Free Small Apartments by Chris Millis Page A

walloped with a Louisville Slugger. I fell straight backwards onto my rear. I was seeing tiny star-bursts and a rainbow of spots. The collision sent Mr. Olivetti spinning around on his toes until he collapsed onto his back in front of me. His mouth was full of blood and he was mumbling curses at me in Italian. I could tell he was in a lot of pain.
    “I scrambled to my knees beside him, ‘Are you all right?’ I said. His speech was laboured. He was having trouble moving his jaw, and spit out what looked like a tooth. ‘I can’t move my arms or legs,’ he mumbled. There was panic in his eyes. ‘What the fuck did you do? You fat fairy. What have you done to me?’
    “I said I was sorry, over and over again—’I’m sorry, it was an accident. It’s just that I made this decision and …’
    “Then his voice took on this sinister tone. ‘You’re fucked you sonofabitch. I hope you know that. You’re not getting away with this. If I die, you’re going to fucking fry.’ He was staring right at me, Bernard. Then he began coughing and gasping for each breath. ‘Sweet Jesus what did you do to me?’ he said. ‘I’m not going to die—not yet. I can’t let you get away with this. I’m going to start screaming until that old buzzard next door comes over to find out what’s going on. You’re going to jail, you cocksucker. You’re going to be sucking cocks for the rest of your miserable life.’ Mr. Olivetti started laughing and coughing. He wore a tremendous grin as he considered my fate. Laughing and coughing. It was horrible, Bernard.
    “I turned away from him. I couldn’t bear to look at him. I knew what I had to do. I picked up my alphorn by the skinny end and twisted my clenched fists tighter and tighter around the boned wood. I didn’t believe I could do it. I thought about how many times I would have to hit him before he would be dead. I couldn’t bear the thought of it, but I knew I had to kill him, Bernard. I had no other choice.
    “The coughing and laughing stopped. I loosened my grip on the alphorn and turned back towards Mr. Olivetti. He was dead. You should have seen the frozen look on his face, Bernard. He was grinning ear-to-ear and his eyes were as big as dinner plates. His last worldly thought was painted on his face: the thought of me going to jail for the rest of my life.”
    Franklin chuckled at the memory of it. Then he laughed some more. Then he buried his head in his brother’s chest and cried like a baby.
    He sobbed for several minutes. When he was finished he wiped his eyes and nose on the sleeve of his T -shirt, removed the white #10 envelope from his pocket, and tore it open. Onto Bernard’s chest he dumped three fingernail clippings and a small metal key with a rubber grip. He picked up the key and examined it from the end of his nose. It looked like a roller skate key.
    “More surprises, Bernard?”
    The key had a number engraved inside the window of the rubber grip, 131. It’s not a safe-deposit box key, thought Franklin. It’s too big and garish for that. Maybe it’s a locker key. He tried mentally sliding the key into an assortment of lockers: the airport, the train station, the bus depot, the YMCA . Christ, it could be the key to a locker just about anywhere “What is this, Bernard? This is what you left for me? A guessing game?”
    He sat twirling the miniature key between his stubby fingers. “The bowling alley,” said Franklin, nodding his head. The nearest bowling alley was only two blocks north of the Psychiatric Centre on Elmwood Avenue. Franklin recalled Sally Baker saying that Bernard took a walk every morning and returned at lunchtime. Bernard loved to bowl. With a bowling alley so close it was a good guess that that was where he spent his mornings. “What have you got stashed down at the bowling alley, Bernard?”

CHAPTER
15

    I T WAS A SLOW Wednesday afternoon at the We-Never-Close, Open 24 Hours convenience store and Tommy Balls’ high had worn off. He