The door swung open. Even though I heard Mort coming up the stairs, I acted like I had no idea he’d opened the door.

After pecking at the keyboard for a few seconds, I looked up. “Oh, crap. You scared me. I’m so used to that door being kicked open that I didn’t even hear you come in.”

He pushed against the door, and then gave a slight nod as it went closed. “New door’s quieter’n a mouse pissin’ on a cotton ball.”

I smiled. “That’s pretty quiet.”

“What’d that set us back?”

“The door? I got a guy from Chula Vista to do it. He had a bunch of used doors advertised on Craigslist. I got the door for a hundred. Installation cost two.”

“Shit. The other fucker cost me nine. We’ll keep this quiet, or Kale might end up firing me for being spendy. He’s as Jewish as Challah bread.”

I laughed until I started coughing. When I caught my breath, I shook my head. “What?”

“Kale. He’s tight-fisted with his money. Makes sense, him being Jewish and all.”

I didn’t know he was Jewish. It didn’t matter, but I nodded, nonetheless. “I’ll keep it hush-hush.”

“Sorry I’m late. Been a bitch of a day.” He sat down and then let out an exaggerated sigh. “So. How goes it?”

“Pretty uneventful, really. The guy in 2-A heard some noises coming from 3-A, but I didn’t see anything when I looked the apartment over.”

“The skinny little fag?”

“Oh wow,” I gasped. “You don’t like him?”

“He’s polite as hell. Always pays his rent on time.” He said cheerily. “I like him just fine, why?”

It disappointed me greatly that he’d called Stephen a fag. As with anything that I took exception to, leaving it alone would be impossible. I consciously lowered my tone to keep from being too abrasive.

“Why did you…Well, why did you call him a fag?”

“He’s as queer as a football bat, that’s why. Hell, he doesn’t even try and hide it. See’s that kid that lives upstairs from him. Why, did you think he was cute or something? Gonna try and get him to switch teams?”

I glared at him just enough that he knew I meant business. “Calling someone a queer or a fag is like using the n-word to describe an African American. It’s derogatory, or whatever. It’s insulting. And, to be honest, it’s beyond rude.”

He scratched the sides of his head and gave me a confused stare. “Since when?”

“I don’t know. Since fifty years ago.”

“What am I supposed to call him?”

“You’re not supposed to call him anything. You should accept him as being just another person on this earth.”

“I ain’t one of them weirdos, if that’s what you’re thinking. I don’t think he’s going to try and grab my pickle or anything.”

Mort didn’t mean any harm, but he was far from harmless. I felt the need to educate him further on the subject. “I didn’t think you were. I’m just…I wanted to let you know that calling someone that might be grounds for a lawsuit.”

He looked at me like I’d taken the last slice of pizza without asking if he wanted it. “Calling him a fag’s against the law?”

“It’s discriminatory.”

“Well.” His gaze fell to his lap. After a moment, he looked up. “I’ll just start calling him by his name, then.”

I grinned. “Okay.”

“What’s that little homos name, anyway?” He asked flatly. “Do you know?”

I shot him an evil glare.

He slapped his hand against his knee and laughed. “I’m pulling your leg. I’ll call him Stephen, how’s that?”

I rolled my eyes. “Better.”

“Other’n that, how’s it going?”

“Good. A guy’s considering renting 3-A. He looked at it last week.”

“I was going to talk to you about that,” he said. “I completely forgot to mention it, but Kale offers that to the manager for cost. So, if you want it, you can get it for a song.”

It rented for five grand a month. I had no idea what cost was, but I knew I couldn’t afford it. “Just out of curiosity, how much is cost?”

“He divides the yearly taxes by the amount of units, divides that by twelve, and that’s the monthly cost. Taxes are seventy-two grand a year, so the manager gets it for five hundred a month.”

I could hardly contain myself. “Five hundred dollars?”

He nodded. “American money.”

I rested my arms on the edge of the desk and looked him in the eyes. “Five hundred dollars?”

“Due on the third of every month.”

“I’ll take it.”

“Damn, that was quick.” He chuckled. “What about that fella that was looking at it?”

“He was just looking for a place to stay for a while he does some remodeling. I’ve been living with my cousin and her evil twins. He lives next door. I need it worse than he does.”

He leaned against the back of his chair and scrunched his nose. “You talking about the biker that drives the Porsche?”

