He blinked at it vacantly for a time, reading and re-reading it until it the big, boxy letters of the header finally sunk in.
“An eviction notice,” he muttered, his throat going dry.
There went any hope of his enjoying his night.
Chapter 2
All right, so maybe he'd overspent significantly.
Perhaps he'd overextended his account during his recent coffee bender and drawn it past its limits. The rent check had probably bounced, but Ulrich hoped that Colin, the landlord, would be understanding. Ulrich had rented from him for many years and had usually paid on time. There were a couple of poor marks on his rental history, it was true; his neighbors sometimes complained about the loud music coming from Ulrich's apartment, about the loudness of his kitchen appliances and television. Once in a blue moon, when cases were scarce, he'd missed his rent by a few days and had been forced to pay extra in late fees. Still, he hoped that he hadn't worn out his welcome in the complex. He liked it there. It was close to his office and had been, for the most part, a comfortable place. Affordable, too, when compared to others in the area.
Marching downstairs to Colin's apartment, Ulrich pounded on the door and waited in the hall with his eyes low. The groggy-looking landlord stumbled out a few moments later, frowning from the onset. “Well, look who it is. Look who decides to show. Come to plead for your lease, I take it?”
Ulrich stammered. “C-colin, please, I'm sorry about what happened. If you give me just a day or two, I can fix it, whatever it is. Did my check bounce?”
“Damn right it did,” replied the landlord. He was wearing a bath robe, and if the fluttering edges of the loose-fitting garment were to be trusted, Colin wasn't wearing anything beneath it. “And this is the last time, Harlan. You've been late in the past, and I can turn a blind-eye to that now and then. But writing me bad checks? Can't abide that.” He threw his hands up, shrugging and turning away from the hall as he watched Ulrich's expression crumble. “Sorry, Harlan, but that's the way she goes. You got forty-eight hours to get your stuff out of the place. No hard feelings, I hope. But you know I can't have people writing me bad checks. Not in this economy.”
Ulrich tried to plead further, but Colin promptly shut the door in his face, leaving the investigator babbling to himself in the hallway.
So, that was how it was going to be.
Harlan Ulrich: Homeless PI.
Slowly, he mounted the stairs, returning to his place with all the enthusiasm of a grounded child, and eased open the door. Stepping inside, he felt somehow unwelcome. The place wasn't his anymore; or, at least, it wouldn't be after the next forty-eight hours. After years of calling this place home, he was getting kicked out. Sure, it might've been his fault for being irresponsible with his money, but as he paced about the living room in a daze, he felt that Colin had taken things too far. Given a day or two Ulrich would have been able to make up the loss, would have been able to pay for the late fees and everything. The landlord wasn't going to give him that chance, though.
He scanned the room, looking at all of his things. Where was he going to go? There was no other place to call home, no other spot he could move all of his belongings. It occurred to him that he might relocate his clothes and smaller items to his nearby office, though his furniture would have to be left behind. He grimaced, sitting on the armrest of the leather sofa. He'd saved up a great deal of money to buy all of that stuff, once upon a time. Now he was going to have to forfeit it. As much as he'd have liked to stash it away in storage, there simply wasn't enough money. In forty-eight hours, Colin would rush into the place and hire movers to toss whatever remained in the apartment to the curb.
It made his stomach seize.
He wondered if he couldn't call in some favor, find a friend to stay with. He took out his cell phone and scrolled through the numbers. Harrison or Dean, maybe, could let him stay over. He paused before dialing them, however. They were still out drinking at Oliver's, and besides, their wives would never allow it. Dean, especially, would be loathe to give up his couch to Ulrich, lest he have to find some other place to bring his nightly paramours. When his scan of the phone was complete, he threw it down onto the coffee table and buried his face in his hands. Where are you going to go? he thought. Maybe you could just sleep in your car till you save up enough to rent a new place...
