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"Hale, the answer to your question hasn't changed. We'll let you know when you can come back. What time is it there, anyway? It's not even 8 o'clock here. Don't you sleep? Don't answer that. You were the worst pain in the neck when we recruited you, and twenty years later you not only haven't slowed down, you've gotten wilier and meaner. I'm fishing this weekend. I don't want to hear from you Monday, either." Hale's boss slammed the phone down in his ear.
Hale rubbed at his face in frustration. Ever since that creep Hector "the Vector" Johnson jumped him over a month ago, every choice he made tightened the trap around him. Johnson had been easy enough to deal with. If Hale hadn't felt rushed, he might have been able to keep him alive long enough to answer a few questions. As it was, his bosses were sure they knew who had hired him, and their first plan had been to keep Hale penned up on a base all nice and secure. And very, very boring.
Hale had refused that choice, and after a lot of wrangling, they'd given him a name and a social security number and told him to pick a city to get lost in. He'd been put on indefinite, unpaid leave; the reason given in his file was family. As if he had any that he gave a crap about.
His closest friends, Brad and John lived in the Puget Sound area. Brad's wife Elaine had told him about a job as apartment manager. No real work, beyond a few phone calls, a little mail and collecting rent checks, she'd said. It didn't pay much, but rent was included. The Retreat had sounded perfect. Luxury apartments, pool and hot tub included.
He hadn't really believed it would take a month to find and deal with whoever had hired Johnson to jump him. Something was wrong, and it made him crazy, knowing he couldn't do a damn thing about it. He knew he shouldn't have been calling his boss -- and every other contact he could think of -- but he couldn't not call, either.
Unfortunately, even the perfect job to get him through this uncertain time had its own challenges that could not be ignored. The first week, he'd limited his work to moving in, collecting rent checks and paying bills. The second week he had dug out one room in his two bathroom, two bedroom plus a den manager's unit. The place had been filthy. It still was in spots. It made no sense to him. The complex had a competent cleaning service. The office and common areas were so clean they squeaked. Why hadn't the manager paid a little extra to have them clean the manager's unit, too?
It had taken weeks to sort through the drifts of rubbish in the apartment. He had bagged up anything that might attract vermin: pizza delivery boxes (even a few frozen pizza boxes that were too much trouble to throw away, which shocked Hale until he found the banana peels), beverage cans and bottles, the occasional tin can (the previous resident had a thing for canned corned beef hash), orange peels, brown apple cores, moldy bread crusts and ancient corn chips, sticky plastic cups with the dried remains of ice cream. Hale had left home to join the army rather than live this way. Yet somehow, it had caught up with him again.
He picked his way through the piles of crap wearing thick, yellow rubber gloves, jeans and a long-sleeved work shirt, shoving garbage into extra-heavy-duty plastic garbage bags. It was warm until he cleared a path to open the window. When a bag was full, he stacked it to the side. He had learned already that the apartment dumpsters were always overflowing. As he worked, he wondered if he should have gotten a hazardous materials suit.
At the end of each session, he washed his clothes with extra bleach in the machines in the master bathroom, then scrubbed himself down with a weaker bleach solution. The process disgusted him, but he didn't trust a cleaning company to save all the paperwork. Every evening, as he struggled for an hour or more with the paperwork he'd found, he knew he needed every scrap to decipher the mystery of this place's finances.
His days had settled into a routine. Each morning, when he ran out of people to call, he walked around the complex with a cup of coffee in search of fresh disaster. He finished his rounds between 8 and 8:45 a.m., and went inside to avoid the mad exodus from the parking lot as tenants drove to work.
After the first few days, he realized he had only a short list of severe problems. Based on the constant phone calls in the evenings, and the messages on his answering machine, all the tenants already knew what those problems were. They were anxious to make sure he knew, too.
The lawn hadn't been mown in months. The shrubs and trees needed pruning. Yet his employer had written that landscape maintenance was contracted out and, other than paying the monthly bill, shouldn't cause him any concerns. He wondered where the bill was, not to mention the landscapers.