“Drives a Porsche? I uhhm. I don’t know.” I rubbed the back of my palm. “This guy has an eyeball tattooed on his hand.”

“That’s him. Don’t look like it, but he’s a pretty nice fella. Owns some car washes and a sandwich place over in El Cajon. Bunch of his buddies work for him. They drink beer all hours of the night, but they don’t bother nobody. He’s got a shit ton of motorcycles, though. Parks ‘em in the basement. They ride ‘em out of there six at a time. Look like they’re in a parade.”

“In a parade?”

“Sure do. They’re all evenly spaced and side by side when they ride. Same way, every time. Like they’re in a parade.”

“He drives a Porsche, too?”

“Yep. Silver one. Told me it’ll take off from a standstill so fast that it’ll make your eyeballs hurt. Offered to give me a ride, but it sits too low for me to get my fat ass in it. Gettin’ in wouldn’t be bad. Gettin’ out might be a trick, though.”

“You’re not fat,” I said.

He slid his flattened hands over his belly until they came to a stop where I assumed his belt was hidden. “Fatter’n I ought to be.”

“That’s a matter of opinion,” I said with a smile and a nod. “I think you look just fine.”

“Nice of you to say, but I’m still not gettin’ in that thing. You should get that fella to take you for a ride in it, though. Sounds like a bunch of cats fighting when he fires it up, but it’s faster’n a rocket full of monkeys.”

I smiled at the thought of monkeys being launched in a rocket. “I didn’t know he had one of those.”

“Well, he had it when they arrested Todd. Seen him that evening in it. After the cops got done asking questions.”

“Asking him questions, or asking you questions?”

“Asking me. Don’t know that they asked him anything. Probably could have, though.”

I was intrigued. “Why do you say that?”

“He knew Todd. Seen him ‘em arguing a few times. Wondered if that weirdo owed him money or something, but figured it wasn’t my business.”

I wondered if they were friends, business associates, or if they’d simply met in passing. I couldn’t see Baker dealing in drugs, but the possibility crossed my mind.

“You don’t think Baker deals drugs, do you?”

His eyes narrowed. “Who the hell is Baker?”

“He’s the guy with the tattoo on his hand.”

“Oh.” He shook his head slowly. “Hard saying, I suppose. Wouldn’t be my guess, he doesn’t seem like the type.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

The door swung open. I was surprised to see Baker standing there, and couldn’t help but wonder if he heard us talking about him.

Mort glanced over his shoulder and then stood. “Speak of the devil. Were your ears burnin’?”

“They weren’t.” Baker extended his arm. “Should they have been?”

Mort shook his hand. “We were talking about that noisy piece of German shit you drive.”

“The Porsche?” Baker asked, pronouncing the word Por-shuh, which was different than when Mort had said it.

Mort gave him a look. “Is that how you say it?”

“It’s the correct pronunciation. It’s a two-syllable word.”

“They should spell it different, then,” Mort said.

“They probably should.”

Baker was wearing jeans, black Converse low-tops, and a fitted black tee shirt that left little to the imagination. No differently than any other time when he was in my presence, I got lost in admiring him. Worried that I’d do something that gave away our little secret, I shifted my eyes away from them and began to fidget with a pen.

“You need anything, Andy?” Mort asked.

I looked up. “I don’t think so.”

“I’m gonna leave you two to it, then.” He slapped Baker on the shoulder. “She’s got some bad news for you, Bud.”

Baker looked at me. “What’s that?”

“Let me get out of here, first,” Mort said with a laugh. “I’ve got to try and get to Chula Vista before dark, and if you two start scrappin’, I’ll want to stay and watch.”

“Thanks, Mort,” I stood and then walked around my desk. “See you next week.”

“See ya, Kid,” he said over his shoulder.

As the sound of him going down the stairway diminished to nothing, I looked at Baker. He broke my gaze and looked away.

He went to the window and stared out at the street for a moment. After an awkward period of silence, he turned around. Worry washed over his face. I wanted to tell him the news, but his eyes told me it wasn’t a good time.

I decided to sit down and wait for the right time to tell him. I faced my desk. Before I took my first step I felt his hand on my shoulder. Hoping he was willing to talk about whatever seemed to be bothering him, I pivoted on the balls of my feet and spun around.

The look in his eyes had changed.

Drastically.