Small Apartments

by Chris Millis

  Franklin recognized the white picket fence and turned down the radio. He wondered why people always do that, turn down the radio as they near their destination.

  Three mailboxes later he spied the red reflector and turned right onto the long gravel driveway. He did not think it was possible, but the driveway was darker and gloomier than the road. All these damn trees, he thought. The headlights rolled across Mr. Olivetti’s white clapboard house as Franklin followed the driveway back to the barn. He executed a perfect three-point turn, backed the car up to the barn door and killed the engine. Franklin extricated himself from the Pontiac and stepped out onto the gravel driveway. The tiny stones crunched under his rubber sandals. The crickets sounded like they were ten feet tall and closing in on him. The woods were alive with a thousand pairs of eyes. He popped the trunk, looked down at Mr. Olivetti’s twisted corpse and was struck in sharp clarity with the criminal thing he was about to do. He turned away from the trunk and vomited his Moxie cola onto the driveway. There wasn’t much to it since he had not eaten all day, mostly foam. He smoothed gravel over it and stamped it down with his sandal. Franklin walked around in a little circle trying to get his bearings.

  “Okey dokey,” he said. “How do you want to die the second time, Albert? How about death by … cigarette? It’s a hell of a lot more dignified than the way you died this morning.”

  He opened the barn door, pulled a rubber ball dangling from a string in the workshop and a bulb popped on. Franklin pulled the blankets off Mr. Olivetti and lifted him out of the trunk. He laid him on the blue blanket, dragged him into the barn and propped him up against the worktable.

  “I’ll be right back,” said Franklin. “Don’t you go anywhere.”

  Franklin used Mr. Olivetti’s keys to get in through the back door. He stepped into the kitchen and immediately recognized the lingering stench of Parmesan cheese. He ripped off a paper towel from above the sink and used it to start pulling open drawers, looking for a box of kitchen matches.

  He threw open several cupboards and found a half carton of Salems. Franklin removed a pack and put it in the pocket of his T-shirt. No matches in the kitchen, so Franklin walked into the living room. There were dozens of framed photographs nailed to the brown paneling. In a homemade wooden rack above the television Mr. Olivetti had a collection of two dozen chrome Zippo lighters. The lighters had all sorts of designs and phrases painted on them: a colourful, bald eagle, an American flag, the Playboy bunny logo, the insignia of the U.S. Navy. Franklin selected one that had the Chevy symbol painted on it.

  He put the lighter in his shirt pocket and used the paper towel to rearrange the others so it did not look like one was missing.

  He wanted to poke around the house a bit more. He knew this would be his only opportunity. Part of it was curiosity, but it was also an unfamiliar sense of power. He knew that at that moment he could take anything he wanted from Mr. Olivetti’s house.

  On top of the television set were several photographs. Mr. and Mrs. Olivetti’s black and white wedding portrait was the largest. The pose showed them from the chest up, smiling at some far-off point of interest. There were also colour photos of Mr. Olivetti’s daughter with her husband and two daughters.

  Franklin stared into the eyes of Mr. Olivetti’s daughter. He focused on the red dots inside her pupils as she smiled over her shoulder in front of a Christmas tree.

  “Your father was a bad man,” said Franklin. “He was worse than you’ll ever know. I’m sorry I killed him, but I’m not sorry he’s dead.”

  Franklin checked the time: 10:54. No time for this, he thought. I have to get this show on the road.

  FRANKLIN PULLED DOWN a can of turpentine from Mr. Olivetti’s supply shelf. He read the side of the can, WARNING: FLAMMABLE. Let’s hope so, he thought. He soaked a rag in the turpentine, rubbed it onto Mr. Olivetti’s shirtsleeves, then poured some onto the worktable. The liquid flowed quickly across the table, spilling off onto an oilcloth draping a bale of hay Mr. Olivetti used as a chair. Franklin shook the remaining contents of the can onto the walls like a bishop distributing holy water.

  He dropped the rag on the table in front of the body. For good measure, he placed a hammer in Mr. Olivetti’s cold, right hand.

