Afew minutes shy of eleven on a sweltering Saturday night in July and heat was still rising up from the asphalt parking lot out front of the seven-story Gladstone Apartments, keeping temperature hot along the building like someone left the door open on a giant oven. Night air seemed to give off an aroma of deep-fried chicken grease, making the apartment’s catwalk railings sticky to the touch. Most residents hung out on the open front walkways hoping to catch a breeze, anything to distract them from their own misery.
Some men lounged in work pants and damp T-shirts, rolling ice-cold cans of beer over their foreheads to cool their overheated brains. Young women in shorts and full tank tops stood loose on the catwalk, leaning hipshot against brick uprights while beads of perspiration turned their chests and faces slick and shiny. Older women in oversized dresses sat in cheap plastic chairs, all fanning themselves with magazines or stiff pieces of cardboard. Kids moved slow, sucking on ice chips swiped out of beer coolers when they thought adults weren’t looking.
Everybody too hot to sleep and nowhere to go. Few had working air-conditioners humming in their windows. Those who did were the lucky ones, inside enjoying their comfort.
Down below on the main street, a pair of bright headlights bounced out of the southbound lane and pulled into the parking lot out front of the apartments. The small truck circled the lot like it was trying to make up its mind about something before finally slowing to a stop halfway between stairwells leading up at opposite ends of the building. All heads up on the catwalk immediately swiveled down toward the vehicle. Something new.
“Looks like a delivery van of some kind,” speculated one of the old women on the fifth-floor walkway. “What you think they want here?”
“This a strange time of night to be making deliveries,” replied her husband. “How would I know?”
“You gots better eyes than mine,” urged the old woman, “and you know I can’t read nothing that far away. Tell me what it says on the side of that truck?”
“I don’t have my glasses on,” muttered the old man, “and it’s too hot to go get ’em.”
“Let me have a look,” offered a neighbor as he moved up to see over the railing. “I sees it plain, that’s Crazy Carlo’s truck. I seen him on television most nights, always shouting ’bout how good his sales are. You buy from him and he’ll deliver anytime, night or day, makes no difference. Man’s sure enough crazy, you ask me, making all kinds of deals, sell you anything you want, no money down. But you’d best pay up at the end, or his people come looking for you.”
“What the hell’s he gonna be delivering here?” asked the old man.
His wife kept fanning a self-made breeze in her direction with a piece of stiff cardboard. “We’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?”
“Most honest people should be in their own beds asleep at this time of night,” the old man continued, “or at least they be at their own home, not out running around.”
“Don’t mind him,” the old woman said to the neighbor. “All this heat gets him cranky.”
Down in the parking lot, a big Cuban in industrial-gray pants and shirt got out of the driver’s side and walked around to the rear of the van. His short-sleeve shirt fit tight around his arm muscles, had a name tag said TONY above one pocket with a company logo above the other. His movements gave a slight roll to his shoulders as if he owned the streets and knew it. Raising his clipboard to eye level and consulting a sheet of paper on top of a stack of forms, he then glanced up at the seven-story building. Everything about him said he was here on serious business, so don’t get in his way if’n you knew what was good for you.
“This the place, Edward,” he growled, “so get on out here.”
A short, stocky black man wearing blue bib coveralls and a white T-shirt got out of the passenger side and strolled to the rear of the vehicle. He, too, looked up at the building, but with a pained expression on his face as if he was counting the floors and it was going to be a problem. His closely shaved head gleamed in the overhead lights of the parking lot. Neither man seemed to be in a great hurry.
Holding the clipboard in one hand, the muscular Cuban used his other hand to unlock and flip down a heavy metal platform at the back of the truck. He pulled a lever. With a grinding noise, the platform slowly descended to street level. Big Tony and the short black guy stepped onto the platform. The Cuban pushed on a lever and the metal platform raised them up level to the truck floor. When the platform stopped, Edward unlocked a heavy padlock and raised the rear door on the truck. Both men disappeared inside.
Everybody on the walkways leaned forward to watch whatever came next.
