Free In the City of Shy Hunters by Tom Spanbauer Page A

said.
    Ellen’s apartment is empty, the woman said.
    I mean the person in I -C, I said, Mrs. Lupino.
    Oh, her? the woman said. The woman that had all the cats. Don’t listen to her. She’s verüchte . Thinks there’re devil worshipers in the empty storefront below her.
    Then: First and last month comes to thirteen hundred dollars, she said. I don’t take cash.
    The apartment was covered with cat hair, I said.
    Ellen didn’t have cats, the woman said. No pets allowed in any apartment.
    The refrigerator is filthy, I said. Only one burner works on the stove.
    Cupboards are new, the woman said. Kitchen sink is new. New linoleum put down just last year. Sign where there’s X’s.
    I signed where there’s X’s. Signed the cashier’s check.
    Rent’s due by the fifth of the month, the woman said.
    Then: Hey, cowboy? Can you do that roll-up thing with the cigarette?
    I don’t smoke in the morning, I said.
    Her eyes started at my feet and looked up, looked back down again, stopping her eyes just below my belt buckle.
    And what else don’t you do? the woman said.
    Bulletproof. The Plexiglas was bulletproof.
    A TALL WOMAN in a white silk dress with long auburn hair got in the passenger side of the DR LNDLRD Rolls-Royce, and the Rolls-Royce started driving off. I ran up to the Rolls, jogged alongside. All I could see was me running and smiling and waving in the window.
    The window rolled down. Uncle David Dear Landlord was a man about my age, maybe a few years older. White shirt, paisley tie.
    With a small silver revolver. Pointed right at me.
    He was already dead. I was dead too.
    THE APARTMENT BUZZER sounded like locusts. Took me awhile to get my pants on. Took me awhile with the buzzer. Took me awhile to unlock all the locks on the door.
    Package for William of Heaven, UPS guy said. You William of Heaven?
    Huh? I said and then: Yeah, that’s me.
    Nice name, man, UPS guy said, and handed me his clipboard with the paper to sign.
    Mrs. Lupino’s door opened a crack.
    When I was writing the of Heaven part, the UPS guy—who was dark and chest high to me—said, Nice nips, man.
    The gasp was not mine, it was from across the hall. Mrs. Lupino closed her door.
    THE UPS DELIVERY was an answering machine. A red answering machine.
    The note:
    Your telephone is lonely, so am I. NYT&T’s got you by the calls. You got me by the balls .
    Love, Ruby .
    Ruby Prestigiacomo, how’d you know my phone was red?
    Ruby Prestigiacomo, what am I going to do with you?
    When I plugged the red telephone into the red answering machine, and the red answering machine into the wall socket, the speaker message clicked on. It was Ruby.
    It is this way: To admit ignorance is the highest knowledge. It is the necessary condition for all learning. Leave a message at the tone. Beep .
    IN 205 EAST Fifth Street, I -A, breathing wasn’t possible so I ripped up the beige carpet and the foam pad. Felt like my hands had been varnished in cat piss. The cat-hair air between me and the light coming in the windows was shiny like scratches on Plexiglas.
    I cut the carpet and the foam pads into sections. One time, I had to stop and sneeze, and got to sneezing so hard and so much I had to go outside. I stood in the rectangle of earth where I’d plant the cherry tree.
    Finally I just said to hell with it and started throwing the carpet sections and padding out the window, the sections landing in the part lower than the sidewalk with the iron fence around it next to the cast-iron steps.
    Carpet and foam pads hung over the cast-iron fence all across the sidewalk. I stacked them into two big piles next to the garbage cans, so there was enough space to walk.
    That’s when Mrs. Lupino opened her window.
    You can’t do that, Mrs. Lupino said.
    Do what? I said.
    Put household articles out in bulk like that, she said.
    What am I, I said, Supposed to do with it?
    Ask Ricardo, she said.
    Who’s