The thought of living in his old Passat was enough to make him want to jump out of a window. Driving from place to place in the rickety, cramped car, was bad enough. The idea of caging up his lanky frame in it, night after night, was, frankly, laughable. He'd end up with some permanent disability from it, would develop some sort of blood clot in his legs that would kill him, if he did so. No, he'd have to find some way to sleep in his office until he could rustle up some other lodging.
He walked through the rooms, trying to decide what he could bring along and where he could put it in the cramped office, which was already crammed with junk.
A homeless PI... Ulrich sighed. What a joke.
Chapter 3
In the course of a day, Ulrich managed to move the bulk of his worldly belongings to the office he ordinarily used for consultations with clients. It was with no little effort that he loaded up his Passat with load after load of goods, only to carry everything up the flight of stairs that ascended from the deli beneath his office. The old woman who ran the deli, Mrs. Barclay, proved sympathetic to Ulrich's plight and offered him a free lunch, which he enjoyed between carloads, but aside from this brief respite, he spent his day carrying boxes and bags up and down the stairs till his back was stiff and his knees were sore.
A closet's worth of clothes, blankets, toiletries and kitchen supplies made up the bulk of it. There were some other items, like his newly-purchased electric burr grinder, which he struggled to find space for in the office. Having spent the better part of the day ferrying things from his apartment to the office, Ulrich finally dropped down into his lumpy swivel chair and tried to kick his heels up onto the edge of his desk. He felt himself in need of a nap, and leaned back in the chair till its ancient fittings creaked and groaned.
It was no use.
The chair was hardly fit for sitting, much less sleeping.
With no time to spare, Ulrich paced about his office, in what little space remained, and tried to find some solution to his problem. It wouldn't do to keep his life's belongings in this office for very long. He couldn't exactly see new clients with all of his clothes piled up in the corner. He had no access to a shower, to a toilet or sink, for that matter, unless he was willing to sneak into the bathroom of the deli downstairs and give himself a makeshift sponge bath. He considered calling Dean or Harrison again, but ultimately decided against it. They'd probably be sorry to hear of his troubles, would even offer to take him out to lunch, maybe, but neither would be able to help him with lodging.
With a bit of figuring, the investigator found he had a few hundred dollars left to his name; hardly enough for a down payment on a new apartment, much less a month's worth of rent. He'd need some time to get ahold of more funds. Perhaps he could sell some things off, or pick up a couple of quick and easy jobs. Maybe somewhere in Toledo was another old woman being harassed by stray cats.
Rifling through his pockets and counting out his spare change, Ulrich happened upon the business card Jamieson had given him. A wave of shame came over him at its discovery. What would Jamieson think if he saw you like this, using your office as a dormitory? He flipped the card between his fingers.
Jamieson's offer resonated in Ulrich's ears, inspiring a weak grin. “Know anyone who's looking for a new place?” he'd asked. “I'll be sure to give 'em a good rate.” Would Jamieson be willing to work with him, he wondered, with his measly savings and a pending eviction on his record? It was doubtful.
Still, with few options, Ulrich felt compelled to call. It was unlikely that Jamieson could help him, and yet their meeting the day before, and the nature of Jamieson's newest venture, seemed somewhat serendipitous. Ma
ybe, if he played his cards right, Ulrich could work something out with him, land a good rate on a new apartment and get the necessary funds together in a timely fashion. Odd jobs in the city, even something completely unrelated to investigation, could be found easily enough.
Picking up the card and reading the glossy print afresh, Ulrich decided to swallow his pride and give Jamieson a call. What was the worst that could happen?
Dialing the number, it rang twice before Jamieson answered with his usual enthusiasm. “Hey, this is Jamieson Reed.”
“Jamieson, hello,” began Ulrich. “This is Harlan. I spoke to you yesterday at Oliver's and you gave me your card?”
Jamieson sounded delighted at the call and chuckled. “Yes, of course. How can I help you, Harlan?” With the insight of a bonafide mind-reader, he clicked his tongue. “Don't suppose you're calling because you want to see those apartments of mine, are you?”
