In my rush to leave the area I flooded the engine. I pounded my hand on the steering wheel. It was still too early for the afternoon movie; if I went home I would mope and wind up playing plumber. By the time the dope burned my finger the El Rancho and the Monument sat squarely •in my rearview mirror. That relaxed me enough to head across town to the discount lumber yard to price materials for a deck that Charles and Richard wanted me to build. Richard was a high priced architect who cared enough about the porch to work out an inventive design. Although it would cut into the small area where I fantasized laying cement for a basketball court, that was a minor objection. I had imagined the court since I moved in, but doing something or doing nothing always got in the way.

Since I was on Dorchester Avenue anyhow, I nosed around a row of secondhand stores. There was a ‘40s radio; unfortunately old plastic was in but the price was out and I was in no mood to haggle. My earlier depression was beginning to reappear, so I stopped at the market and bought a couple of bags of junk food. A man has to do something besides smoke when he’s flat on a couch.

I had used up most of the day’s light by the time I returned to the building. I parked in the alley but walked to the front to pick up the mail. I pushed through the front door cradling my groceries, and nearly tripped over Charles and Richard sitting on the interior steps with an oversized suitcase at their feet.

“Another fight?”

Charles smiled and took Richard’s hand. Rich said seriously, “Business. The firm is sending me to Detroit to save a building the locals are butchering.”

“Well, no doubt you’ll kick ass. How long will you be gone?”

“Too long,” Charles wailed, letting go of Richard and reaching for his own head.

“Two days to two weeks.”

The grocery bags were getting heavy but I delayed moving. “I priced the deck today.”

“OH-FUCKING-KAY!,” Charles suddenly hollered, threw his hands toward the ceiling, and began to dance and sing. “We’re gonna have a deck tonight, we’re gonna have a deck tonight. We’re really gonna rumble …”

I nodded, “What’s he on?”

Richard smiled. “Show tunes. A bad habit he picked up from his mother. He sings them in times of stress.”

“West Side Story, right?”

Just as suddenly Charles stopped dancing around the hall. “Who’s been teaching you, Matt? Could it be that little fireplug who rattled our nice tranquil home at some ungodly hour this morning?”

Calling Dr. James a fireplug was more than I could bear. “You better take care of that man before you leave, Rich. He’s a basket case already, and I gave up social work a long time ago.”

Richard started to reply but I cut him off. “As for you, Charles, you’re in real trouble if you have nothing better to do than play Peeping Tom with me.”

Charles raised his eyebrows and leered, “I like to watch.”

I shook my head and started toward the back of the building, then remembered why I had used the front door in the first place. The two of them watched while I cleaned Ed McMahon out of my box. I was almost to the back stairs when I heard Richard call.

“Before you buy anything I’ll take another look at the plans and see if we can steal a little more space for your basketball court.”

I nodded my thanks as I went through the door to the basement. I got to the apartment and managed to put the bags down and the mail in the garbage before Mrs. S.’ light began to flash. She probably stood at her windows waiting for me. I felt guilty about my wave of annoyance and telephoned upstairs. But it wasn’t her leaky faucet; she wanted me to come to dinner. As unappealing as another solitary supper of Taylor Pork Roll on an English seemed, talking to someone was worse. I thanked her, declined, and promised to get to the faucet within the next couple of days.

I searched futilely through the TV Guide, but turned the tube on anyway. I was starting to roll a joint when I heard Julie’s patterned knock. If it had been anyone else I’d lock myself in the bathroom, but Julie was different; you don’t ignore your dealer. I started to speak, then, appreciating quality work, I stood silent and listened to him pick the lock. It was a game. I changed the lock a couple of times a year but neither of us ever mentioned it. This one was going to be a piece of cake. Second time in a week, the same lock.

When he saw me watch him enter, he shook his head and jerked his thumb back toward the door. “You’re a smart fellow, but you spend hundreds of dollars a year betting a losing hand. If I didn’t get in you would be morose.”

“Tradition doesn’t count for much today, huh?”

“What?”

“Nothing. You’re not supposed to talk about the locks. Not only would I be morose, I wouldn’t get my dope.”

“I heard your psychologist visited today. I thought it wise to check it out.”

I rubbed my face. He was a sweet guy. “How’d you find out she was my shrink?”

“I like to ascertain my surroundings. People keep me informed.”

I wasn’t going to push. This wasn’t the first time I’d wondered about what lay behind his gentle face and close-cropped gray hair. It was strange, though, to think of myself as someone other people kept an eye on. The whole damn day continued to surprise.

“Well, she was here all right but it wasn’t about me. She wants to hire me to do detective work.”

“You look none too cheerful, slumlord.”

“I’m not. You ever been caught in your shorts in front of your shrink?”

“I thought seeing a psychologist meant taking your underwear off.”

I grimaced. Julius was another tenant I inherited when Lou bought the place. A powerfully built, medium-height, fifty-five-year-old black man. For almost a year he had barely acknowledged my presence. Just a check, right as rain, in my box. One day I came home and found him sitting at my kitchen table with a large beige canvas bag.

“Sit down now, boy.”

His voice was deep, quiet, and commanded attention. Not unlike God in The Ten Commandments. “IVe been observing you for a while and I like what I see. Respectful to the tenants and the building. I like that. I am also impressed with your concern for Mrs. Sullivan. She’s getting on but no one cared to acknowledge it. I know about you and I know you got a cop license that don’t move. If you prefer this to rent money, tell me.”

He pushed the bag over to me and I pulled out a large ziploc full of dope. You wouldn’t need a hookah to realize this was some fine stuff. All buds. Gold.

He looked at me. “I know you don’t intend a citizen’s arrest. Would you care to partake?”

I grinned at him. “Partake? Hell yes. This shit looks terrific. Let me get my pipe.”

“Sit,” he commanded and produced a joint. He lit it and, while he smoked, took out a molded silver flask and placed it on the table. I reached for the silver, opened it, and drank. Julius’ face remained impassive but his head moved in a small nod. He passed the joint, took the flask, and swallowed. I smoked the dope and it was every bit as good as it looked.

We spent two hours talking. I should say I talked, Julie punctuated. Since that night, every month he would let himself into my apartment after knocking, and wait with his canvas bag. He never mentioned working so I assumed he made his money dealing. By now I realized he had fingers in more than one pot, though I never asked and he never volunteered.

But he did know what I meant about opening the door in my drawers because his eyes, usually the stillest part of his body, began to widen as he pictured the scene. He started to laugh and little by little so did I. Maybe I was making too much out of nothing.