The dumpsters were never empty for more than three hours after a pickup. Tenants at home on the day of a pickup rushed to the dumpster. When he had requested more bins, or more frequent pickups, he had been told the complex had twice the bins and more frequent pickups than any other complex its size. Something was up with the garbage. He suspected the twenty-four hour dive next door.
Then there was the item that generated the most complaints. The pool and spa maintenance crew were idiots. No matter how many times they came out to adjust the chemicals to reduce the amount of foam and the horrible, poison gas smell, things got worse.
Too depressed from his latest phone call to stare yet again at the unkempt lawn and overflowing dumpsters, Hale went directly to the spa. He pressed the button to start the jets, and stood by, idly sipping his coffee as he watched bubbles form and foam on the surface of the water.
Hale figured that if the foam was more than a couple inches high after a few minutes of jets, he had to close the spa. He was tired of explaining that he couldn't reimburse someone's girlfriend because the colors on her bright, floral bikini ran, and no, he didn't know if the dye was toxic. He never added that chlorine was toxic.
The bubbles were passing six inches after only five minutes. He put up the "Spa Closed for Routine Maintenance" sign. Routine my ass, Hale thought, as he ran upstairs to retrieve the pool maintenance kit he had bought the evening before. Testing the water confirmed his suspicions: the maintenance guys were adding too much of everything, by a factor of somewhere between four and ten. Hale muttered to himself, "Ah, the joys of full employment. These idiots wouldn't be able to keep a job flipping burgers during a recession."
Following the suggestions in the pamphlet, he drained the spa. While he waited for the spa to empty, he rinsed out the test vial in the men's changing room. On the way out, he said hello to Jim, one of the residents who used the minimally supplied but functional weight room early in the morning.
Jim glanced at what he was doing and asked, "Finally took matters into your own hands, I see."
Hale shrugged and said, "Wasn't going to get done any other way."
Jim shook his head in agreement, and added, "Sure didn't matter to our previous manager."
Hale asked Jim, "How long has there been trouble with the spa? And do you know how long things have been wrong with the landscaping and the dumpster?"
Jim laughed. "You found all the trouble spots. The dumpsters have been a problem since that dive went 24-hours, over 6 months ago . The lawn is more recent. It's hard to know when they quit cutting, but it still looked okay last fall, so some time in the last six months. The spa has been a serious problem for a few months, but there's been on-and-off trouble as long as I've been here. A lot of places put too many chemicals in, to avoid liability problems. Good luck fixing it."
Hale said, "Thanks, I'll need it."
Jim added, "This place is well-maintained, otherwise. The roof's good and they keep everything painted. The parking lot strips are bright. The light fixtures almost always work. I've lived in a lot worse places."
Hale used the kit to test the pool water. Unlike the spa, the pool was low on chemicals. He could see floating leaves. He wondered if the maintenance crew did anything with the pool. He vaguely recalled seeing residents use the scoop to clear the pool before swimming. He vacuumed the worst of the sunken debris, then used the net to clear the surface. The water was still murky.
Following the chart carefully, he added the chemicals. The amounts were very small. He put up the "Pool Closed for Routine Maintenance", thinking it should say, "Pool Closed for the First Maintenance in Far Too Long". He reminded himself to check back in an hour to retest the water.
The spa had drained completely. He started refilling it. While the water was running, he ran upstairs for his note pad and cordless phone. When he returned, the spa was less than half full. He tried the phone to see if it would work down here. He got a dial tone, and called the pool people.
Hale asked, "Hi, I'm Mr. Newman, the manager at the apartment complex The Retreat. Can I talk to the representative for my account?"
The receptionist replied, "Uh, you mean Steve?"
Hale said, "I'm not sure. I've only been here for about a month. The previous manager left a mess. I got your number off the truck while you were here working. I called a couple of times after hours for someone to come out and readjust chemicals."
"Hang on. I'll transfer you."
A moment later, Steve picked up, "Hi, this is Steve. What can I do you for?"
Hale said, "My name is Hale, and I'm the new manager at The Retreat, an apartment complex. You do our pool and spa maintenance. I'm calling to check on the status of my account." Hale stopped himself from drumming his fingers on the counter top.