Ulrich paced, his face flush with embarrassment. “As a matter of fact, I would,” he replied. “See, there's been a problem at my place.” He gulped. “A small fire. Things are ruined.” It was a lie, but it was more palatable than the truth. “I need a new place fast... trouble is, things are a bit tight. I was wondering if I could see these apartments of yours and maybe check out your rates. You know, see if I can afford them.”
“I see,” replied Jamieson soothingly. “Very sorry to hear that, and under the circumstances I'd be more than willing to help out a friend.”
Though Ulrich would not have considered Jamieson a “friend”, he was happy, at least, that he hadn't been refused outright.
Jamieson paused, rifled through some papers, and then continued. “As it happens,” he began, “I'm heading out of town tomorrow on business. Will be gone about a week. But while I'm out I'm going to need someone to keep an eye on things at the Exeter House. Those five apartments on the top floor are ready, as I told you yesterday, but no one's moved in yet. One of them's a model apartment, fully-furnished, and it occurs to me that you could stay there pretty comfortably, provided you were willing to pay attention to the goings-on around the building and pay special attention to things at night. You know, make sure the riff-raff stays out. Won't even charge you; a little quid pro quo, eh?”
Ulrich's spirits soared. “That sounds excellent!” He was suddenly very thankful that he'd decided to give Jamieson a call. Though he'd been dealt a firm blow in the eviction, things were going his way once more. Staying in the Exeter House for a week in a furnished apartment would be far more comfortable than crashing in his office. Moreover, a week would give him enough time to rustle up some new clients. He could put an ad in the paper, publicize his investigation services and perhaps save up a little money.
“It's a good thing you called,” said Jamieson, chuckling. “I feel more comfortable leaving the building under the watchful eye of someone I know, rather than a stranger. There are just a few things I'll need you to do. I've got a cat that walks around the building. I'll need you to feed him. We've got something of a rat problem, and the cat keeps the things at bay for now. At least until I can get some professionals in there to handle 'em. I'll give you a set of keys, give you a tour of the place and tell you what doors need locked and when. It's pretty simple. When I return from my trip we can talk about maybe leasing one of the apartments, if you're still interested. Try before you buy, yeah? How's that sound? I hope I can trust you with this, Harlan.”
For Jamieson, bringing on an old acquaintance for a job like this was quite a leap of faith. “Yes, of course,” replied Ulrich. “It sounds like a fantastic opportunity. I'll do whatever you ask.”
“Sounds good,” came the reply. Jamieson could be heard to jot a few things down. “Tell you what, why don't you bring along whatever you need and meet me at Exeter House in a couple of hours. Say, around six. I'll fill you in and we can get you situated.”
“Sure thing! I'll see you then,” said Ulrich. Pleased with his luck, he hung up and sought out his valise, filling it with fresh clothes from the heap on his desk. A few toiletries were added to the mix and the whole thing, along with a number of his coffee supplies, were loaded into the trunk of the car. Locking up the door to his office, Ulrich sped off towards downtown.
Chapter 4
Ulrich wasn't generally a fan of cats. Usually they shed too much, and their mewing sometimes got on his nerves. During this job, however, his only companion was to be a large cat, and he paid close attention as Jamieson introduced him.
“This is Sparkles,” he said, pointing to a black cat with a stubby tail that slunk around the foot of the stairs outside the bar.
Ulrich held back a laugh. Jamieson had once been a rough and tumble type, had gotten into dozens of fistfights over the years, and had spent many a night in jail. That he owned a cat named Sparkles was beyond imagination.
Ulrich had met Jamieson at the main entrance to the Exeter House, in the lobby just above the entrance to Oliver's Bar. Jamieson had wasted no time, starting the tour immediately. Leading Ulrich up a long concrete staircase, he pointed out the building's many features, including murals on the walls and refurbished architectural flourishes which he had restored, often going to great expense.
“The painting,” he said, pointing to a vast mural on the plaster wall spanning the entirety of the winding stairwell, “is original. Had a couple of restoration guys come in to touch it up, make sure it was well-preserved, but it dates back to the mid-1800's, when the place was first built. Hard to believe that President Lincoln probably stood on these stairs at one time and admired this very same work of art, ain't it?”
