Free Seaweed Under Water by Stanley Evans Page B

stepladder in the lounge, replacing an acoustic ceiling tile. Stretching too far, Karl lost balance and the ceiling tile upended, liberating a cloud of dust which enveloped Karl’s hair and face like a grey velvet mask. Spluttering and blinking his eyes, Karl let go of the tile which fell to the floor and broke. Cursing, Karl descended the ladder and brushed himself off, too immersed in his predicament to notice my presence for a minute. When he did, he said less than graciously, “What do you want?”
    I purchased a bottle of water from a vending machine in the lobby, put it into Karl’s hand and said, “It’s dirty work, Karl, but I guess somebody’s got to do it.”
    Karl deliberated before taking a swig and said, again less than graciously, “Thanks. What do you want?”
    â€œNothing much,” I lied. “I just happened to be passing, saw all the activity and decided to have a look.”
    â€œThis is a hard-hat area,” Karl said. “Dangerous to the public. You’re not allowed in without permission.”
    Oozing phony charm, I said, “I suppose there’ll be another high-rise building going up here, right?”
    â€œRight. They’re putting up a bunch of 10-storey condominiums, with fantastic views. They’ll sell fast,” Karl said, pouring what was left of the water over his face. Licking his lips and blinking his eyes, he heaved the empty bottle toward a wastebasket, but missed his aim.
    The muck in Karl’s eyes must have been painful, but he went on earnestly, “Real estate, you can’t beat it. You should buy into these condos. Use a small down payment to get in on the ground floor, hold on for a bit. Unload when prices go up and make yourself a nice fat profit.”
    â€œSpeculating? Is that what you’re doing?”
    â€œMe? I can’t afford it; those units start at 500 grand. The penthouses will go for two million apiece, and up.”
    â€œYou could afford a down payment if you unloaded your Viper,” I said. “It’s worth what, about 20 grand?”
    â€œFuck off!” Karl said hotly. “That baby’s worth a hundred grand.”
    I stared up to where the missing tile had left a gap in the dark open ceiling.
    â€œJesus,” Karl said. “This crap in my eyes, I’m going blind.”
    â€œDo you have a room here?”
    â€œWhat’s it to you?”
    â€œYou’ll hurt your eyes if you rub them like that. Go to your room and lie down. I’ll rinse them out.”
    â€œI don’t have a room here. I got my own place in town.”
    â€œYour office, a broom closet, whatever.”
    Karl looked at his feet. He was wearing dirty runners. “Okay,” he said.
    I bought a another bottle of water from the vending machine in the lobby and followed Karl along a corridor. He unlocked a small windowless storage room and we went in. He switched the light on, revealing a single-faucet sink. Paint cans, cleaning supplies, rolls of toilet paper and the like rested on wooden shelving. The room’s only chair was a battered recliner upholstered with stained tapestry fabric. When Karl sat down on it and stretched out, he ended up facing a wall-mounted TV.
    I said, “Put your arms to your side, Karl, and stretch out flat. Try to keep one eye open. I’ll hold that same eye open with my fingers while I pour water onto the eyeball. Got it?”
    â€œI got it.”
    â€œGood. This won’t hurt a bit.”
    He made a good patient. I sluiced most of the crap out. Afterwards, I handed him a damp cloth.
    â€œNow what?” he said, ungraciously.
    â€œJust rest for a few minutes. Try to keep your hands away from your face. The cloth will help take the sting away.” I handed him the water bottle. “Here. You might as well finish this.”
    He poured the remaining water over his eye, then handed the bottle back to me. “Maybe I should go see a