Free Charges by Stephen Knight

was still warm, full of thick, humid air that couldn’t be dispelled. The vague stink of old urine tickled Vincenzo’s nostrils. Clearly, someone had been using the stairwell as a toilet. He shined his Mag-Lite around, looking for any puddles of piss that might be in his path. The last thing he wanted was to slip and break his ass, especially since medical care would be a long way away. He found nothing, but the stench increased the lower he went. Shit rolls downhill.
    By the time he made it to the first floor, his legs were on fire, and his heart was hammering in his chest. He was exhausted, and sweat poured down his body, leaving his shirt soaked and clinging to him like a second skin. The door to the lobby was propped open, allowing dim light to reveal the stairwell landing. Vincenzo heard voices, and he crept toward the doorway. He didn’t know who was out there, and he didn’t want to step into the middle of a robbery or invasion in progress. He slipped his Mag-Lite into the retainer ring on his backpack then reached under his shirt and gripped the butt of the Beretta with his right hand. Just in case.
    There were several people in the lobby. Vincenzo recognized some faces but knew no names. He hadn’t been in the building long enough to really have any meet-and-greets beyond a casual nod or smile in the elevator. A few of them turned toward him as he emerged from the stairwell, their faces illuminated by the stark glow of several LED lanterns that had been set up around the lounge area.
    “Hello,” a middle-aged woman with clear blue eyes said. Vincenzo recognized her. Her normally perfect blond hair was a stringy, sweaty mop on top of her head.
    “Hi, there,” Vincenzo said, easing his hand off the butt of his pistol. “Is Geraldo around?”
    The woman shook her head. “Nope. Gone. No one from the building management staff is here, as far as we know.”
    “Ah.” It wasn’t much of a response, but that was all he could manage. He wiped the sweat from his brow. The lobby was much cooler than the stairwell, but he was still hot as hell.
    “What floor are you from again?” she asked.
    “Seventy-two. I’m kind of new.”
    “Seventy-two. You’re the guy who bought the Heldermans’ place, right?”
    Vincenzo nodded and looked toward the door. The lower pane of glass was still webbed with cracks. He hoped it wasn’t locked, then he remembered he still had the key Geraldo had given him. The street beyond seemed dark and vacant. “Is the curfew lifted?”
    “Sun isn’t up yet,” a paunchy man said. He was dressed in cargo shorts and a T-shirt with enormous sweat stains under the arms. He had several days of stubble on his chin, and his long dark hair was an uncombed mass. “Curfew isn’t lifted until after the sun comes up.”
    Vincenzo checked his watch. It was five twenty in the morning.
    “It should be up in a few minutes,” the woman said. “I checked my calendar. It has sunrise and sunset times. Today, it’s supposed to be up at five twenty-four a.m.”
    Someone had fetched some shopping carts from somewhere, and they stood in one corner. One was empty, while the other had three baseball bats in it.
    The woman followed his gaze and motioned toward the carts. “We’re going to the aid stations today. A lot of people need stuff, so we’re going to load up with whatever we can get.”
    “What’s with the bats?”
    “The aid stations can be pretty rough,” the man in the cargo shorts said. “A lot of people and not enough goods. The city’s coming up short right now, and the NYPD’s spread pretty thin, so we’re going in prepared.”
    “A couple of the residents got sent to the hospital yesterday afternoon trying to get water and food from the station on Fifty-Ninth Street,” the woman added. “One of them looked pretty serious. Eric Wallenstein, from sixty-one. You know him?”
    Vincenzo shook his head. “No. I don’t think so.”
    She glanced at his backpack. “You thinking of