  “Whatcha working on, Albert?” asked Franklin. “Don’t forget that you have to fix the drip on that pothead Tommy Balls’ kitchen sink. You’ll need a plumber’s wrench for that Al, not a hammer.”

  Franklin lit a cigarette with the Zippo, touched it to Mr. Olivetti’s lips, then dropped it onto the rag. The cloth ignited instantly. The flames simultaneously advanced up Mr. Olivetti’s shirtsleeves and rolled across the worktable. The fire leapt onto the oilcloth and began to incinerate the hay bale. Franklin trundled over and held the Zippo’s blue flame to the wall until a fire fluttered to life and orange and yellow waves danced seductively atop the plywood.

  In seconds the fire had begun to consume the body. Mr. Olivetti’s smiling face grew darker behind an orange veil of fire.

  Good golly. This is the real thing, thought Franklin.

  The smell of burning flesh was almost too much for him to bear, but he forced himself to watch long enough to be sure the fire was raging. He wiped the Zippo clean with his T-shirt and dropped it in the dirt at Mr. Olivetti’s feet.

  By the time he reached the end of the gravel driveway the fire had spread to the barn’s supports and crossbeams. By the time he reached the Lackawanna town line, the structure was totally engulfed in flames and fire departments from three towns were on their way to the scene.

  CHAPTER

  6

  LACKAWANNA FIRE INVESTIGATOR Burt Walnut was asleep next to his wife, June, when the phone rang. It was a quarter to midnight and the voice on the other end of the telephone was Lackawanna Fire Chief Billy Browski.

  “How’s about it, Burt? I’m sorry if I woke ya. We got a crispy critter here at a barn fire off Old Post Road. Italian fella named Olivetti. You know him?”

  “Nope. Can’t say as I do.”

  “Uh huh.” Billy was calling on his cellular phone from the scene and his voice was drifting in and out. “Looks a little fishy here, Burt. We got the fire out, but you’re gonna wanna look at the scene tonight before the boys get to clearing this shit and debris.”

  “Uh huh,” said Burt Walnut.

  “What’s that you said, Burt? This goddamn cellular phone.”

  “What’s the number out there?” asked Burt.

  “It’s 340 Old Post,” said Billy. “You won’t be able to miss it.

  We got pumpers from three districts out here, though I imagine they’ll be gone before you can get here.”

  “I’ll be along. Don’t touch nothing you don’t have to,” said Burt.

  “How about my pecker?”

  “I don’t suppose anybody can stop you from touching that, Billy. It’s a wonder you ain’t blind.”

  “Ha, ha. All right Burt. Tell June I’m sorry if I woke ya’s. We’ll be seeing ya shortly.”

  June rolled towards Burt with her eyes still closed tight. She had the calm disposition of a veteran fireman’s wife. She knew a call in the middle of the night was more likely work than tragedy, although Burt’s job was a marriage of the two.

  “What is it?” asked June into her pillow.

  “Barn fire off Old Post Road. You know any Olivettis?”

  “I know a Mandretti,” said June.

  “Nope. This one here is Olivetti and he’s dead.”

  CHAPTER

  7

  FRANKLIN KNEW HE had worked his way into a hell of a fix. Part of his problem was solved, but he still had to figure out what to do with Mr. Olivetti’s Chevy pickup truck. Why didn’t Bernard teach me how to drive a stick shift? he lamented. It would have been a much better plan if the truck were out at the house. Now he could be sure that the police would come looking for it. Well, what’s done is done, he thought. Besides, if I drove him out there in his truck, how would I have gotten home? He needed a plan
for the Chevy, but he couldn’t think straight. All he cared about was that it was ten minutes till midnight and he would be sitting at his window with his binoculars in just a few moments.

  He drove slowly past Mr. Olivetti’s Chevy and parked on the opposite side of the street. I’ll worry about that damned thing after, he thought.

  Franklin could not suppress his anticipation. What would Little 101 do? How much would she show? How far would she go? He had no idea what to expect. His pants were ready to explode. He broke into a fat man’s run across the street all the way into 100 Garner. He threw his keys onto the table, left the lights off and pulled his orange chair up to the window with his binoculars in hand. Her window was black. The blinds were down and the curtains were drawn. Franklin checked his watch: 11:56. He fingered the knot on his head. I should probably put some more ice on that, he thought. His dog started licking the salty sweat from his leg.