In a couple of minutes, the two workers reappeared, using a two-wheeled dolly to maneuver a large wooden box out onto the metal platform and position it sideways. Pulling the rear door back down, the short black guy replaced the heavy padlock and stood up. At that point, the Cuban pushed a lever and they all descended to street level, where the crate was wheeled off the platform and onto the asphalt.
Consulting his clipboard again, Big Tony frowned. He looked up at the watching residents. “You folks got an elevator in this building?”
“It’s broke,” came the reply from somewhere up on the catwalk. “You’ll have to use the stairs.”
“Just my luck,” muttered the short black guy.
Big Tony turned his head as he surveyed the approach to both stairwells, one on each end of the apartment building.
“Looks the same to me,” he said. “Take your pick.”
Edward shrugged.
“Like I care. Either way’s a problem, going up or coming back down.”
“Fine,” said the Cuban.
They wheeled the large wooden box over to the open stairwell on their right. The big Cuban got on the upstairs side of the crate with the handles of the dolly clutched in his large hands, leaving the short black guy on the bottom to push uphill. The box bumped upward, one step, then another. By the time they got to the first-floor landing, both men had streams of sweat running off their heads and dripping from their elbows and fingers. At every floor, they paused a couple of minutes to catch their breath. Edward took advantage of these breaks to squeegee sweat off his bald head with the palm of his right hand, flicking the excess moisture over the railing before wiping his hand on his pants leg.
Watchers on the catwalks began slowly gravitating toward the stairwell where all the bumping noise was.
“Where you ’spect they going?”
“Don’t ask me, I just know that thing ain’t mine.”
By the time the dolly’s wheels cleared the last step and rolled up onto the fifth-floor landing, a crowd had gathered to ponder over the contents of the crate. Nothing was stenciled on the outside wood to give them a clue.
The Cuban wiped a red bandanna across his perspiring forehead before consulting his clipboard again. “Where’s 507?”
One of the watchers jerked his thumb back over his shoulder. “Down there a few doors.”
Big Tony eyeballed the crowd. “You folks gonna have to move back a bit, give us some room here.”
A couple of watchers slowly drifted a few feet away. Nobody in a hurry to go anywhere.
“Lessen of course you want to help move this heavy crate your own selves,” spoke up the short black guy.
“I already got a job,” muttered one of the crowd as he retreated to just the other side of the door marked 507.
“Too hot to work on a night like this,” muttered another as he flattened up against the wall to let them pass.
Four more doors down the catwalk, with the crate finally settled square in front of the correct apartment, Big Tony rapped his knuckles on the metal door and waited.
“Better knock louder,” said the old woman. “She probably can’t hear you over her noisy air-conditioner, especially if she’s entertaining in there.”
“It’s all that entertaining company what gets her that big luxury air-conditioner she bought herself,” came a female voice from the rear of the gathering, “whilst all we got is one of them broken-down ones what comes with the rent.”
“Don’t tell me about it!” exclaimed a heavyset woman up front fanning away with a limp piece of cardboard. “I seen all them mens she’s got coming and going all hours of the night. She even got a man in there right now, cuz I seen him go in, but I ain’t seen him come out yet. Stayed longer than most of her visitors. That’s one busy woman if you ask me.”
“If you had legs like hers, then you might have some men in your life, too,” countered a young man with a sly grin on his face.
“Leastwise I don’t have no dangerous gangsters showing up at my door,” retorted the heavyset woman.
“Nor cops, either,” added the old woman. “Every Friday afternoon I sees that same uniform policeman leaving her place with a brown paper lunch bag in his hand. What you think he’s got in there? It’s too damn late in the day for lunch.”
“You can bet she’s not making him sandwiches to put in that bag,” joked the young man. His grin got larger.
“You mens,” huffed the old lady. She elbowed her husband. “And you shut up if you know what’s good for you.”
“They’s the ones talking about Mafia business and crooked cops,” replied the old man. “Not me.”
The big Cuban turned to glare at him.
“Now you done it,” fussed the old woman. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Before the Cuban had a chance to do anything, the apartment door opened behind his back.
“Oh, is that my delivery?” asked a high-pitched female voice. Loud music boomed from the stereo behind her.
