Small Apartments (7 page)

“Mom. Mom, don’t cry. Aw, Je-sus …”

“Taking the Lord’s name in vain. Right in front of your Christian mother!” Tommy’s mother sobbed as she crossed the room to dispose of her wet Kleenex. “And here is the thanks I get for trying,” she said as she lifted the paperback copy of
Am I Crazy
, by Dr. Sage Mennox, out of the waste-basket. “If I didn’t know better I would think you threw away this book because you can’t read. But the truth hurts even more.”

“What’s the truth, mom?”

“The truth, Thomas, is that you threw away this book to break your mother’s heart. Well, let me tell you something Thomas Jerome, I am not crazy. I am mentally fit and physically strong. But you, you are crazy. You walk with the heathens! Your mind is unbalanced, unfocused and impure! You have the power to change your life, Thomas, if you would only try. If you would only read Dr. Mennox.” Again, Tommy’s mother thumbed frantically through the worn pages. “Listen: The decision to change starts with you. But you must be willing to accept help from others. If someone who loves you offers their hand, take it. Take their hand and let them lead you off the Road to Crazy.”

“Mom …”

“You hear that? The decision is yours, Thomas.”

“Mom …”

“Come to church with me, Thomas. I beg you. Take my hand and I will lead you. Services start at 11:00. We can get a bagel and coffee on the way. Go take a shower while I iron a shirt for you.”

“I have to work at noon.”

Tommy’s mother buried her chin into her chest and sighed. “If you feel the Lord’s work is less important today than the work of the Open 24 Hours white trash convenience store, I don’t know what else I can say to convince you. I know you have to earn money to pay for your hashish or grass or whatever it is you put up your nose.” Tommy’s mother smoothed her cotton dress with her white-gloved hands. “Your father wished to be remembered to you.”

“I remember,” said Tommy. “Where’s he this morning? Pulling teeth or drinking scotch down at the K of C?”

“I should be going.”

“Mom?”

“Yes, Thomas?” Tommy’s mother crossed her arms around her books and squeezed them to her chest tightly.

“Can I borrow twenty?”

Suddenly a low, hollow tone began emanating from the floorboards. At first it sounded as though the plumbing was groaning and preparing to burst. But the volume grew louder and the pitch grew higher and Tommy’s mother braced herself against the door.

“Sakes alive!” gasped Tommy’s mother. “What on earth is that insane racket and where is it coming from?”

“That’s the fat hermit downstairs blowing his Alpine horn,” said Tommy. “Now, how about that twenty bucks?”

F
RANKLIN WAS IN
a good mood Wednesday morning and he didn’t care who knew it. He was blowing his alphorn and daydreaming of Swiss landscapes and majestic condors while his dog howled. He would not have cared if Mr. Allspice was home, but he knew that he was not. He had watched him leave at 8:30 that morning. That crabby bastard was probably up ten times during the night checking on the porch light, thought Franklin.

He set down his horn and went out into the breezeway to check his mail. In the street he watched a tiny lady in a flowered dress step into a blue Ford Taurus and speed away. He also noticed a little boy in a green
T
-shirt, strawberry hair atop his giant head, choking back tears as he plucked the mangled handle of his red wagon out of the shrubs. Franklin grabbed his mail, and Mr. Allspice’s
Buffalo News
, and strolled whistling back into his apartment.

On the front page sidebar was a teaser that read:
Lackawanna Fire Kills One, see B1
. Franklin opened the paper to the Local Section. There on page one above the fold was a colour photograph of the decimated barn. The headline above it read:
Three-Alarm Fire In Lackawanna Kills One
. He scanned the article.

Lackawanna – A late night barn fire Tuesday blazed into the early morning hours, claiming the life of one man in this suburb south of Buffalo. Fire departments from three local townships responded to the blaze at 340 Old Post Road that investigators have ruled as “suspicious” …

Albert Olivetti, 63, originally of Smithtown, Long Island, suffered fatal third-degree burns …

“Right now we are not certain of the circumstances,” said Erie County Sheriff Fred McNally. “All I can say is that it is an open investigation …”

Erie County Coroner Robert Fields … autopsy results …

Mr. Olivetti is survived by a daughter, Anna Bella Burton, of Phoenix, AZ and two granddaughters …

Franklin did not like what he was reading: “ruled suspicious,” “open investigation,” “autopsy results.” He flopped down onto his orange chair and tried to reason it out. Of course it’s suspicious, he thought. All fires are suspicious before they are ruled accidental. If it’s suspicious, then it has to be an open investigation. Besides, the truck is missing and they have to find that before they can wrap things up.

Neither of those problems lead back to me. And as far as the autopsy, I watched that guy burn to a crisp with my own eyes.

Franklin thumbed through his mail and realized he had a new problem to deal with, a serious one. Today was Wednesday and there was no letter from Bernard. His brother had not missed a letter on a Monday, Wednesday or Friday in four years. Something was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.

