I awoke to a horrible racket next door, that would be at my apartment. Someone was banging on the door non-stop. I went to the window and could see a man, tallish, on the thin side of fifty, with gray side walls and dark brown hair on top. He looked like an older version of my old man.
“Open up,” he yelled.
Hmm, sounded like my old man’s voice, but how could this be? We had parted years ago and neither had made any attempt to keep up with the other. No way he could know where I was living.
“Open up, damn it,” he said, “this is your last warning.”
I watched as he stepped back, folded his arms across his chest and huffed out his frustration. He started digging in his front pocket, and I knew he was thinking of picking the locks on my door. Part of me wanted to let him. He’d bring the supposed FBI jerks down on his own head. It’d serve him right for taking up with armed robbers. How he’d kept out of prison was a mystery to me. The angel on my shoulder took pity on the old guy. I opened Mrs. M’s door and stepped part of the way out onto the landing. When he saw me, I motioned him over. He looked at the apartment number then back at me with a puzzled expression. I waved impatiently until he strode over. I pulled him inside by his elbow when he was within reach and shut the door.
“Trying to wake the dead?” I took in his expression, a cross between a fox and a weasel with a bit of a Doberman in the mix. Of course, I might have been a bit prejudiced against him, what with all the water under all the bridges we’d crossed since parting.
“I know how sound you sleep. What the hell are we doing over here? This looks like your grandma’s house.” He was already snooping around Mrs. M’s place like a cat burglar casing a joint for the next raid.
“Long story. How’d you find me?”
“I never lost you.” He went to the kitchen and pulled the refrigerator door open. “Got any beer?”
“Not for you. Anyway, you won’t be staying long enough to drink a beer.” I cros...