"Um, just a sec." He heard papers rustling. "Yeah, you're on month-to-month now. The contract ran out four months ago. Did you want to sign a new contract?"
Hale thought quickly. They were doing a terrible job, and it wasn't was hard work. "I think I'm going to do the maintenance myself."
"Smart idea. It's almost impossible to hire anyone decent these days; we're completely swamped. Since you're up to date, I can close the account now."
Stunned, Hale thanked him, said goodbye and hung up. That was a strange way to do business, but when you can't hire enough people to handle the work load, it didn't make a lot of sense to hang onto unhappy clients.
The spa was nearly full. He shut off the incoming water. Before draining it again, he tested it to see how much of the chemicals had been flushed. A quick test showed about a quarter of the level as the previous water. He reopened the drain.
While the water was emptying, he called the restaurant next door.
"May I speak to the owner, or manager, whoever is available?"
"They're not available."
"Could you give me some idea when I could call back and speak to one, or another number at which the owner or manager could be reached?"
"No." The phone clicked.
Startled, Hale looked at the phone, then shrugged. That problem would have to be dealt with in person. In the meantime, he would wrap up work on the spa.
A half hour later, the spa had filled. The chemicals measured within recommended guidelines. The pamphlet suggested that temperature could have an effect on the test, so he left the sign out until he could retest in a few hours. A quick glance at the pool showed crystal clear water and only one or two bugs on the surface. He put the sign for the pool away with a sense of accomplishment, despite the fact that the pool hadn't been a problem.
He repacked the kit of chemicals and replaced it in the hall closet of his unit. After eating a bowl of cereal and a cinnamon roll, he walked across the parking lot to the restaurant. As he passed the apartment's dumpsters, he saw a transient rooting around in recently deposited food garbage from the breakfast rush at the restaurant next door.
Before going into the restaurant, he circled the building, looking for their dumpsters. They had one, in the usual spot by the back door to the kitchen, but it was far too small for a 24-hour joint. He could see no other dumpster on the property.
When he entered the restaurant, he looked around. Many of the tables had been cleared, but were still dirty. A single trip per table was the quickest way to run a place. Maybe they never cleaned the tables. He walked up to the counter, where someone dressed only slightly better than the transient he'd just seen at the dumpster was nursing a cup of coffee.
After a few minutes, a waitress came out of the kitchen. Hale could tell she was surprised to see him. She hadn't heard him walk in. He waited while she sized him up. Hale was willing to bet that while his leather jacket, jeans and dark shoes might fit in here, his hair was too short and his face too clean-shaven. Predictably, she decided he wasn't a customer, and asked, "What do you want?"
"Well, I just called a few minutes ago, trying to reach a manager or the owner. The line was dropped, so I'm here to ask my questions in person."
"Line wasn't dropped. I hung up on you. We have a minimum table service here. If you aren't here to eat, I'll have to charge you anyway."
"And I'll deduct that amount from the exterminator bill I send you."
She paused, then asked, "What exterminator bill?"
"The bill for all the units that have roaches, rats and other vermin as a result of this restaurant illegally using our dumpsters."
"We're not using your dumpsters."
"Yes, you are. I saw the results of your lunch rush being picked over by a bum."
"Those are our dumpsters."
"No, they're not."
"Yes, they are."
"You are an idiot. You need a larger dumpster. Quit using mine," Hale escalated.
"How dare you call me an idiot? I'm going to call the owner to come and throw you out."
"Please do."
She turned on her heel and stalked into the kitchen. He could hear her voice and pauses, suggesting a hurried phone call. Soon she returned, to sneer at him, "You can't make us pay any exterminator bill for your apartments."
Hale looked her over carefully. Without responding, he strode past her into the kitchen. He looked around carefully. The cook was a young man of medium build who looked at Hale, picked up a pack of cigarettes and went out the back door. Hale found the phone, picked up the handset, and hit redial.
"What is it? Didn't he go away?"
"No, he didn't. Get a bigger dumpster. Stop using mine. Don't make me find you in person."
"Just you try it."
"All right. But while I'm tracking you down, I'll be calling the health department to complain. Daily. With proof that you do not have adequate disposal facilities on the premises."
