Chapter 100

One Tuesday morning, as Harlan fed garbage into the incinerator, the store manager of the neighborhood A&P was patrolling the grocery aisles—straightening boxes of cereal, fluffing loaves of bread, and thumping cantaloupes—in preparation for the onslaught of the day’s shoppers.

Andrew Mailer arrived at the store just as the manager unlocked the door. He shuffled in, head bowed, black cap low over his flabby face, grunting at the manager’s cheery greeting. Usually, he strode swiftly down the aisles, filled his cart with a week’s worth of necessities, paid for the items without meeting the gentle smile of the cashier, and then hurried straight back to the safety and solace of his apartment.

That had been his routine week after week for two decades. But on Tuesday, June 19, 1973, things unfolded a bit differently.

* * *

At the door of his apartment, Harlan slipped out of his boots, dropped his work gloves on the floor, and went into his kitchen to prepare a breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast. He was standing over the sink, gulping down a tall glass of orange juice, when his doorbell rang.

Wrapped in a bathrobe and trembling with anger was Gabe Flores, the tenant in 2C. From the look of his bloodshot eyes and scattered hair, Gabe had probably just rolled out of bed.

“Mr. Flores, how can I help you this morning?”

Gabe was barely five feet tall. He took two backward steps so he didn’t have to crane his neck up to meet Harlan’s questioning gaze. “Look, I got Niagara Falls happening up in my apartment. Christ, my wife is having a fit. The crazy above us must have left the sink running or something! Christ, Harlan, the goddamn ceiling looks like it’s gonna fall in . . . What are you waiting for, an invitation? Let’s go already.” Gabe sped off with his bathrobe flapping behind him.

With a sigh, Harlan shoved his feet back into his boots, picked up his gloves, and followed the man to his apartment.

When they entered, Gabe jabbed his finger at the kitchen ceiling. “Do you see this, Harlan? It’s a fucking mess. What are you going to do about it?”

“Let me go upstairs and see what the problem is.”

Gabe threw his hands into the air. “Bastardo negro estúpido. Él va a ver cuál es el problema. Puedo ver cuál es el problema.”

“Mr. Flores—”

“Are you kidding me? You don’t have to go see what the problem is. I can see what the problem is and so can you. I don’t need you to see what the problem is, I need you to fix the fucking problem!”

* * *

Harlan rang Andrew Mailer’s doorbell several times and knocked as loudly as he dared at that time of the morning until he was left with no other choice but to use his master key.

“Hello? Mr. Mailer? Are you here? It’s the super, Harlan Elliott. Hello?”

The air in the apartment reeked of cigarette smoke and a putrid litter box. Closing the door behind him, Harlan surveyed the cluttered living room with its matching sofas covered in aged plastic. On each of the two side tables stood lamps capped with embroidered shades, the stitching nearly invisible beneath years of dust.

“Mr. Mailer? It’s Harlan Elliott, the super. Are you here?” He gingerly navigated the narrow artery that wound through the molehills and drifts of periodicals. In the kitchen, he sloshed through three inches of water, knelt down in the pool, and investigated the goings-on beneath the kitchen sink.

On the crumbling floor beneath the corroded pipes bandaged in moldy strips of cloth sat a quartet of mismatched bowls, placed there to catch the leaking water.

“Why didn’t he just report this to me or the previous super?” Harlan grumbled to himself as he wrenched the valve until it stopped the flow of water.

Back in the living room, the legs of his overalls dripping wet, Harlan called out again, just to make sure: “Mr. Mailer!” Some of the old tenants were hard of hearing. He wouldn’t want to startle the man to death. “I’m going to get the mop and bucket!” he continued to shout. “I’ll be right back!”

Harlan’s finger brushed the doorknob and he froze.

What if the man was dead?

Two tenants had passed away in the nine months he’d been on the job. One went in his sleep, another as he sat slurping Campbell’s tomato soup. Both men were well into their eighties.

Harlan had no idea how old this Andrew Mailer fellow was because he had never seen him. He did know that whenever the other tenants talked about the guy, the operative word was always old.

Old coot.

Crazy old nut.

Harlan pulled his hand back and started toward the bedroom. “Mr. Mailer? Mr. Mailer?”

He was halfway through the living room when he spotted an object that nearly sent him screaming from the apartment.