Ulrich paused on the stairs, taking the piece in. It was a delightful painting, full of intricate detail. Depicting a naval scene, likely a battle during the War of 1812 or some similarly ancient military campaign, Ulrich noticed the great attention that'd been paid to the rendering of the human figures. Oliver Hazard Perry was pictured very prominently on a scene in the next section as Jamieson continued his ascent.
Knocking a fist on the carved wooden bannister, Jamieson went on. “Bannister's original, too. Was in some disrepair when I first bought the place, but it's a real marvel, what modern carpenters can do to refurbish old pieces like this one.”
The steps were made of a smooth and well-worn concrete. It featured nothing of cracks, but discolorations were many. These Jamieson attributed to the building's history in manufacturing. In previous decades a couple of well-known businesses had made their homes there, gutting much of the original structure and generally dirtying up the place. Jamieson spoke of these intermittent occupations in terms just shy of outright disdain, and marveled at the rich historical fixtures that'd been effaced in the process.
“The next three floors haven't got much going for them,” admitted Jamieson as they hiked on and on. Ulrich was getting out of breath, and had slowed a bit. “These upper four floors were used as warehouses, manufacturing facilities. You know, that sort of thing. I got the fifth level cleaned up and hope to turn these other floors into more apartments or maybe offices, but they're still gonna need a fair bit of work before they're done. I decided to focus on the units upstairs because they're the very best; extremely spacious-- and the view, Harlan. A goddamned beautiful view up there. Just you wait.” He paused on a step, grinning at the investigator. “Sorry, maybe I should've installed an elevator. Didn't mean to tire you out.”
“No problem, no problem,” replied Ulrich breathlessly. He leaned into the carved bannister and hopped up the steps two at a time, joining Jamieson at the start of the fourth flight.
A peculiar smell filled the place. The second, third and fourth floors of the building, which were empty and locked up with hefty doors, had about them a certain stagnant air. The scents of dust, of old wood and plaster, intermingled with something else that only became clearer the closer they came to the top floor. It was potpourri; citrusy, and not a little cloying.
Sure enough, as they reached the top of the stairs and started down the well-lit hall of
the fifth floor, Ulrich spied a number of wooden tables tucked away into corners, and upon them, bowls of potpourri. Jamieson's intent, probably, had been to banish the smells of antiquity from the place, but what it really needed was to be thoroughly aired out. Throwing open all of the windows in the place and allowing some fresh, moving air inside would have done it a world of good.
The lights overhead were staggered every ten feet or so; black, metal fixtures with a number of small, curving bulbs attached. It reminded Ulrich of something he might see in a chic furniture store catalogue. Doors were further apart, five in total. These, Ulrich presumed, belonged to the five refurbished apartments. The black cat, Sparkles, crept up and bumped into Ulrich's calves as he looked up and down the hall. The ceilings were rather high, higher than he could reach. Terminating in a plaster wall adorned by a quaint landscape portrait, the way seemed to continue to the right in a second hallway; this, he was told, led to another stairwell. There were two stairways on each side of the hall; the one that'd brought them and another, tucked away just over the bend that was blocked by a thick, metal door.
A thin, grey carpet had been laid along the length of this hall, an improvement on the stained concrete of the stairwell. The doors along this stretch were things of great thickness, and a tentative knock on one of them proved their density. The locks and handles looked new, as did the door frames. The walls, an eggshell white, looked fresh and new. Evidently nothing had been overlooked in this renovation of the topmost floor. The modernity of the space was such that it almost fooled one into thinking it wasn't more than a century old.
Jamieson grinned as he watched Ulrich admiring the hall. Plucking a key from his breast pocket, he wandered to the first door on the left-hand side of the hall. “You ain't seen nothing yet, Harlan.” Unlocking the door, he waved the investigator in. “Have yourself a look at this.”
Medicine For The Dead: An Occult Thriller (The Ulrich Files Book 2) Page 2