There was a long pause. "New dumpsters will be in as soon as I can get them."
"It's Friday morning. They better be here by this afternoon."
Hale's answer was a click. He walked out through the back door and found the cook. "Hey," he said.
The cook ground out the butt of his cigarette. "Are those cheapskates going to get me a bigger dumpster? Ever since we went 24-hours, this one's always full, and they make me lug that shit over to your place."
"I hope so."
"Good. You're the manager next door?"
"Yes."
"Well, if I don't see one by the end of my shift today, I'll come by and maybe we can work something out."
"Sure," said Hale. The cook nodded and went back into the kitchen. Hale shook his head as he walked back to the apartment. Why was someone that helpful working in a dive?
There wasn't much more he could do right now. Scratching the back of his head, he considered his remaining problems. He didn't know who used to handle the landscaping at the complex. Unfortunately, the answer to that was buried in the crap in his unit. He returned to his least favorite activity: bagging garbage, filing paperwork he found along the way, and shoving anything else aside to be dealt with later.
Shortly after noon, he washed up thoroughly and changed clothes. While he ate a couple of microwaved frozen burritos, he surveyed the results of his work. He was almost done with the garbage and paper collection. Bags of garbage, furniture and other items remained in the rooms. Once he got the paperwork filed, maybe he could balance the books. He snorted with laughter at the unlikely prospect.
By mid-afternoon, he had almost finished filing the last of the paperwork uncovered while excavating the den. He still hadn't seen a canceled rent check, or any other proof that unit #E-105 had paid rent in the last five months. A quick check on his note pad of who had paid rent last month provided some confirmation: nothing from #E-105. He had found no paperwork for a move-out, and all of the units were supposedly occupied.
Hale located the package of manager's reports and opened it. Scanning back through the recent months' reports, he found that #E-105 had moved out six months ago, and a new tenant had moved in. The move-in paperwork was missing, but rent was shown on the balance sheet as if #E-105 were paying rent on time every month.
He pulled up the spreadsheet he had created based on the fictitious monthly manager's reports he'd received when he took this job. It continued to amaze him that the owners had not noticed that the totals, which matched what went into and came out of the bank accounts for the complex, did not match the detailed column of supporting data.
Adjusting the totals to show no rent from #E-105 for the last five months tipped the balance in the other direction. Something was still off, but a large chunk of the problem was in that unit. He would visit #E-105 and determine, up close and personal, who was living there, if anyone.
Before venturing out, he started a fresh pot of coffee. While it was brewing, he finished the filing. He found invoices for a landscape maintenance company dated close to a year ago. He jotted the phone number on his note pad.
When his coffee was ready, he filled a mug, locked his door carefully and walked over to the questionable unit. He slowed his approach as a man exited the unit, accompanied to the threshold by a woman. He tried to recall when he had seen her over the last month. He didn't remember her leaving and returning on a regular schedule. He'd seen her in the pool and the weight room in the middle of the day on a weekday more than once, but she was often home on weekends.
Sipping his coffee, he waited for her visitor to leave. He recollected vaguely that she was often visited by men throughout the day. He had a bad feeling about this. Hale approached the woman. She was waiting at the open door, arms crossed. Although her demeanor was unfriendly, she called out an invitation to come in, then turned around and entered the living room herself without waiting for him to reach the front door. He stepped in and let it fall shut behind him. He could hear her gargling in the bathroom down the hall.
When she came back out into the living room, she asked, "You're the new manager, right?"
"Yes. My name's Hale." As he was offering to shake her hand, she grabbed his crotch. Startled, he froze for a moment. She dropped to her knees in front of him. As she reached to undo his belt buckle, he recovered, batting her hand aside. Belatedly, he stepped back, still too stunned to speak for a moment. He'd had his suspicions, but this was happening a little fast for him.
She scrambled back to her feet, saying, "And, I'm Susie. I assumed we'd have the same deal. I was surprised you hadn't been by, but I guess you were busy."
