Short Squeeze by Chris Knopf Read Free Book Online Page B

shopworn, gaudy neon, and potholed streets. Tiny ranch houses with vans and pickups filling the driveways, a few with all four tires.
    When we got to the address I’d pulled off the Internet, I had a crisis of confidence. Mostly because we didn’t see a house. There was just a two-foot-high rectangular slab covered in weathered tar paper, a Porta Potty, a rusted-out Datsun coupe with vanity plates that read SHRTSLR —shirt seller?—and a pickup that made mine look like a new Range Rover. And a mailbox with Fuzzy’s street number and the word
OW
.
    I jumped out of the car and Harry followed me, unfolding his lanky limbs like a praying mantis.
    “OW,” I read. “Oscar Wolsonowicz?”
    Harry looked at the slab. He walked over and leaned down for a closer look. Without standing up, he waved me over.
    “Look for a door,” he said.
    We circumnavigated the slab from opposite directions, meeting on the other side at a metal Bilco hatch, painted black, with a sign that said LOSE HOPE ALL YE WHO PASS THROUGH HERE .
    Harry pounded on the hatch door.
    “What the fuck!” yelled a trebly, electronic voice a few seconds later.
    We looked around and Harry spotted a speaker next to the hatch. Seeing no way to reply, he pounded on the door again.
    We waited almost a minute, then heard the sound of the latch being pulled back, followed by the hatch door opening, groaning on its raw hinges.
    A square-headed pale white guy with slippery black hair, a thin beard, and thick, plastic-rimmed glasses poked out. Unhappily.
    “What. The. Fuck,” he said.
    I squatted down to get on his level.
    “Mr. Wolsonowicz? I’m Jacqueline Swaitkowski. An attorney and officer of the court.”
    I handed him my card. He took it like it was a free ticket to next Sunday’s Declare Your Sins for Jesus tent revival.
    “Yeah? And?” he asked.
    “Your uncle, Sergey Pontecello, has died. There are issues relating to his estate I need to discuss with you.”
    His nascent sneer grew into the real thing.
    “Who the fuck cares,” he said, reaching to pull the door back down. He got partway there before Harry caught the edge of the door and pulled it back up.
    “Ah, come on, fella,” said Harry. “She just wants to talk to you for a minute. Why not give it a chance?”
    Fuzzy looked up at him, which from that perspective was a very long look.
    “What do you want me to say? I don’t know anything about him. Married to my mom’s sister. Hardly ever talked to me. What did he die of?”
    “They found him on the road,” I said.
    He smirked again.
    “There’s a news flash. Drove like a drunk old lady.”
    He looked at Harry again, who was wearing a white band-collar shirt, a gold earring, and a pair of round wire-rim glasses throughwhich gleamed ice blue eyes. Before going bald at about twenty-five, Harry’d been a platinum blond. So now, at about forty-five, his eyelashes and eyebrows were snow-white, making him look almost hairless. This took some getting used to, though if you looked at him long enough, you’d notice he was actually sort of cute.
    “You a lawyer, too?” Fuzzy asked him.
    “Strictly transport.”
    “You said estate. There’s money involved?” Fuzzy asked me.
    “Like the man said, we just want to talk. Can’t hurt. Might do you some good.”
    Fuzzy clenched his eyes together and shoved his shoulders up against his neck like kids do when their mothers tell them to eat all the green stuff off their plates. Then he popped open his eyes and threw up his hands.
    “Okay, what the fuck,” he said, walking back down the steps.
    We followed.
    Fuzzy’s place was more or less what you’d expect. Dark, damp, dirty, and crammed with junk. Electronic junk—beige, black, and gray boxes covered in buttons and dials and flickering lights. Every kind of monitor, from the old green screens stacked three at a time to gigantic flat LCDs hanging on the walls. The furniture was basic couch. Big couch, little couch, convertible couch, leather,