Small Apartments by Chris Millis Read Free Book Online

side-by-side with their backs toward him, arms akimbo. Their hips swayed playfully, bumping their young buttocks against each other. He could see they were giggling and talking with one another. Then they stopped dancing, grabbed their waistbands, pulled down their shorts, and sat their bare rears on the windowsill. They were mooning him. But there was more. There was something written on their butts. There was a black letter drawn on each perfect cheek. Franklin nearly dropped the binoculars out onto the porch as he frantically focussed to read what was written on their butt cheeks. ? … E … R … U, Peru? No, not U,
V
. P-E-R-
V
. Perv! They had spelled out “Perv” to him on their consummate, teenage asses.
    The two girls, convulsed in laughter, pulled up their shorts. Then Little 101’s room returned to darkness.
    Franklin slumped back in his chair and let the binoculars fall to his lap. He looked at his watch. The whole show had lasted four minutes. One moment you’re on top of the world, the next you’re in the shitter. It was like having a woman point at your penis and laugh, he thought. As it happens, he knew how that felt, too.
    Franklin grabbed Mr. Olivetti’s keys off the table and stepped out onto the porch. He had no choice but to figure out how to drive a standard shift well enough to get the truck far enough away to avoid suspicion.
    Franklin stormed out into the street, looked east on Garner,
    blinked his eyes, then released a yelp of raw elation. He broke into another fat man’s run. There was no mistaking it—the shattered glass. There was no explaining it—the vacant space. Someone had stolen Mr. Olivetti’s tan 1994 Chevy S-10 pickup truck while he was being humiliated by two wicked, lovely teenage strumpets. Some marvelous, wonderful, beautiful, punk-ass sonofabitch. God bless this crummy city, he thought. “God bless Buffalo, New York!” screamed Franklin into the midnight sky.
    “Shut your hole, fatso!” called back one of Franklin’s neighbours.

CHAPTER
8

    B URT WALNUT CROUCHED in the wet grass and soot along the outside perimeter of what used to be Albert Olivetti’s tool barn. He picked up bits of dirt and charred wood, studied them, smelled them, and, for the most part, put them back down. Burt was wearing a navy blue wind-breaker with the letters LFD emblazoned on the back in white. He was wearing a red tartan flannel shirt over a white T -shirt, blue jeans, Wolverine work boots and a red, white and blue Buffalo Bills cap. He made his way around the scene with his eyes fixed on the ground, kicking soot and debris, and bending down when it seemed pertinent.
    Billy Browski had changed out of his fireproof coat and pants and replaced his helmet with a well-worn LFD baseball cap. “What d’ya make of it, Burt?”
    “Don’t look like arson from the outside,” said Burt Walnut. “How about from the inside?”
    “Hmm,” said Burt.
    “We found this Zippo lighter in the dirt not three feet from the body. Could be he sparked something he was working with, fuel or paint thinner maybe. Could be he was just smoking where he shouldn’t have been.” Billy tossed the plastic Baggie holding the soot-covered lighter into Burt’s hands.
    “Hmm,” said Burt.
    “I for one can’t figure out what this fella was supposed to be working on out here,” said Billy. “Not just because of the late hour, that’s not so unusual when you’ve got no wife telling you it’s time to come in. You know what I’m saying there, Burt. But we found a rubber grip hammer melted to this fella’s skin and bone and I don’t know what the hell he was out here hammering. There was nothing laying around the body or the worktable that needed hammerin’. Unless it was wood. And any fool knows that you use a mallet with wood. Judging from these tools, this fella’s no beginner carpenter.”
    “What are the police saying?” asked Burt. “What does Fred say?”
    “You know Fred. Mum’s the word until