan, John, rent delinquent and probable perpetrator of a criminal malfeasance.

I turn the key and step to the side quickly in case there's any gunplay. The cops don't even make the effort to put their hands on their guns. Another myth shattered.

The apartment stinks.

"That smell like a body to you," the tall one asks his partner. Cop number two sticks his head inside and sniffs his nose twitching like a rabbit in a carrot patch.

"Could be," he says.

"Garbage," I tell them. I'm the expert when it comes to apartment smells. The living room floor is littered with pizza boxes. A slice has been crushed into the carpet and has gray mold growing all over it. Another shitty clean up job.

"I think we got probable," the tall one says. They both look at me. I shrug. Suit yourselves I tell them. They're covering their asses incase there's fall out. Technically with rent in arrears almost a month it could be said that as the legal representative of the owners I have the right to enter the premises.

I delegate that responsibility to the guys with guns.


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ONE: DOG PISS IN THE ELEVATOR

There is dog piss in the elevator again this morning and I'm sure it's Mrs. Timpkin's terrier from apartment 705.

Is see her later and ask if she knows anything about it. She gets all huffy and changes the subject pointing out to me that the grass hasn't been cut for two weeks and is becoming an embarrassment whenever she has company. I politely remind her that outdoor maintenance is not my responsibility. No Christmas tip from her this year. The bitch.

I wipe up some of the piss with a paper towel and put it in a zip lock baggie in the freezer. I've got Denise searching the Internet for someplace that does DNA tests that can match it to her dog. I just need to get a fur sample.

I asked Mr. Flint, from the company that manages the building, if they could put in a surveillance camera. He tells me he'll check with legal but he's pretty sure there's a law against it. More likely they're too fucking cheap to spend the money.

Denise says I should stand up to him. That's easy for her to say. She doesn't have to deal with the bureaucracy every day.

Anyway, I come back to the elevator with a pail of hot water and pine smelling disinfectant to give the floor a good mopping. I have my key in the control panel to keep the elevator down on the basement floor when someone presses the call button and makes the bell ring. They wait about five seconds and then hold their finger on the button. I pull out the key and the door snaps shut before I can get out and I have to ride all the way up to the ninth floor.

I'm not surprised it's the Thompson girl from 917. Dody or Fody. Some weird name like that. When the door opens she's standing there with a cigarette in her mouth.

The car lurches when the door closes. I make a note to myself to call the elevator people and have them look at it.

Dody or Fody or what ever her name is has her usual black lipstick and masses of eyeliner that makes her look like a raccoon. Her hair is died so black it's purple in the elevator's fluorescent lights.

She ignores me.

"It's a non smoking building," I say in my pretend friendly voice.

"Does it look like it's lit?" she snaps thrusting it at me like she wants to stab me in the eye with it. Someone got up on the wrong side of the bed.

"No school today?" I ask, trying for casual chitchat to break the ice.



"Cause it's Saturday. Duuh!"

We settle into peaceful co-existence until we hit the ground floor.

"Smells like piss in here," she says as the door opens.

She stops in the foyer and lights her cigarette taking a couple of deep puffs and exhaling before pushing open the glass doors and stepping out into the street.

About ten minutes later Mr. Flint comes in for his weekly inspection. I'm vacuuming the carpet by the front door. He gives an exaggerated sniff as if trying to locate the source of some nasty flatulent emission.

"You need to stop people from smoking in the building," he tells me taking out his pen and notebook.

"If we had a surveillance camera we could catch them," I say in my friendly team player voice. I think I've got him with that one.

"The grass needs cutting," he says in a voice that implies that it's my fault. His lips move as he writes himself a note.



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