Free Apartment Seven by Greg F. Gifune

look like, what kind of person was he—and now that I was on the verge of finding out I wanted to be filled with rage and violence, to be bursting with adrenaline at the chance to finally confront the bastard mano-a-mano. But all I could muster was more of the same profound sadness that had riddled me for months.
    Dino’s voice echoed in my mind. He’s sixty-three, some old fart college professor. Lives alone.
    I looked at my watch. The crystal had been damaged in my fall and was now decorated with a series of spider-web cracks, but I was still able to make out the time. 11:11. Shame , I thought, I always loved that watch . Jenna had gotten it for me for my birthday years ago. I remembered the night she gave it to me. We’d gone out to dinner at one of our favorite restaurants beforehand.
    Everywhere I looked, every memory I had, every emotion I felt; there she was. How had I failed my wife so thoroughly that she’d needed something else from someone else? Regardless, I hadn’t failed alone. She’d failed too. And now we were paying for those failures, and paying dearly.
    I rang the bell.
    There were sounds of movement beyond the door, an odd shuffling noise and then a series of locks disengaging. The door opened to reveal a mealy-faced bald man with wire-framed eyeglasses. I could tell by the look on his face he recognized me, and while his initial reaction was one of terror, he made no move to close the door but instead flipped on an outside light, which gave us both a better look at each other.
    “Curtis Gwynn?”
    He gave a hesitant nod, and in better light I saw that he was sporting two swollen black eyes, the skin beneath and around them yellow and discolored. His lips had been battered and since scabbed over, and numerous bruises covered his face and neck. “Who are you?”
    “Jenna’s husband.”
    He swallowed so hard it was audible but said nothing more.
    “Cut the crap. You know who I am. I’m Charlie Cerrone.”
    For some reason this information seemed to put him at ease and his fear noticeably faded. “Fascinating.”
    “ Fascinating ?”
    His expression indicated he hadn’t meant to say the word aloud. His swollen eyes blinked nervously behind his eyeglass lenses but he offered no further explanation.
    “What happened to your face?”
    “An unfortunate incident.”
    “Those tend to happen when you fuck other guys’ wives.”
    “Is that why you’ve come here?” he asked. “To ridicule me?”
    “You better hope that’s all I’m here to do. I’d give you the beating of your life but it looks like someone got to you before I could.”
    “There’s no need for further violence.”
    “Just don’t push your luck, asshole.”
    Gwynn looked me over like a scientist that had just encountered an alien life form and was trapped somewhere between disbelief and utter fascination. “Remarkable,” he said in a near-whisper, craning his neck to see beyond me to the street. “Are you alone?”
    “Yes. I’ve got a cab waiting.”
    “Come in, it’s cold out there.” He waved me inside with a bandaged hand. “We can talk in the parlor.”
    “Is Jenna here?”
    “I haven’t seen her in weeks. She’s busy with…other matters.”
    “Like Apartment Seven over on Ross Avenue?”
    Rather than answer, Gwynn held the door open so I could pass. I saw then that he was using a crutch, and his right leg was in a heavy cast from hip to ankle. His bare foot stuck out the end, several toes taped. Whoever had given this man a beating had done a damn fine job of it, right down to taking the time to break a few of his toes.
    “Looks painful,” I said.
    “Quite.”
    “Pity.”
    I stepped into a small front room that was decorated like a museum from the nineteenth century. The walls were lined with bookcases, and any remaining space was covered with numerous trinkets and hideous masks from various foreign and ancient cultures. In the far corner stood a tall glass case containing what appeared to be