It was obvious this setup had been built by hand. The cheap linoleum flooring buckled from water damage and the paneling on the walls looked like a weekend project by the homeowner, and a water pipe ran across the middle of the room so that anyone over five-six would have to dip his head to move from the bed to the bathroom. But even with these limitations, it was as nice a place as any other Court had lived in the past few years, and better than most.
The bed was just a twin, but it was all that would fit. There were a table and a chair by the one little window and even a small TV that looked like it was plugged into a cable box.
Cable?
Court wondered if he’d died and gone to heaven.
On the southern wall right behind where the front door opened was an accordion door covering a small closet. The storage space was just two feet deep but six feet wide. Court peered in and noticed the back panel of the closet was rippling, as if from moisture or excessive heat on the boards.
“What’s all that?” he asked.
“Oh, that ain’t nothin’,” the landlord said. “I built this room in a corner of my basement. The water heater and the furnace are on the other side of that wall. Maybe I shoulda put a little more insulation in the wall or something, but it don’t bother nobody who stays here.”
Mayberry leaned into the closet and knocked on the wood. “See? It’s solid.”
It sounded hollow as a drum to Court, but he considered that a feature, not a glitch. The basement would have access to the main house, which meant Court would just have to make a small “adjustment” in that wall and he’d have an escape route in case someone he didn’t like came to the front door.
Court looked around the room again. “I like it,” he said.
“Didn’t get your name.”
Court was always quick with a name and a story, though like his trip from Michigan and his dead uncle in Petworth, it was never the truth. “Jeff. Jeff Duncan.”
“Got to ask, Jeff. How come you ain’t stayin’ up at your uncle’s place?”
“I won’t be able to afford the property taxes on the house, so I’ll have to sell it. Before I put it on the market, I’ll be doing some renovations. Have to shut off the water and heat while I work on the plumbing and HVAC.”
Court saw the older black man soften to him even more. It was basic social engineering. Court would say things to create an instant bond between himself and his potential landlord.
When the man replied with, “I know that’s right. Taxes are through the damn roof. It’s gotten real bad around here,” Court knew he was in with the man, but Court noticed the wife was still gaping at him like he was a fucking unicorn.
“It’s three hundred a month for the room?” Court asked.
“That’s firm,” the man replied.
Court pretended to think it over. Then he said, “I can give you first and last month’s rent. Will that do?”
The old man was on the spot. He clearly didn’t expect an offer. He stammered for a moment, then said, “No room in the driveway for your car. Hard to find parking around here.”
“No problem. I’ll keep my car parked at my uncle’s.”
The man bit his lip. He glanced to his wife, then said, “Not much of a kitchen. Toilet runs a little bit. TV is just basic cable.”
“That’s all I need.”
“Okay, then,” Arthur said. Then, “Of course I’m gonna need to see your driver’s license. Run a background check.”
Court smiled a little. “What do you say we make it four hundred a month?”
Despite the fact that he was being offered one hundred fifty dollars more per month than he’d originally been asking, Mayberry frowned. “Son, I can’t allow no criminals in here.”
“Not a criminal, Mr. Mayberry. Just a guy who’s hoping to avoid some red tape.”
“Well, that’s a problem, because I’m by the book. I guess this place isn’t for you.”
Court turned his head back and forth, scanning the small room. “You’re right. By the book is best.”
“That’s what I say.”
“Cool. Can I take a quick look at the back door?”
“The what?”
“The back door?”
“Uh… just the one door.”
“Huh,” Court said. “I could have sworn building codes say private apartments have to have two exits in case of fire. I could be wrong, though. How ’bout while you are running that background check on me, I check with the city to make sure you’ve complied with all the building and zoning laws. That way we both know what we’re getting into here.”
The African American man glared at the white man for a long moment.
Court smiled. “Like you said. By the book.”
Bernice reached out and took her husband by the arm, giving it an anxious squeeze. Slowly the corners of Arthur Mayberry’s mouth rose, and he smiled a wide, toothy grin. “All right, then. You gonna have it your way, and I’m gonna have me five hundred dollars a month, plus two fifty security deposit.”
Court calculated he’d have to burn this tiny room to cinders to do two hundred and fifty dollars’ worth of damage. But with a little smile he reached for his wallet. “A hard bargain, sir, but I like your style.”
Bernice spoke up for the first time, and apparently none of the new mutual respect between the two men had rubbed off on her. “I’ll tell you right now, young man, we’re not gonna stand for no parties.”
Court had never thrown a party in his life, but still he wondered how much of a party one might actually throw in a ten-by-ten basement with a metal water pipe running across at forehead height. “I’ll be gone a lot. I guarantee I’ll be the quietest tenant you’ve ever had.”
“And no drugs,” the woman added.
“Absolutely not.”
Jeff Duncan” handed Arthur Mayberry $1,250 and took a key, and when Arthur asked the younger man when he would actually move in, Jeff replied he’d been up all night so he’d go right to bed, and then bring some things over from his hotel that evening.
Arthur and Bernice left him in his new apartment and headed back to the front of the house. As soon as the storm door shut Bernice said one word. “Drugs.”
“You’re probably right,” replied Arthur. Plaintively he added, “But what was I gonna do? First and last month’s rent ain’t nothing to turn your nose up to. And all that bonus money.”
Bernice made a clicking sound with her tongue and said it again. “Drugs.”
Arthur sighed. He knew he’d be hearing this a lot over the next two months.
Court wedged one of the metal chairs under the door and then he took a shower, his first in days. He took the .380 pistol into the stall with him, leaving it in the soap niche. There was no soap or shampoo, so all he really did was rinse off, and there were no towels so he did little more than drip-dry, although he patted himself down with the thin comforter from the bed. He put his clothes back on, even his shoes, and then he pulled a pillow and a wool blanket off the bed and threw them in the long narrow closet behind the door to the outside. He rolled the damp comforter around the remaining two pillows and he put them under the bed sheet in the center of the bed, making an approximate man-sized shape under the sheets.
He turned off the lights in the room, walked over to the blanket and the pillow in the closet, and lay down, drawing his pistol from his pocket and putting it on the linoleum floor to the right of his body.
He thought about the locks on the doors and the wedged chair. This wasn’t exactly a high-security facility, but he was dead tired and he could barely think. Anyone who kicked open the door would see the bed, and Court hoped they would assume someone was sleeping there. They would open fire on this target first, giving Court a little warning. They wouldn’t see Court here in the closet until they stepped a few feet into the room and looked to their left, at which point Court would shoot them dead.