Hale shook his head. "Let's just say, I'm a big believer in cold hard cash and personal checks when it comes to collecting rent. I'll handle my own physical needs on my own time, in my own way. Today's the last day of the month. Rent is due tomorrow. I expect you to pay just like everyone else. Do you understand?"
Susie glared at him. "I understand, all right. I'll be moving out tomorrow."
Hale, about to tell her that she had to give advance notice, abruptly remembered the lack of move-in paperwork. He had found no lease with her, and he wasn't sure how the local law handled tenant-landowner disputes with squatters. Rather than continue, he nodded his head curtly, and replied, "Make sure you drop off all your keys on your way out tomorrow. The office is open from 9 a.m. to 6 p.m. on Saturdays." He turned to leave. As he walked away from the unit, he heard the door slam behind him.
The door of #E-104 was open. A woman slightly older than Hale was leaning against the door jamb, watching him. When Hale said hello, she responded, "She's not going to be paying rent next month, is she?"
Hale stopped and turned toward her. "She won't be paying rent next month, because she'll be moving out tomorrow." She looked startled. He continued. "If you knew she wasn't paying rent, why didn't you come tell me last month?"
She muttered, "I didn't want to get involved."
Hale looked at her and shook his head. "Anything else going on around here in which you don't want to get involved?"
She said, "Well, the unit upstairs smells funny. Like something died."
Hale reflected on his morning walks. He'd never smelled anything dead or dying in this vicinity, but then he hadn't noticed anything weird about #E-105, either, which suggested he was more distracted worrying about getting back to his real job than he had realized. That was bad. That kind of carelessness could get him killed. He replied, "I'll check it out." He didn't think courtesy required him to thank her for shoving her nose into other people's business for purely recreational purposes.
Climbing the stairs to the second floor of this building, he realized he hadn't walked the second and third floors of any of the buildings on his morning walks, since he could see the landings from the ground. On impulse, he climbed to the third floor, quickly inspecting the landing, the steps, and the doors. No need for maintenance met his critical eye. He returned to the second floor to take a longer sniff. He could smell food cooking, probably a curry. He wondered if his friend Brad had included any curries in the last batch of homemade frozen dinners he'd brought over and shoved in Hale's freezer.
Satisfied that he had nothing further to worry about here, other than getting the keys from Susie when she moved out, Hale took the stairs down two at a time. He returned to the office, dodging the cars of people returning home after work. The first few days on the job, he'd been sure his watch must have stopped. The Boeing workers got off between 3 and 3:30, rather than the 4 or later he was accustomed to for office workers. Now, he knew that if he didn't call the landscapers soon, he'd have to wait until Monday.
When the phone picked up, Hale said, "Hi, my name's Hale and I'm the new manager at The Retreat. You used to do our landscaping. I'm trying to piece together what happened a few months ago, but the records here are a little sparse. Could you help me out a little?"
A pause greeted him, then hold music. Hale frowned at the phone. He watched the second hand rotate twice on his kitchen clock. As he was about to hang up and call again, he heard a woman's voice say, "Hello, did you say you were Hale, at The Retreat? Is that The Retreat in the Valley or The Retreat in the Hills?"
"Just The Retreat."
"How long has it been since we've been out there?"
"Give me a minute and I'll get the date off the last invoice." Hale walked toward his file boxes.
"Never mind. I've found you. You're the Everett The Retreat. You canceled when your maintenance contract ran out."
"That would have been the previous manager. I started here about a month ago and I'm still trying to dig out from under. Can I renew the contract?"
"Fine by me. Same fax number?" She rattled off familiar-sounding digits.
"That's the one."
"Okay. The contract is on its way. Sign it and fax it back. Do you need the number or does your machine have caller-id?"
"I've got a fax number on the invoice here. Is it still--"
She interrupted to say, "Never changed in fifteen years. Nice doing business with you." Hale heard the phone click. They didn't waste any extra time on the phone. Hopefully, that meant they spent their time outdoors, working. He hadn't even had a chance to ask when they could start and what their maintenance cycle was.