B
URT WALNUT DELIVERED
two, short wraps with his knuckle on Sheriff Fred McNally’s open office door. Fred was on the telephone and motioned for Burt to come in and have a seat. Fred hung up the phone.

“How’d you sleep last night, Burt?” asked Fred.

“Got in pretty late. Was that Bob Fields you were talking to?” asked Burt.

“No. It was a town council member. People are concerned that this Olivetti barn fire might have been arson, and therefore homicide. What do you think?”

“I think they might be right,” said Burt. “Have you gotten that autopsy report from Bob Fields yet this morning?”

“He says I’ll have it this afternoon. After lunch.”

“After you left this morning I spent an hour or so with your deputies snooping around Al Olivetti’s personal affects. Did you know he owned rental property in the city?”

Fred opened a manila folder on his desk. “One unit at 559 Potomac, and one at 100 Garner.”

“Have you sent a deputy up to ask some questions around there yet?”

“Not yet,” said Fred. “I have to make contact this morning with the Buffalo PD and get things coordinated.”

“Have you heard anything about that mysterious Chevy pickup?”

“Are you worried I forgot how to do my job, you old dog?” asked Fred with a smirk. “Why don’t you tell me whether that fire was arson or accidental.”

“I got a hunch you’re going to find that fire was set. I think that Olivetti fella was dead before it started,” said Burt Walnut. “I never known a fella to burn to death in one place unless he was a Buddhist monk. This Italian fella wasn’t moonlighting as a Buddhist monk, was he?”

“I can look into it, but I don’t think so,” said Fred with a chuckle.

Burt Walnut stood up and hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans. “I’m thinking I might go up to the city for some ice cream this morning.”

“Is that so?” said Fred. “There wouldn’t happen to be any ice cream parlours around 559 Potomac and 100 Garner, would there?”

“I’ll get back to you on that,” said Burt Walnut with a smile.

“Give me a call after lunchtime and I’ll tell you what Bob Fields had to say in his autopsy report,” said Fred.

“I’ll call if I’m feeling lonely and need somebody to talk to,” said Burt, “but I doubt you’re gonna tell me much I don’t already know. I
would
like to learn how the poor fella did die, though.” Burt sauntered out of Fred’s office and gave him a backhanded wave over his left shoulder.

Fred sat for a half-minute thumping his pen on his desk, then dialed the phone. “Helen, this is Sheriff McNally, is Bob available to talk? Uh huh. I see. Well, please tell him to call me the minute he’s done with that Olivetti autopsy. Thank you, sugar.”

T
HE GREY, STEEL
hydraulic door swung open with a groan of air as Franklin entered the Buffalo Psychiatric Centre on Elmwood Avenue Wednesday afternoon. The fluorescent lights droned above his head while his rubber-soled sandals chirped along the polished white hallway. The walls were painted a sane yellow and the smell was more sterile and antiseptic than a normal hospital. No wonder Bernard requested that Franklin never visit. This place is creepy, he thought. The receptionist was a bored overweight woman with a poor complexion who looked as forlorn as the building.

“I’m here to visit a resident,” Franklin said.

“I’m sorry?” said the receptionist, phrasing her statement as a question.

“That’s ok,” said Franklin. “I’m here to see Franklin.”

“First name?” asked the receptionist.

“First name Franklin.”

“Ok, last name then.”

“Last name Franklin.”

“Look sir, we don’t have a Franklin Franklin. I know that right off the top of my head.”

“No,
I
am Franklin Franklin. I thought you needed my name for your log book or whatever.”

“Well I will, but first we need to figure out which resident you are here to see, Mr. Franklin Franklin,” said the receptionist with an air of sarcasm.

“Bernard. Bernard Franklin.”

“Can I assume you are a relative?” asked the receptionist.

“You should never assume. But yes, he’s my brother.”

The receptionist shook her head and performed a few deft strokes on her computer keyboard. She picked up the phone and pushed one button, then mumbled something that sounded to Franklin like ‘Jews have brown hair.’ She asked him to sit in the waiting area. Moments later a hospital administrator appeared through one of the oak double doors that led to the residents’ rooms. Franklin thought it was nice that they called them residents, even though they were all there because they were crazy. The administrator was young and very attractive. She introduced herself as Sally Baker and ushered Franklin into a private room.

“Mr. Franklin. May I call you Franklin?”

“Yes,” said Franklin.

“Franklin, I am afraid I have to deliver some very difficult news to you.”

“Bernard’s dead?” asked Franklin.

Sally Baker was completely thrown off her well-rehearsed rhythm. “Yes. Bernard’s dead,” she said. “Did you already know?”

“No. You bring me into a private room, you tell me you have to deliver difficult news. I couldn’t imagine what else you might be preparing to tell me after that setup.”

“I am so sorry for your loss, Franklin. Bernard died yesterday morning around 11:30 of his brain tumour.

“Brain tumour
?
”
asked Franklin.

“You did know he was sick? Bernard was tested six months ago after complaining of increasingly painful headaches and dizziness. He was told the tumour was inoperable.”