John Lutz - Torch

He had his pension and had made a few sound investments, had most of what he wanted. The essentials, anyway. He didn’t need the thousand dollars. And it was Megan Winship’s money now. He downed the last of his beer and said, “Fuck the money.”

Beth laughed from somewhere down deep. “That’s my Fred! Dumb but I love him.”

Carver figured “dumb” was better than “obsessive.” Maybe.

He got down off the stool, leaving his cane and using the counter and stove for support while he got another beer from the refrigerator.

Working the pull-tab, feeling cold foam run between his thumb and forefinger, he said, “Talk to me about Donna Winship.”

The apartment building Carl Gretch lived in looked even more depressing in the harsh morning light. Like the man himself, probably.

Carver had driven into Orlando to be parked on Belt Street across from the building by eight o’clock, on the off chance Gretch-Thomas was an early riser. He didn’t want to miss connections with the knife-wielding Romeo.

He sat behind the Olds’s steering wheel for a moment with the engine idling, gazing at the dirty beige stucco building with its rust-pitted iron balconies. Pigeon droppings, invisible under the streetlight two nights ago, looked like candle drippings on the surface of the wall not covered by vines. The vines, with their brilliant red tubular blossoms, were the only good thing about the place, possibly the only good thing in the neighborhood.

The old car might overheat if he sat there much longer with the engine running and the air conditioner plugging away, so Carver switched off the ignition. Even at eight o’clock, oppressive heat began to push into the car almost immediately. The sun was determined to punish Florida again today.

Carver was about to climb out of the car when he saw a man emerge from the apartment building.

Not Gretch, though.

This was an older, gray-haired man, powerfully built but slightly stooped, wearing a baggy white tee shirt and even baggier jeans. His flesh and his clothes hung loosely on his frame, but muscle danced beneath the slack skin of his arms. Carver watched him plod stiffly to the flat-roofed garage where Gretch had parked the red Corvette night before last.

The old man drew a ring of keys from a pocket of the baggy jeans and unlocked and opened the door next to Gretch’s. He went into that section of the dilapidated four-car garage and a few minutes later came out dragging a large green rubber trash can and a long-handled push broom. He set the can upright, leaned the broom against the garage wall, then used his keys to open Gretch’s garage door.

There was no car in the garage.

The old man got the broom and entered the garage, still with the same rigid, plodding walk, as if he’d never been in a hurry in his life. A few seconds later he moved back out onto the sidewalk, grabbed the trash can by its rim, and slid it inside out of sight. It made a hollow, scraping sound as it was dragged over the concrete.

Carver climbed out of the Olds and crossed the street toward the long garage. As he got closer, he could see the man’s white tee shirt in the shadows, moving like a disembodied ghost as he methodically swept the floor.

Dust was drifting out of the garage as Carver stood in the open doorway and leaned with both hands on his cane, listening to the relentless scratching of stiff bristles on rough concrete.

He said, “I’m looking for Carl Gretch.”

The sounds of sweeping ceased, and the old man shuffled into the light, holding the broom before him as if it were a flag he might carry into battle. He was well into his seventies, with liver spots on his flaccid skin. He was even thinner up close, with bony shoulders and knobby elbows, but plenty of muscle still clung to his bones, and the hand gripping the wooden broom handle was gnarled and powerful. His face seemed to be trying to collapse in on itself with age, brow lined and low over deep-set searching eyes, chin on a trajectory to meet nose. “You a friend or relative?” he asked.

Carver said he was neither.

The old man made a hacking sound, then turned and spat off to the side. “So’s the landlord lookin’ for Gretch,” he said. “Bastard didn’t bother payin’ his back rent afore he moved out yesterday.”

“You mean he left without notice?”

“Sure. That ain’t unusual in this building. But Billy Peekner still don’t look kindly on people leavin’ when they owe the last three months’ rent. Give a character like Gretch a break by carryin’ him that long, it’s a sure thing he’s gonna sting you. I told Billy that, but he was too mush-hearted to listen.”

“Billy’s the landlord?”

“Yeah. Shouldn’t be, though. Billy’s got too much kindness in him to own and manage a place like this. He oughta be runnin’ a soup kitchen, or workin’ for the U.S. mint givin’ out money.” The old man’s gaze flicked to Carver’s cane, back up to his face. “You a bill collector?”

Carver said, “Not exactly.”

“Too bad. Billy mighta gave you the job of trackin’ down Gretch and gettin’ him to pay up on the rent besides whatever other bad debts he’s got. Fella like Gretch, I know he’s gotta owe plenty of people all over town. Probably the way he paid for that fancy car of his.”

“Ever hear of Enrico Thomas?” Carver asked.

“Nope. Why?”

“It’s a name Gretch has used.”

“Not surprisin’. He’s the type that’d use different names. What are you, a cop?”

“A private one.”

“Like that Spenser on TV?”

“As opposed to Columbo,” Carver said. “I get the impression you and Gretch didn’t get along very well.”

“Nope, we didn’t. My name’s Ed Hodgkins. I manage the place for Billy, and Gretch was always givin’ me a fit about everything from leaky faucets to burned-out light bulbs. He’s a perfectionist about everything except payin’ his bills on time.”

“Does Billy live on the premises?”

“Billy? Hell, no! He’s born to money. He ain’t about to live in a dump like this.”

“Do you mind if I go up and have a look at Gretch’s apartment?”

Hodgkins smiled at Carver and raised a white, bushy eyebrow. “You workin’ for somebody Gretch owes?”

“Owes and can’t pay,” Carver said.

“You look plenty fit despite the cane. Private cops like you, do they ever get physically persuasive with deadbeats like Gretch? You know, make them wanna pay what they owe for fear of more interest buildin’ up?”

Carver knew what the old man was thinking, so he decided to let him think it. He leaned on his cane and said nothing.

“Uh-huh!” Hodgkins said, grinning. “Well, an experience such as that’d be just what a character like Gretch might need. You give me your name and I’ll call you if he turns up here again or I hear anything about him.”

Carver gave him his plain white business card with only his name, address and phone number.

Hodgkins squinted at it. “From Del Moray, huh. I got relatives over there. Cousin Charmaine and an Aunt Delia.”

“I don’t think we ever met,” Carver said.

Hodgkins glared at him. “You humorin’ me, young fella?”

Carver laughed. “Yeah, I guess I am. Sorry.”

Hodgkin’s seemed mollified by the admission and apology. He shoved a gnarled hand into one of the jeans pockets and pulled out the ring of keys again. They jingled as he worked one of the keys off the ring and handed it to Carver. “My hunch is, you’re exactly the kinda fella I’d like to see catch up with Gretch. His apartment’s number 2-W, last one on the second floor west.”

Carver thanked him, then said, “By the way, did Gretch put out any trash before he left?”