III
The head of a sledgehammer pounded a living room wall. Plaster burst, and white hunks fell to the floorboards. Powder lingered in the air like the smoke from a cannon.
Dressed in a black shirt, navy slacks, and polished Italians, Task leaned against the sunlit windowsill of the wholly unfurnished apartment. The coffee he had purchased on Preston Avenue earlier that morning sat in his right hand.
“Looks like it’s pretty thick.”
“Pre-war,” remarked Sergei, a dusty fifty-year-old Russian immigrant in overalls who had the face of an unskilled boxer, but was a nice guy and a hard worker. “Keep going?”
“Keep going.”
Sergei lowered his orange goggles, repositioned his grip on the haft, and swung the sledgehammer. Metal pounded the open wound, booming upon impact, and a welter of debris clouded the area. With two fists, the Russian withdrew the eight-and-a-half-pound cast iron head.
The doorbell rang.
Ignoring the sound, Task sipped some of his pep, which was good enough to drink black.
Sergei glanced at the door. “Somebody’s here.”
“It’s nobody.”
“Okay.”
The Russian tightened his grip, set his feet, and swung. Plaster shattered, and the iron head sank deep into the north wall.
Sergei jerked the hammer loose, revealing a dark hole.
“Reminds me of a girl I once knew,” said Rufus, a lean black twenty-year-old who was emerging from the bathroom. This fellow was the Russian’s helper on most jobs and much stronger than he looked.
Again, the doorbell rang.
Rufus eyed the entrance. “Somebody’s here.”
“It’s nobody,” stated Task.
Sergei wiped dust from his orange goggles. “Get the other hammer.”
“I hear you.”
The Russian swung eight-and-a-half pounds of iron at the edge of the hole. Plaster shattered, and a ray of morning sunlight illuminated a cobweb that lay deep within the opening.
Two yards away from Sergei, Rufus lowered his goggles, set his feet, and swung his sledgehammer. The cast iron head pounded the north wall, booming, and the entire apartment shook. Three large chunks of plaster fell to the floor as he withdrew his tool.
A soggy wooden beam lay inside of the opening.
The helper threw a look at the Russian and then one at the slick. “You guys sure this ain’t load-bearing?”
“This apartment and the one next door used to be one unit,” said Task. “Back when people had it better than gerbils.”
The doorbell rang, and the visitor knocked upon the door. “It’s the super—Javier. I need to see what’s going on in there.”
Task sipped his coffee.
Sergei swung. The cast iron head boomed against the wall.
Keys jingled in the hallway, and brass scraped against steel for a few seconds. “My keys aren’t working,” declared Javier. “Open up!”
Task rose from the windowsill, arched his back, and eyed Sergei. “Keep swinging.”
“Okay.”
“I feel you,” added Rufus, who was sharp and instantly understood the situation.
The slick strode toward the front door, which the superintendent was currently beating with fists and shoes. Knees might have been employed.
“Open up in there or—”
Task snapped the top bolt.
Javier silently waited on the far side of the door.
The slick stretched his limbs and sipped some more pep.
A sledgehammer boomed, turning plaster into shards and dust.
Task undid the second lock and opened the door.
Dressed in Bermuda shorts and an orange crew shirt, Javier stood in the white second floor hallway. His eyes were narrow and his pockmarked skin was flush with anger.
“What is—”
“Good morning,” said the slick.
“You can’t do c—”
A sledgehammer thundered against the north wall of the living room.
Javier stepped forward.
Task threw an arm against the jamb, barring the doorway, and raised his cup of coffee. “Don’t make me spill this.”
The superintendent looked past the slick and into the apartment. His pockmarks paled. “This is a rental…you—you can’t do constr—”
A sledgehammer pounded the wall.
“Stop them!” urged Javier.
Task sipped some pep.
Sergei and Rufus swung at the same time. Plaster exploded, and chips skipped across the floorboards like shrapnel.
“Stop that!” the superintendent shouted at the demolition team. “You’re not allowed to—”
Hammers boomed.
Javier returned his attention to Task. “You’re not allowed to do this. You can’t—”
“Did you come here to discuss the money that you owe me?”
Two hammers fell like thunderous exclamation points.
Fury shone in the superintendent’s dark eyes, but was soon replaced by something far less masculine.
The slick sipped and swallowed. “We still need to figure out how you’re gonna repay that twelve thousand.”
Ashamed, Javier averted his gaze and looked at his sneakers. “Right.”
“How does one hundred a month sound?”
The superintendent cleared his throat. “What kind of interest?
“I don’t charge my friends interest.”
Javier raised his gaze. “One hundred a month, no interest?”
A hammer boomed against the wall, and Task took some pep. “If we’re friends.”
“We’re friends.”
“Good.”
Javier looked down at his hands, which held an abundant key ring that must have weighed five pounds. “You changed the locks.”
“Of course I did.”
“It’s okay. I just need to have a copy of the new key.”
“You don’t.”
A hammer pounded punctuation into the wall.
“What if there’s an emergency?”
“I’ll live with the consequences.”
The superintendent nodded. “What do I tell the owner…if he hears about this? About what’s going on here?”
“Say I had leaky pipes that needed to be replaced.”
Hammers thundered.
“Okay.” Javier’s voice was spectral.
“Payment is due on the first of each month. Do I need to describe what will happen if you fail to remit?”
“You don’t.”
Task shut the door, snapped both bolts, and returned his attention to the demolition job.
One tenth of the north wall had been turned into shards, and several deep holes showed glimpses of the neighboring apartment, which was also empty.
The slick walked to the middle of the forty-by-forty enclosure and drew a line across the floor with the sharp toe of his left Italian. “The new wall goes right here.”
Sergei nodded, hefted his sledgehammer, and swung.