He went down to the office to check the fax machine. The contract was still printing. While he waited, he wondered if he was allowed to sign this kind of thing, or if he should fax it to the owners. The rates were a little higher than the previous contract, but it was a tight labor market, and over a year since the last contract was signed. He shrugged and signed it. If the owners believed service was continuing, he figured no one would mind if he signed it. While he was faxing it back, the office phone rang.
"Hi, is this Hale?"
It was the woman from the landscaping company, still anonymous. "Yes, it is."
"Could you mail a copy of the contract, also? We like to have a real signature for legal purposes."
"Not a problem."
"Okay. Thanks! Someone will be by this weekend, or Monday at the latest."
Hale took the copy out of the fax machine, and went back upstairs to file it with the invoice. He pulled up the first spreadsheet on the computer, and adjusted the balances to remove the fictitious checks to the landscape company. With #E-105's rent removed, and the landscape company charges gone, the books balanced. Hale raised his arms and whooped in celebration.
Getting up, he went over to the refrigerator and pulled out a cold beer. Some of the best things about the Pacific Northwest, in his opinion, were the hoppy microbrews that were available at every supermarket and most of the convenience stores. If he never had hop-free Asian beer again in his life, well, he might miss the higher alcohol content, but he could live with it. Knocking back the dark amber beer, he sighed in happiness. Something had gone right. Finally.
He dropped the empty bottle in the recycle bin. Maybe his run of good luck would continue. Maybe, just maybe, the chemical balance in the spa would be right. He grabbed the kit and headed downstairs.
There were three young teenagers eying the sign at the hot tub. One of them asked him, "Do we really have to stay out? It smells okay this time and it isn't foaming at all." Someone had turned the jets on already.
"Give me a minute to check, and I'll give you a real answer, okay?" answered Hale. They went swimming in the pool while he checked the water in the hot tub.
He went through the now familiar process. The color change was within the acceptable range on the chart. He stuck his head out the door to the pool area and yelled to the teenagers, "All yours! Try not to antagonize any of your neighbors. They haven't been happy about not being able to soak for a while."
They sing-songed a sarcastic, "We'll behave," back at him. He returned to put the maintenance sign away. He wasn't going to have a chance for a private soak before the tenants saw the sign was gone, but at least he wouldn't have to listen to any more ranting about how the hot tub never worked in this place and they should get a discount on the rent.
He debated with himself whether to check for a dumpster next door at the restaurant. He didn't feel up to another confrontation today. He'd taken this job, hoping for a place of calm and quiet boredom while he laid low. Even the name of this complex suggested a place to hide and recuperate. He'd intended to quit as soon as his real employer told him it was safe to return to his chosen career. But it wasn't that calm or quiet or boring. He had no desire to stay at The Retreat forever, but the rest of normal life in the States felt great. Hanging out with his friends, watching late night TV by himself, steady access to magazines and books in English that weren't pornographic. He didn't want to give that up again and he wasn't sure he could.
The cook from the restaurant next door entered the apartment complex office, interrupting his reverie. "Hey, Hale? Was that your name?"
"Yes it is. I don't think I got yours."
"I'm Simon." They shook hands. "You got through to my boss. There's a huge dumpster right where it ought to be, outside my back door. If you've got any garbage you've been dying to unload, now would be a great time, before all your tenants have the same idea." With a grin, Simon waved and was back out the door before Hale could say more than, "Thanks!"
Hale grinned. Simon had saved him a trip. Instead of moping around and drinking beer in the wake of an unpleasant confrontation, he could go upstairs and have a beer of celebration. Today, he had accomplished three major objectives. All that was left was the crap upstairs in his unit.
With beer in hand, he surveyed the two bedrooms and the den. Other than the garbage bags, what remained of the furniture included some chairs, a desk, a stained futon on a cheap frame, two small tables, a couple of torchieres, one listing, and the other with a burned out bulb. With the trash out of the way, Hale could see that the previous manager had used the den for its intended purpose, and one bedroom likewise. The other bedroom had presumably been unused, become a dumping ground, and eventually that dumping ground had spread throughout the apartment like kudzu.
He wasn't going to sleep on that futon. But, thoroughly vacuumed, aired for a few days and then encased in a new futon cover, it would make acceptable crash space for very drunk friends. The desk and one of the chairs could continue to occupy the den, along with the tilting torchiere.
