A Long Line of Dead Men

There was no point combing the city for him, I thought, because we weren't going to find him that way. And there was no point dialing his number because he wasn't going to answer the phone.

I walked quickly back to the rooming house, TJ tagging along beside me. I rang the super's bell, and when there was no answer I poked other buttons at random so that someone could buzz me in. No one did, but after a few minutes a very large woman emerged from one of the first-floor rooms and waddled to the door. She frowned through the glass panel at us, and without opening the door she asked what we wanted.

I said we wanted the super.

"You're wasting your time," she said. "He ain't got no vacancies."

"Where is he?"

"This is a respectable house." God knows who she thought we were. I took out a business card from Reliable and held it against the glass. She squinted at it and moved her lips as she read it. When she was done her lips settled into a tight narrow line. "That's him on the stoop across the street," she said grudgingly. "His name's Carlos."

There were three men on the stoop she'd pointed to, two of them playing checkers, the third kibitzing their game. The kibitzer was drinking a can of Miller's. The players were sharing a carton of Tropicana orange juice. I said, "Carlos?" and they all looked at me.

I held out my card and one of the players took it. He was stocky, with a flattened nose and liquid brown eyes, and I decided he must be Carlos. "I'm concerned about one of your tenants," I said. "I'm afraid he may have had an accident."

"Who's that?"

"James Shorter."

"Shorter."

"Late forties, medium height, dark hair-"

"I know him," he said. "You don't have to describe him for me. I know all of them. I just tryin' to think if I seen him today." He closed his eyes in concentration. "No," he said at length. "I don't see him in a while. You want to leave your card, I call you when I see him."

"I think we should see if he's all right."

"You mean open his door?"

"That's what I mean."

"You ring his bell?"

"I don't know which bell is his."

"Don't it got his name on it?"

"No."

He sighed. "A lot of them," he said, "they don't want no name on the bell. I put the name in, they just take it out. Then their friends come, ring the wrong bell, disturb everybody. Or they ring my bell. I tell you, it's a big pain in the ass."

"Well," I said.

He got to his feet. "First thing we do," he said, "is we ring his bell. Then we see."

We rang his bell and got no response. We went inside and climbed three flights of stairs, and the house was about what I'd expected, with a Lysol smell battling the odors of cooking and mice and urine. Carlos led us to what he said was Shorter's door and banged on it with a heavy fist. "Hey, open up," he called. "This gen'man wants to talk to you."

Nothing.

"Not home," Carlos said, and shrugged. "You want to write him a note, put it under the door, an' when he comes home-"

"I think you should open the door," I said.

"I don't know about that."

"I'm worried about him," I said. "I think he might have had an accident."

"What kind of accident?"

"A bad one. Open the door."

"You say that," he said, "but I'm the one gets in trouble."

"I'll take the responsibility."

"And what do I say, huh? 'This guy took the responsibility.' It's still my ass inna crack, man."

"If you don't open it," I told him, "I'll kick it in."

"You serious?" He looked at me and decided I was. "You think maybe he's sick in there, huh?"

"Or worse than that."

"What's worse'n sick?" I guess it came to him, because he winced at the thought. "Shit, I hope not." He hauled out a ring of keys, found his master passkey, and fitted it in the lock. "Anyway," he said, "you wouldn't have to kick it in, less'n he got the chain on. These locks is nothin', you can slip 'em with a plastic card. But if the chain's on, shit, you still gonna have to kick it in."

But the chain wasn't on. He turned the lock, paused to knock on the door one final unnecessary time, and pushed the door inward.

The room was empty.

He stood in the doorway. I pushed past him, walked around the little room. It was as neat and bare as a monk's cell. There was an iron bedstead, a chest of drawers, a bedside table. The bed was made.

The drawers were empty. So was the closet. I looked under the bed. There were no personal articles anywhere, just the thrift-shop furniture that had been there when he moved in.

"I guess he moved out," Carlos said.

The telephone was on the beside table. I slipped a pencil under the receiver and lifted it enough to get a dial tone, then allowed it to drop back in place.

"He didn't say nothin' to nobody," Carlos said. "He pays a week at a time, so he's paid through Sunday. Funny, huh?"

TJ walked over to the bed, picked up the pillow. There was a booklet under it. He took a close look at it and handed it to me.

I already knew what it was.

"It don't make sense," Carlos said. "You gonna move out, why you gonna make the bed first? I got to change it anyway before I rent it to somebody else, don't I?"

"Let's hope so."