Big Tony turned around.
In the doorway stood a slender young woman in a low-cut wispy top, tight silver lamé miniskirt, and black spike heels. Her thick black hair was cut short, her lips glowing fire-engine red; she wore large silver hoop earrings in her ears, with several bright-colored bracelets jingling on each wrist.
None of the men moved for a moment. “Lord almighty,” one of them finally whispered.
“We’re looking for a Miss Delilah,” said the Cuban.
“That’s me, sugar.”
“Then this is yours. Where you want us to put it?”
“Just set it up here in the living room.”
Edward wheeled the dolly over into the middle of the room and unstrapped the crate.
“You gotta sign for it,” said the Cuban. He took a form off his clipboard and held it out.
She reached for it, but the paper slipped through her well-manicured fingers and dropped sideways to the floor. Bending forward at the waist, she picked up the document by one corner.
Immediately, all the men standing on the catwalk surged a little closer into the doorway. Those stuck at the rear put their hands on the backs and shoulders of those in front and stood on tiptoes so they could get a better look.
“Mens,” grumped the old woman as she pulled her husband back from the crowd, “you only got one thing on your minds.”
“Gimme the pry bar,” said the Cuban standing by the crate, “and I’ll open it up.”
Edward patted his overalls. “Think I left it in the truck.”
“Anybody here got a hammer?” inquired the Cuban.
“Let me through,” came an authoritarian voice from the rear of the crowd. “I’m the maintenance man for these apartments. Yeah, I got one.”
“As old as you are,” quipped the young man with the sly grin, “you ain’t gonna nail anything in here with that dinky hammer you got.”
A few chuckles of laughter erupted.
His face flushed a bright red, the maintenance man pushed his way into the apartment.
“See how long it takes to get your plumbing fixed the next time it breaks down,” he said to the young man as he elbowed his way past.
“Hell, I’m still waiting for you to fix my busted air-conditioner,” came the retort.
“You’ll wait your turn like everybody else. I’ll get around to it one of these days.”
“It’s already been three weeks. Summer’ll be over before you show up at my place. What’s a tenant have to do to get some service in this rathole?”
“Maybe if you had better-looking legs,” the heavyset woman shot at him with her own sly grin, getting some of her own back.
“Gimme the damn hammer so we can get this done,” Big Tony directed the short black guy. “We don’t got all night to waste here.”
Claw hammer in hand, the big Cuban started prying one end off the crate.
“I can’t see nothing from here,” complained a younger woman in a tight-fitting halter top.
Sizing her up from his position in the doorway, the young man with the sly grin figured what his chances might be for later, took a short step inside, and then surreptitiously slid sideways along the living room wall, where he pulled the cord to open the front room drapes. A mass of faces suddenly blossomed on the other side of the window. He got a promising smile of thanks from the younger woman.
With an end panel of the crate removed, the short black guy reached in and started tugging on whatever was inside the wooden box. A black metal tube appeared at the top, with a black metal base at the bottom. Now the Cuban lent a hand and helped tug the object out of the container.
“What is it?” inquired the heavyset woman.
“Looks to me like one of them stair-steppy exercise machines,” replied the younger woman.
“As much exercise as that woman gets at night, she don’t need no machine to help her stay that skinny. She already got bird legs and snake hips. What more she want?”
“Can I try out my delivery?” asked Miss Delilah.
“We got to put it together first,” said the Cuban.
“Send somebody out for food while we’re working,” requested the short black guy. “I ain’t had nothing to eat since breakfast.”
Tony dug in his pants pocket and came out with a twenty-dollar bill. He held it up for the crowd. “We’d like us a couple of burgers, some fries, and cold drinks.”
Nobody moved.
“I’ll throw in an extra ten for whoever goes and gets it.”
A young boy weaseled his way through the mass and grabbed hold of the money. “I know an all-night place across the street. Be back in a couple of minutes.”
“And I want plenty of ketchup for my fries,” added the short black guy.