  “Knock it off,” hissed Franklin. “Go get a drink of water.”

  Her bedroom light popped on. A dark shadow passed behind the shades and they began to slowly rise. He placed his elbows on the windowsill and then pressed the binoculars against his eye sockets until they ached. From behind her silky curtains he saw her. She was swaying back and forth, moving to some silent rhythm. He was pitching a Big Top in his pants. I may not make it to the bubble bath tonight, he thought. A second silhouette stepped into the window frame. The mother? thought Franklin. No, not the mother. It was another girl, another teenager. Maybe the friend—what was her name—Suzy! The two girls were hugging and dancing, running their hands slowly up and down each other’s backs. This is better than I imagined it would be, thought Franklin. Good golly, I can barely stand it!

  Both girls moved out of the window frame. The curtains opened slowly as they danced back into view. Franklin could now see what they were wearing: white cotton tank tops and plaid men’s boxer shorts. They danced side-by-side with their backs toward him, arms akimbo. Their hips swayed playfully, bumping their young buttocks against each other. He could see they were giggling and talking with one another. Then they stopped dancing, grabbed their waistbands, pulled down their shorts, and sat their bare rears on the windowsill. They were mooning him. But there was more. There was something written on their butts. There was a black letter drawn on each perfect cheek. Franklin nearly dropped the binoculars out onto the porch as he frantically focussed to read what was written on their butt cheeks. ? … E … R … U, Peru? No, not U, V. P-E-R-V. Perv! They had spelled out “Perv” to him on their consummate, teenage asses.

  The two girls, convulsed in laughter, pulled up their shorts. Then Little 101’s room returned to darkness.

  Franklin slumped back in his chair and let the binoculars fall to his lap. He looked at his watch. The whole show had lasted four minutes. One moment you’re on top of the world, the next you’re in the shitter. It was like having a woman point at your penis and laugh, he thought. As it happens, he knew how that felt, too.

  Franklin grabbed Mr. Olivetti’s keys off the table and stepped out onto the porch. He had no choice but to figure out how to drive a standard shift well enough to get the truck far enough away to avoid suspicion.

  Franklin stormed out into the street, looked east on Garner,

  blinked his eyes, then released a yelp of raw elation. He broke into another fat man’s run. There was no mistaking it—the shattered glass. There was no explaining it—the vacant space. Someone had stolen Mr. Olivetti’s tan 1994 Chevy S-10 pickup truck while he was being humiliated by two wicked, lovely teenage strumpets. Some marvelous, wonderful, beautiful, punk-ass sonofabitch. God bless this crummy city, he thought. “God bless Buffalo, New York!” screamed Franklin into the midnight sky.

  “Shut your hole, fatso!” called back one of Franklin’s neighbours.

  CHAPTER

  8

  BURT WALNUT CROUCHED in the wet grass and soot along the outside perimeter of what used to be Albert Olivetti’s tool barn. He picked up bits of dirt and charred wood, studied them, smelled them, and, for the most part, put them back down. Burt was wearing a navy blue wind-breaker with the letters LFD emblazoned on the back in white. He was wearing a red tartan flannel shirt over a white T-shirt, blue jeans, Wolverine work boots and a red, white and blue Buffalo Bills cap. He made his way around the scene with his eyes fixed on the ground, kicking soot and debris, and bending down when it seemed pertinent.

  Billy Browski had changed out of his fireproof coat and pants and replaced his helmet with a well-worn LFD baseball cap. “What d’ya make of it, Burt?”

  “Don’t look like arson from the outside,” said Burt Walnut. “How about from the inside?”

  “Hmm,” said Burt.

  “We found this Zippo lighter in the dirt not three feet from the body. Could be he sparked something he was working with, fuel or paint thinner maybe. Could be he was just smoking where he shouldn’t have been.” Billy tossed the plastic Baggie holding the soot-covered lighter into Burt’s hands.

