Free SILENT GUNS by Bob Neir

one story, shabby, brick building backed out to the
water’s edge to a sturdy wooden dock. He measured the warehouse as
sixty feet square, one side of the ground floor windows were
bricked up and painted over the same off-white as the rest of the
building. Above these were red- painted gutters and a flat, hot
tarred roof, a decorative parapet ringed the building. Shattered
glass from punched-out windows lay everywhere defying thick,
imbedded wire mesh. Steel pry bar gouges left on two, large
metal-sheeted doors gave mute testimony to repelled invaders. A
metal-shaded light hung askance to illuminate the doors. A second
light doused a smaller door in faint light that was barred and
padlocked. Graffiti defaced ‘For Rent’ signs draped the front of
the building.
    A vintage Cadillac turned sharply off Eastlake and
sped down the street to come to an abrupt halt in front of Number
506. A short man, his face beet-red, round and fat appeared from
behind the wheel. His dark eyebrows splayed sideways to overhang
small, distrustful eyes. Meyer Ellsberg was the Eastwing Investment
Company.
    “ Ellsberg?”
    “ Right!”
    “ I’m Trent, this is Peter
Madden.”
    Ellsberg nodded. He placed one key in the padlock,
freed the iron bar and, with a second key, and opened the door.
They entered the warehouse to a gush of stagnant, musty air.
Ellsberg flicked on a light switch.
    “ I own the building next door,
too, you know, depreciation and taxes,” he remarked, fumbling the
keys back into his vest pocket. He shrugged his shoulders as he
peered through shaded lenses.
    “ Is the street always this quiet?”
Trent asked.
    “ The buildings are empty except
for the paint factory across the street.” Madden’s nose twinged at
the mention.
    “ Anybody else moving in?” asked
Madden, glancing about, taking full measure of the details of the
building.
    “ Not that I know of,” Ellsberg
said, pointing to massive overhead roof trusses. “Those beams were
built to last. They don’t build them like that anymore.” Block and
tackle gear swayed easily to Madden’s touch. A wooden workbench
spanned one entire wall; a large vise was bolted at its center.
Fluorescent lamps, rigged over the workbench, marched along its
entire length. A cold-water tap dripped into a grease-stained sink.
Off to the right, a toilet door tilted awkwardly off its lower
hinge, the upper hinge lay useless on the deck. A cracked and often
patched toilet tank leaked badly.
    Two stained wooden desks and a swivel chair rested
forlornly in a glass-enclosed office. Like tongues stuck out in
mockery, drawers of dented metal file cabinets hung open. A
battered hotplate lay covered with dust. Dirty cups were
everywhere. Adjourning the office, a small room held a long, wooden
table, but no chairs.
    “ Bunkhouse,” Madden
whispered.
    All signs pointed to a hurried departure. Trent
guessed an auto repair garage, most likely, a chop shop.
    “ It’s pretty rundown.” Madden
observed, pulling at his ear. “A bit of elbow-grease and it’s back
into shape in no time,” Ellsberg countered, reeking with the charm
of a used car salesman, smiling an uneven-toothed, guarded smile.
Gold caps flashed at the corners of his mouth. He lit a cigar and
drew at it awkwardly. His eyes blinked and a nervous twitch crossed
his pudgy face. “And the rent’s reasonable for a building this
size: $600 plus utilities.” Puffing like a chimney, he crossed the
cigar to the other side of his mouth.
    “ We’ll take it,” Trent said. “Will
two months’ rent in advance be O.K.?” He watched Ellsberg’s fingers
twitch as twelve, crisp, one hundred dollar bills changed
hands.
    “ The PUGET SOUND SHIP MAINTENANCE
CO. is now in business, Mr. Ellsberg.” With the lease signed, keys
changed hands. Ellsberg’s face radiated relief as he eased back
into his Cadillac and drove off.
    “ We won’t see him again,” Madden
hissed.
    “ At least, for sixty
days.”
    Trent locked up, tossed Madden