He jotted down the kind of bulb the torchiere needed on his note pad. The rest of the furniture he moved into the smaller bedroom. Once the trash was out, he would put his own stuff in the larger bedroom. Of course, he didn't own any furniture suitable for a bedroom, but maybe he'd change that this weekend.
With what was left of his energy, he vacuumed the den and the smaller bedroom. He ran a damp cloth around to pick up the worst of the visible dust. He eyed the windows. The fingerprints could just stay there.
He glanced at the kitchen clock as he got a beer from the fridge. It was almost six o'clock, but he didn't want dinner yet. He got a bag of chips from a cabinet. In the living room, he sat down in the comfortable recliner that was the only worthwhile furniture he'd found in the apartment. He picked up the thin book his friend John had loaned him the last time they'd had dinner. It was more of a pamphlet than a book. John taught self-defense, and had read it with an eye to using the principles in it to better teach his students. He wanted Hale's opinion. Anything longer than a page on adrenal stress conditioning could use editing, in Hale's opinion, but he tried to be open to new ideas.
It was much better than he had expected. Real life anecdotes of feats of strength and valor accomplished by those experiencing extreme rage or fear were interspersed with detailed physiological descriptions of how the body responded to the presence of adrenaline in the blood. The writing was dry and amateurish, but it dredged up intense memories from Hale's past.
He was about halfway through the book when it slid from his hand, to join the empty beer bottle on the floor. He slept soundly, snoring gently, until almost 9 o'clock.
When he finally woke up, he looked around his room groggily. If he didn't quit napping in this recliner, he was going to turn into one of those paunchy, middle-aged men who couldn't stay awake through an entire movie on video. Picking the half-empty bag of chips off his lap, he stood up and grabbed the empty beer bottle before he had a chance to kick it over.
He rummaged through the freezer. Nothing looked like a curry. Maybe he'd call Brad at work later on tonight. Right now, the Friday night crowd at the sports bar would be overwhelming.
Hale chose a packet of meatballs in red sauce. After setting water to boil on the stove for pasta, he thawed the packet in the microwave. He pulled a bag of salad out of the fridge, dumped half of it in a large bowl and liberally poured Brad's signature ranch dressing over it. Bachelor meals were much improved, now that Brad had quit the service in favor of tending bar by night and cooking by day. After a glance at his cupboard, Hale was too hungry to wait for spaghetti, and chose angel hair pasta instead. He ate his dinner, and followed it up with cookies and ice cream.
The recliner was the least of his concerns if he was worried about growing a belly. Brad's daytime cooking hobby was the one to fear. Maybe he should encourage Brad to go to culinary school. It didn't seem quite right for him to be cooking food for all his bachelor friends. Someone might get the wrong idea. It was about the best food he ever ate, though.
A quick run through e-mail, voice mail and regular mail turned up no news. Usually, by this time of night the office phone was ringing off the hook with complaints about the spa.
Thinking about the spa, he glanced at the clock. It was almost time to lock up for the night. He could get some quality soaking-time alone, a reward for his efforts. He went down twenty minutes early, hoping the kids might have left. Maybe he'd get lucky. There was that brunette in building D, with the flippy hair, the trendy glasses and a great swing to her hips. He remembered her soft, friendly voice when she'd paid rent last month. That was the only time he'd heard her. Every time he had picked up the phone to listen to another irate tenant, he had hoped it would be her, but it never was. Maybe she'd be soaking in the hot tub.
Running his fingers over the top of his head, he considered letting it grow out. He'd stopped shaving it earlier in the month, but it was still very short, too short to attract civilians. With his olive complexion and nearly black eyes, he'd been accused more than once of looking like a terrorist, as if there were no redheaded, freckled criminals out there in the big bad world. Of course, if he grew his hair, he'd have to buy shampoo. He couldn't remember the last time he'd used shampoo. He wasn't sure he had ever, in his entire life, bought shampoo. With a shrug, he dismissed the thought for now, and went out onto his balcony, which overlooked the pool.
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Copyright 2013 by Rebecca Allen Updated July 17, 2013