  “Hmm,” said Burt.

  “I for one can’t figure out what this fella was supposed to be working on out here,” said Billy. “Not just because of the late hour, that’s not so unusual when you’ve got no wife telling you it’s time to come in. You know what I’m saying there, Burt. But we found a rubber grip hammer melted to this fella’s skin and bone and I don’t know what the hell he was out here hammering. There was nothing laying around the body or the worktable that needed hammerin’. Unless it was wood. And any fool knows that you use a mallet with wood. Judging from these tools, this fella’s no beginner carpenter.”

  “What are the police saying?” asked Burt. “What does Fred say?”

  “You know Fred. Mum’s the word until the autopsy is performed. He’s calling it an ‘open investigation’.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” said Burt. “I got two questions right off the bat. One is, if this fella started the fire himself, by accident say, why didn’t he run out of the barn? Even if he spilled gasoline all over himself from head to toe, and was getting burned up in the most hopeless sort of manner, the man would run around like a chicken trying to put out the flames. This fella here, he just burns himself up and drops right in front of his worktable. He’s even still got the hammer in his hand. Unless this fella was part lemming, I’ve never known anybody to give up that easy.”

  “Can’t argue there,” said Billy.

  “The second question is, where’s this fella’s vehicle?”

  “Fred says he’s got two vehicles registered to him. He’s got a 1987 Lincoln Continental, which as you saw is under a few hundred pounds of lumber in that barn stall over there. And he’s got a 1994 Chevy S-10 pickup.”

  “Well there ain’t no engine in that Continental,” said Burt. “So unless he was pushing that around town, he’s been driving the Chevy.”

  “Well there’s no sign of the Chevy truck on the property,” said Billy.

  “Mmm,” said Burt. “Well there ain’t nothing right about that.”

  Erie County Sheriff Fred McNally finished talking with one of his deputies and walked over to where Burt Walnut and Billy Browski were standing. The three men had known each other for more than forty years. They were hometown boys. They grew up playing the same sports and competing for the same girlfriends. Fred removed his tan cowboy hat and scratched his short, salt and pepper hair.

  “This fella’s got a daughter lives in Phoenix,” said Fred. “I’ve got to head back to the office and call her.”

  “Billy said this fella’s got a Chevy truck still unaccounted for,” said Burt.

  “That’s right. I put out an APB on it,” said Fred.

  “You mind if I sniff around the house?” asked Burt.

  “There weren’t no fire in there,” said Fred, smiling. “Not unless he was baking cookies while he was out in the barn. No, I don’t mind. I got a couple deputies going through there right now. What’s your take on this barn fire, Burt?”

  “A lot of things don’t add up. I
t don’t strike me at first glance as accidental.”

  “Maybe this fella was just crazy,” offered Billy. “Like that bald fella is always saying on the TV talk shows. His mind was unfettered and uncooked. What’s that guy’s name?”

  “Mennox,” said Fred. “My wife reads all his books. She says I need to stay mentally strong, or some such. She says this job of mine is leading me down the Road to Crazy. Nights like these I think she’s right. Well, we’ll know more about how this fella died when Bob is done with the autopsy report. I’ve got to go call this daughter in Phoenix. Give my best to the wives.”

  “Will do,” said Billy.

  “G’night, Fred,” said Burt Walnut.

  CHAPTER

  9

  TOMMY BALLS WAS passed out cold on his corduroy couch when his mother knocked on his door at 10 o’clock Wednesday morning. He had passed out during the first five minutes of the last episode of the Magnum, P.I. marathon.

  “Thomas,” called Tommy’s mother between knocks. “Open the door. It’s your mother.”

  “Fuuuuck,” moaned Tommy Balls. “Hold on, dude.”

  “Open the door. It’s not right to leave your mother standing in the hallway.”

  Tommy swept the remaining weed on the coffee table into a Ziploc Baggie and stuck it in his back pocket. He dumped out the water from the gravity bong and left the bucket and the soda bottle in the bathtub. He gave his apartment a quick inspection: filthy. Reluctantly, he opened the door.