Killer Move - Michael Marshall [60]
Cassandra led me through the metal gate. The building was three stories high and arranged in a horseshoe, an empty water feature in the middle with a long-dead fountain at the center. It was all straight lines and semicircles and looked like it might have been kind of a big deal in the 1930s. Giant grasses were running riot around the courtyard now, obscuring it from the road. Patches of once-white render had fallen off, revealing a pinkish layer underneath. I’d vaguely noticed this place many times before, assumed it was derelict and waiting a wrecking ball under the control of one of the local developers. Most from that era had already vanished, including the old Art Deco casino that older locals still spoke of with pride.
“You live here?”
“For now. It’s mainly empty, which is cool. Nice and quiet. Got kind of a vibe, too.”
“It’s an abandoned ship, is what it feels like.”
“Adrift, and far from home.”
She led me up some spiral stairs at the end of the right arm. As we came out onto the top floor, I tripped on a chunk of plaster that had fallen off the wall.
“Sorry,” she said, as she got out her keys. “The maid hasn’t been in a while.”
“Maybe the rats ate her.”
“The only major rodents I’ve seen are roving packs of developers—wondering if the time is right to pull down something fine and throw up something cheap and profitable in its place.”
“Touché.”
Feeling seedy, I followed her along the balconied walkway to a door halfway along the arm. I peered down into the overgrown courtyard as she undid the three separate locks in the door to apartment 34.
“Welcome,” she said, as the last one gave a thunk.
A short corridor beyond led onto a living room. Cassandra flicked a switch and three small lamps came on, shedding yellow-orange glows in the corners. There were two doors on the right-hand side of the room, a frosted glass one at the end. A single bed had been pushed against the other wall and piled with cushions. There was a desk fashioned out of cinder blocks and an old door, a set of shelves made of bricks and short planks. The walls had been painted some dark color. There were a lot of computing books and magazines and bits of computer hardware and in general quite a lot of stuff, but it would be hard to find an object that looked out of place or as if it wasn’t designed to go exactly where it was.
“You’re . . . tidy.”
She set the grocery bag down on the table, momentarily seeming awkward about having a stranger in her space. Despite her poise, it probably wasn’t very long since she’d been living in a room in her parents’ house. She looked around. “Well, I guess. Do I win a prize?”
“It’s just that women aren’t, always. I thought they would be, but you live with a few and find it ain’t so.”
“Well, then, Bill—if I may call you that—I’m pleased to have restored your retro faith in my kind.”
I felt myself coloring. “I didn’t mean women should be tidying the whole time.”
“Well, no, indeed. Then whenever would we have the time to cook and sew?”
I decided to shut up, and went to the bathroom. This was small but also tidy, and smelled of other people’s soap. Compared to Stephanie’s stash in the bathroom at our home, there was a notable lack of Women’s Bathroom Stuff, and I realized Cassandra probably just didn’t have the money for it. It was a long time since I’d been in the company of a woman who didn’t have the money for Stuff. I splashed a lot of water on my face, which made my head feel colder but no more clear. The towel I used had a hint of mildew, which made me feel nostalgic and affectionate, too. I think it was the towel I was feeling this toward, anyhow.
Back in the living room I saw that Cassandra had opened the frosted door at the end, revealing a minuscule balcony. She’d also taken off her coat, and was holding a white USB cable in one hand and a bottle of red wine in the other.
“One of these you need,” she said, jiggling the cable hand up and down. She was wearing black jeans and a close-fitting,