Chapter 10
Allen kicked off early, which meant Ben and I got to kick off early, too. We escorted her home, made sure she was secure, and then left her to it. I was glad for the time, because my new tenant was moving into the building. I’d asked Mrs. Vincent and Barb to oversee the move when I thought I couldn’t be there, but now I could, and I got home just as the first moving van pulled up to the back gate.
Barb Covey, the youngest of nine rabble-rousing Irish ruffians, and I had grown up together, gotten in scrapes together, and grown out of it together. She was a nun now, a teacher, and would be starting classes at our old school right after Labor Day. Until then, she was playing it loose, or as loose as a nun played it. There’d been three of us punching back at the world back then before Pop put us all straight. Charles Mingo, whom we’d nicknamed Whip, filled out our little trio.
We three had run the same streets at the same time, doing the same stupid stuff. It was funny how we all ended up on completely different life tracks. I had become a cop, Barb a nun, and Whip had spent the better part of his twenties in the state penitentiary, mostly for taking stuff that didn’t belong to him. He was reformed now and worked the griddle in a diner on the West Side, so it was all good.
Barb and I watched the van action in the alley from Mrs. Vincent’s back porch. Barb had stuffed her unruly red hair under a Cub’s hat and looked as though she’d dressed for a Jimmy Buffett concert—Bermuda shorts with little blue dolphins all over them and a Bon Jovi T-shirt. A simple gold cross, the only hint of her vocation, dangled from a chain around her neck. Sometimes it was hard even for me to believe she was married to God.
“This is exciting,” she said. “New people, a fresh start.”
I kept my eyes on the van. It looked big enough to carry contraband. “Yippie. Two things I hate.”
Mrs. Vincent came out of her back door with two glasses of iced tea, handed one to Barb, one to me, then took a seat in her rocker to watch the action with us. “You two going to watch them bring in every box?”
“Barb is,” I said before taking a sip.
Barb gave me serious side eye. “Everybody who knows me knows I’m curious by nature. And not every box. Just maybe the first ten or so.” She sipped some tea. “Too bad Whip couldn’t be here.”
I took another sip from my glass. The tea was good, sweet. “I don’t think he’d give a hoot about what comes out of that van.”
Mrs. Vincent’s rocker kept up a slow, steady pace. “You said he works for the city? But he’s not a policeman. That’s not a lot to go on. Don’t know why it’s all such a big secret, seeing as he’s going to be living under our roof.”
I hadn’t told anyone much about the new tenant other than what Mrs. Vincent knew. I wasn’t being secretive, not really, just cautious. I hoped I’d chosen wisely, but I wouldn’t know until he settled in and the honeymoon period was over.
“Kinda big van,” Barb said. “Must have a lot of stuff.”
“Big enough to fit a piano in,” Mrs. Vincent said. “Hope he doesn’t have one. I need my sleep, and unless he’s that Billy Joel fella, I don’t want to hear all that plunking on the keys at all hours of the day and night.”
I squinted at the movers as they ambled toward the van doors. “He didn’t say anything about a piano. Who moves a piano into a person’s building, anyway?”
Barb faced me. “Since when are you anti-piano?”
I shrugged. I was thinking mostly about the weight. Second floor. Old building. Insurance liability. Mrs. Vincent flattened in her bed by a baby grand. A gray Subaru Forester pulled up behind the van, and my new tenant got out, waved at us. We waved back.
“There he is,” I muttered. “Hank Gray, fireman.”
The rocker stopped. “Good-looking fella. Sturdy. Looks like he can handle himself.”
Barb sipped her tea. “Quite imposing.”
I looked at them one at a time. “He hauls people out of burning buildings for a living. What’s your point?”
Barb avoided looking at me. “No point.”
Mrs. Vincent cleared her throat. “I got one. You swung that pendulum mighty far to the right, you ask me. From the Kall-ishes and little Nate all the way to the big fireman, who’s probably got a big fireman’s ax in one of those boxes. You won’t have to worry over him, that’s for sure. Almost as big as a tree, I’d say. I just hope it don’t come back to bite you, is all. And that’s all I’m saying on the subject.”
I stared at her. She met my stare, matched it, and threw one right back at me. I then turned to Barb, who still refused to look at me, which told me she agreed with what had just been thrown down by the old sage in the leisure rocker. I turned back to the van, the Forester, the fireman as big as a tree, wondering now about the ax, knowing Mrs. Vincent had nailed it, nailed me . . . again.
It was true, I didn’t have to worry about Hank Gray. He could take care of himself. It was my previous tenants whom I couldn’t protect from a drive-by shooting meant to send me a message. It was a failure I had no intention of repeating.
The rocker started back up. “You want cookies with that tea?”
Barb brightened. “Homemade?”
“I only got the one kind.” Mrs. Vincent stood. “Oatmeal raisin today.”
Barb grinned. “Yum. I love oatmeal raisin. I’ll come with you to the kitchen.” She elbowed me in the side. “Hold my spot. Yell if you see a piano come out.”
I sighed. “Go eat your cookie.”
* * *
No piano came out, but a lot of guy stuff did—a broken-in lounger, a massive flat-screen TV, stereo equipment, along with the usual necessities—bed, couch, rugs. When Gray was all moved in, Mrs. Vincent went up and gifted him a plate of cookies. I followed up with a “welcome to the building” visit and to check to make sure everything was okay. It was. He wasn’t half as big as a tree, but he was imposing—muscled arms, broad chest. He told me he was single and had no kids, but I hadn’t asked about his personal situation. It wasn’t my business.
“By the way,” I said. “We’re planning a backyard cookout for Labor Day. Last hurrah before winter snows us under. Join us. Invite a few of your friends, if you want.”
“I’ll do that. Thanks. Hey, what’s your take on overnight guests?”
I blinked at him. “Mine or yours?”
He chuckled. “Thought I’d ask, seeing as this is kind of a special setup, family vibe, and all.”
“I’m your landlord, Hank, not your mother. We’d just appreciate your being considerate and respectful of the space. Okay?”
He nodded. “Got it. I’ll bring the beer for the cookout.”
I turned for the stairs, smiled. “Good beer, right? Don’t bring crap beer to my barbecue, Hank.”
He laughed. “Wouldn’t think of it.”