I locked the bathroom door, got undressed, and stepped into the shower. After a lot of soap, shampoo, and hot water I emerged without so much as a hint of carnations. I wrapped a towel around myself and was about to dry my hair when there was some jiggling at the doorknob, the knob turned, and the Dave walked in totally naked.
I shrieked and grabbed at my towel. “Get out!”
“Don’t play coy,” he said. “We’re both adults.”
He reached for me, and I hit him in the face with the hair dryer. His eyes glazed over, and he crashed to the floor. Out cold. Bleeding from the nose. His Mr. Hopeful looking less perky by the second.
I grabbed his feet and dragged him through my apartment to the front door, being careful not to get blood on the carpet. I opened the door and dragged him into the hall. I ran to my bedroom, scooped up his clothes, ran back to the door, and threw his clothes out. Then I locked and bolted the door and looked at him through the peephole. If he didn’t come around in the next couple minutes I’d call 911.
“Why me?” I said.
After a moment Dave’s eyes fluttered open, and he moaned a little. He put his hand to his face and gingerly touched what used to be his nose. He lay there for a couple more beats, collecting himself, probably waiting for the cobwebs to clear. He pushed himself up to a sitting position and looked at my door, and I instinctively jumped back. I squelched a nervous whimper and did an internal eye roll. He couldn’t see me. The door was locked. Not like the bathroom that could be opened by sticking a straightened paper clip into the lock. This door had a security chain, two deadbolts, and a door lock.
I returned to the peephole and saw Dave was getting dressed. The blood was still dripping from his nose onto the hall carpet, but it seemed to be slacking off. Great. No need for the EMTs. I padded back to my bedroom, pulled on shorts and a T-shirt, and took one last look at the peephole. No Dave. Hooray. I went to the kitchen and freshened my wine. The pasta was cooked and draining in a colander. The sauce was in the fry pan. No sense wasting it. I fixed a plate for myself, grated some cheese over it with my new grater, and ate it in front of the television. Isn’t it strange how sometimes bad things can turn out good. When you add everything up it was a pretty horrible day, but it ended with great pasta.
• • •
Sunday morning Dillon Ruddick, the building super, was in the hall with a steamer, getting the bloodstain out of the carpet. Dillon was my age and an all-around nice guy. Not rocket scientist material, but he could change a lightbulb with the best of them, and he was cute in a sloppy kind of way.
I opened my door and handed Dillon a cup of coffee. “Sorry about the blood.”
“What was it this time? No one reported gunfire.”
“I hit a guy in the face with a hair dryer.”
“Whoa,” Dillon said.
“It wasn’t my fault,” I told him.
“Maybe we should lay down some linoleum here. It would make things easier for clean up.”
Needless to say, this wasn’t the first time I had bloodstains in front of my door.
I pulled the door closed behind me and locked it. “Gotta go. Things to do.”
“No doubt,” Dillon said.
The sun was shining, and it was a perfect seventy-five degrees. I stepped out of the building and did a fast check for Bugle’s black Lexus. No Lexus in sight so I crossed to the Shelby. There didn’t appear to be anyone behind the wheel. So far so good. I cautiously approached the car and looked inside. No dead body. Yea!
Late last night Connie texted me information on Nick Alpha, plus a new address for Ziggy. According to Connie’s source, Ziggy moved his casket into Leonard Ginder’s house. I knew the house. It sat on the edge of the Burg, and it was a wreck. Leonard had a good job at the Personal Products plant on Route 1, but they downsized his part of the production line, and he got laid off. He’s been out of work for over a year, and his house is in foreclosure. His wife left months ago. Rumor has it she ran off with her Zumba instructor. I wasn’t sure if Leonard was still living in his house, or if Ziggy was squatting.
I drove down Hamilton, past Mooner’s bus. I didn’t see Mooner, and there were no cars or trucks parked curbside. Traffic was light. Trenton was off-pace. Sunday morning was a time for church and doughnuts and lounging around, watching cartoons.
Lula was waiting for me in front of the coffee shop. She was on the sidewalk with a giant coffee in one hand and a Super Soaker water gun in the other. She was dressed down in pink yoga pants, a matching pink tank top, and matching pink sneakers. Everything was detailed with silver glitter, and the spider hairdo was splashed with pink highlights.
I waited for her to settle into the Shelby, and I asked the obvious question. “What’s with the Super Soaker?”
“I had a stroke of genius when you called me this morning. I said what do I have to do to protect myself from the vampire? And the answer that came to me was holy water! I don’t know why I didn’t think of this sooner.”
“You have the Super Soaker filled with holy water?”
“Yeah. I sucked it out of the church. You know that bird-bath thing they got right up front?”
“The baptismal font?”
“That’s it. They got it filled with holy water, free for the taking.”
“Brilliant,” I said to Lula.
She tapped her head with her finger. “No grass growin’ here.”
I wound my way through the Burg to Leonard’s house on Meecham Street. The house screamed neglect, from the unkempt front yard to the rotted window frames and disintegrating asbestos shingle roof. Shades were drawn on all the windows. The houses on either side were more respectable with fresh paint and tidy lawns. Clearly their owners hadn’t been downsized. There were no garages or driveways on this street, so houses had cars parked in front … with the exception of Leonard’s house. Leonard’s car had been repossessed. Bad for Leonard. Good for me.