The kid ducked through the mob and out the doorway. By the time he returned, the two deliverymen had just about finished putting the exercise machine together. He handed over a large white paper bag with a greasy bottom, waited for his promised ten-spot, then squeezed back out through the doorway. Tony opened the bag and started eating. Right behind him, the stocky black guy reached over to claim his share.
“Is my exercise machine ready now?” asked Miss Delilah.
“Yes, ma’am, it is,” replied the Cuban between mouthfuls. “Go ahead and try it out.”
There was a murmur of anticipation from the male population. A couple of older women in back snorted loud enough in disapproval to be heard up front.
Miss Delilah looked around at the gathering like she hadn’t seen all these people until now.
“I can’t try this out with everybody watching.”
Big Tony gave a hard look at the crowd. He stepped forward, stretching out his arms in a shooing motion.
“Show’s over, all you folks’ll have to leave now. Let the lady be.”
Those men inside the apartment slowly retreated to the doorway. The young man with the sly grin suddenly found himself all alone on the wrong side of the front picture window. When the Cuban glared in his direction, he hustled over to the door and threaded himself into the mass of bodies.
At a nod from the Cuban, Edward walked over to the front window and closed the drapes. Those watchers outside the window glanced at each other.
“Guess that’s all there is.”
“Getting past my bedtime anyway.”
They began drifting off in different directions.
As Tony began shutting the front door, the maintenance man extended one foot to block the doorway.
“Hey, what about my hammer?”
“Come back later and pick it up from Miss Delilah.” Then the Cuban kicked the offending foot out of the way and slammed the metal door.
With warring emotions between being treated so poorly by the deliverymen, yet now having an excuse to visit Miss Delilah later at night and all alone, the maintenance man couldn’t make up his mind whether to be angry or elated. Finally he stomped off to take care of other duties.
A couple of hours later when the maintenance man was up on the sixth floor outside apartment 608, he heard a door open up one floor below him. Then it was quiet for several minutes. He poked his head over the rail and leaned cautiously out far enough to observe some of the fifth-floor catwalk. Mostly all he could see was those two deliverymen from their knees down, but he managed to catch parts of their quiet discussion.
“All the lookie-lous gone?”
“Yeah, everybody must’ve gone off to bed.”
“Past my bedtime, too. Let’s get this crate out of here. We still got a lot of work to do with this.”
There was some grunting and heavy breathing and then the lower part of the wooden box loaded on the dolly came into view. With a left turn, the dolly and its cargo headed for the open stairwell. When the two deliverymen got to the end of the catwalk and started down the stairs, the maintenance man pulled back a little so as not to be seen himself. Seeing how carefully the muscular Cuban and the stocky black guy maneuvered that wooden box and dolly going down the open stairwell, it appeared the crate was as heavy going down as it had been coming up. Of course the two workers could just be tired by now, he thought. After all, it was long past midnight.
Waiting until both deliverymen had the crate up on the raised metal platform and were putting it into the back of the truck, the maintenance man went down the stairwell at the opposite end of the building to stay out of their view. Down on the fifth-floor catwalk, he was about to knock on the door of 507, when he noticed his hammer was already outside the apartment, lying in front of the closed door. No lights shone around the curtained picture window. He put his ear to the metal door. No music from the stereo, no sound at all.
Damn, he’d have to find another excuse on another night to come see Miss Delilah.
As the maintenance man walked toward the same open stairway that the deliverymen had gone down, the sole of his left shoe slipped on a wet patch. He glanced down. On the walkway cement shone a small smear of thick liquid.
Red paint? No, more likely it was ketchup. Them damn deliverymen must’ve dropped some of that extra ketchup the short black guy had ordered for his fries. The stuff had landed on the catwalk. Lucky the dolly wheels hadn’t run through it, else it’d be tracked everywhere. There was another smear about five feet further along. And another closer to the open stairwell. Also seemed like there were smears on some of the steps all the way down to the asphalt.
Hell, he might as well take care of this mess before the owners saw it and raised a fuss. Bad enough that tenants complained about all them broken air-conditioners. Be worse yet if one of them complainers slipped on this red stuff and claimed a lawsuit for injuries whether they was hurt or not. Crazy people in this neighborhood would do anything to make a little money. Best go get a mop.