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“Duff?” I whispered, sidestepping a snarling PP and hurrying over to a bedroom door to peek inside. Nada.
“And this stove still hasn’t been fixed. I told that lazy, good-for-nothing landlord about my stove weeks ago.”
I turned back to her. “Your stove isn’t working?” I tried to walk over, but again had to sidestep PP. I glared down at him and the one fang he had left that protruded out of his gnarly mouth. “And here I thought we were friends.” He snapped at me to make sure I understood the truth of it, so I quickly made my way past. Vicious little shit.
No one in the building besides Cookie and Reyes, including the current manager, Mr. Z, knew I was a proud new owner of a run-down apartment building, so Mrs. Allen didn’t know she was talking to the person responsible for all the repairs.
“No, ma’am, it’s not. See?” She turned on all the burners, and none of them heated up. “How am I supposed to make stew?”
“Well, I’m not sure, but I’ll write that down and go talk to Mr. Z about it.”
“Lazy good-for-nothing. He won’t do anything about it.”
He would now. I’d make sure of it.
“Okay, well, thanks. I’ll let you know what I find out.”
“Thank you, honey. PP always liked you.”
PP snapped at me again, barking until I could take it no longer. I rushed out the door and back to Cookie’s apartment. I knew that Duff had spent some time crashing there, too. I’d never told Cook. It’d only freak her out, and as fun as that was to do, I didn’t want to hear how every noise in the apartment was the dead guy. Her imagination would have run rampant.
I went in without knocking, under the guise of checking on her. She was in her room, changing clothes, and from the state of her closet and drawers, she’d done that a lot.
“I just don’t know what to wear,” she said, tossing aside a nice burgundy blouse.
“That would have been great.”
“No. I don’t like the way it fits.”
“How does it fit?”
“Wrong. What about this?”
“You probably shouldn’t wear orange and purple together on a first date. Just thinking out loud.”
“But it’s a fake date. Who cares?” She picked up a glass and downed half the contents before I smelled the alcohol.
“Cookie, what the hell are you drinking?”
“I made a frozen margarita with Amber’s slushy machine. Don’t judge me.”
I stifled a giggle and looked at my watch. “Oh, my gosh. It’s almost six.”
“Oh, good heavens. I haven’t been on a date in years.”
Cookie put down the drink and started trying on blouses again while I looked for Duff, who was missing in action here, too. She tossed the fifth blouse aside when I walked back in.
“What was wrong with that one?”
“The color. You just said—”
“Right, right. But at this rate, you’re going to be late for January. Get a move on, missy!”
She glared at me. It was the alcohol talking. I could tell. “Hey, do you have any repairs you need done? I’m making a list.”
“Oh.” She straightened and started ticking off a list with her fingers. “My refrigerator is making a fu
“Hold on.” I ran back to my apartment and returned with a pen and paper. “Okay, fridge, faucet.”
“Yes, and the floor in the living room squeaks. Amber’s window lets in a lot of cold air. The ceiling still needs to be painted after that disastrous pool party you tried to have on the roof.”
“That wasn’t my fault. And it was a kiddie pool, for goodness’ sake.”
“Oh, and those bar things in my closet need to be rehung.”
“Bar things … in clos … et,” I said while writing. “Is that it?”
“I’ll think of more. I forgot you’re now responsible for all that.” She blinked in thought. “That’s kind of scary.”
“Tell me about it.”
I hit the rest of the building, under the guise of making a list of demands for the new owner on what repairs needed to be made. Of those who were home, which was only about half—and excluding a woman on the first floor, who kept calling me Bertie and throwing ramen noodles at me—I now had a list of about seventy-two items that needed to be replaced or repaired. Seventy-two! This ownership thing could become a hassle. Luckily, I had a man who was apparently made of money. He bought the building for me in the first place. Making good on the purchase was the least he could do in my worthy yet humble opinion. But Mr. Z was the one who’d actually do the repairs.
I’d make one last stop at his apartment, also on the first floor. He probably told that lady about me. I’d never even seen her before. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe she was a shut-in who didn’t like people invading her turf. I could understand that, but why Bertie?
After all that, no Duff. I was worried I’d have to summon him whether he wanted to be summoned or not, but first, I needed to see the resident manager slash maintenance man. Mr. Zamora opened his door wearing a pair of overalls and a graying T-shirt, the TV blaring in the background. Instead of a greeting, he pursed his lips—the ones that resided directly under a thick mustache—in a
“Hey, Mr. Z. I have a list—”
The door slammed in my face before I could finish. Right in my face.
I stood there in a shock a solid minute before I tried again, knocking harder this time to let him know I was not going away.
He opened the door again, eyed me up and down, then started to slam the door.
I stuck my booted foot in it, preventing it from closing completely.
“I’m off,” he said, swinging the door wide. “Can’t you see I’m having di
I looked inside, and sure enough, there on the table sat a feast fit for a king. If that king was really fond of hot dogs and potato chips.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but I have a list of repairs that need to be made to various apartments in this building.”
“Oh, yeah?” he said, taking the list from me. He read it over, then crumpled it up in his hand and tossed it at me. “I can’t do any repairs without prior authorization. You have to go through the management company.”
The paper had hit me in the chest, and after I got over how amazingly rude he was being, I decided to file assault charges. I grabbed my chest and doubled over, moaning in agony as he looked on.
“Are you about finished?” he asked, completely unmoved. “My show is on.”
I hopped up to see over him. He was watching a rerun of
Breaking Bad.
At least he had good taste in television. “I love that show,” I said, trying to look past him to see which one it was. “I take Misery to their car wash all the time.”
“So, you’re okay? You didn’t get a paper cut, did you? Should I call an ambulance?”
“Okay, fine, be that way. Just tell me exactly what the procedure is to get repairs made.” I picked up the paper and smoothed it out on my stomach.
“I told you. You have to go through the property management company. I work for them now. They work for the owner.”
“I’m not sure you should be treating tenants like that.”
“Like what?” he asked, offended.
I leaned in to him. “Like slamming doors in their faces.”
“I’m off. I told you.”
“It doesn’t matter. These are tenants. These are people who make it possible for you to draw a paycheck. They deserve a little respect.”
“Listen, Charley. If you want respect, you gotta show some.”
“What?” I asked, my turn to be offended. “When have I ever been disrespectful to you?”
He squared his shoulders. “You’re loud. You throw parties. You invite strange people over at all hours. And you call me Mr. Whiskers behind my back. It makes me sound like a friggin’ cat.”
“I most certainly do not. I call you that to your face just as often as I do behind your back. And I haven’t had a party in months.”
He pressed his mouth together. “Look, no matter, you gotta go through the proper cha