The smell of grilled cheese enveloped us as we walked up a long flight of steep stairs.
“How does he live here with it smelling like that?” Jack asked.
“Right? I’d eat grilled cheese three times a day. After a while, I’m sure it would kill me from all the fat. But what a way to go.”
At the top of the steps was a corridor, and we made our way down, pausing at the first door.
Cheesy Does It Office, the sign read.
We kept walking. There was only one other door, at the end of the hall.
“Interesting old building,” remarked Jack.
“This was one of the two cigar factories in town. My grandfather used to tell us stories about it. It’s always been businesses and an apartment since I remember, though. The other old cigar factory is where I found Gene.”
The second door was gray and dingy, which didn’t set it apart from the similarly colored walls.
Jack rapped on the door with his knuckles.
We heard footsteps, then a voice. “What do you want?”
“Diego? Is that you?”
Pause. “Who wants to know?”
“We’re here to talk about Gator Gene. But we’re not cops.” I kept my voice neutral and friendly.
The door cracked open a couple of inches, revealing dark Ray-Ban sunglasses over a golden-brown face.
“What about him? Who are you?”
“I’m Maggie and this is Jack. We’re trying to find out more info. If we can talk, I’ll explain.”
Slowly, he opened the door. Diego was a young guy, probably around twenty-one. Cute in a puppy-dog kind of way. He wore baggy jeans and a T-shirt with an anime character on the front. His hair was loose and curly, and in a different life he would have been a heartthrob in a boy band.
“Monkey D,” I said, pointing to his shirt.
“You know manga?” He grinned.
“My sister used to be a librarian and she did an entire month highlighting manga.”
“Cool. Uh, have a seat.” He swept books and papers off a tired-looking brown upholstered couch. The cushions on the end sagged as if they’d seen years of wear. In the corner was an extensive computer setup, with three large screens and two keyboards.
Jack and I sat as Diego quickly snapped shut a laptop, which was on the coffee table. Diego plopped down in a randomly placed computer chair and swiveled to face us.
“What do you want to know about Gator Gene? You sure you aren’t cops?”
“Do we look like cops?” Jack asked.
Diego scratched his smooth chin. “Not really. Both of you look too...”
“Too what?” I asked, curious.
“I dunno. Soft. You also don’t look like assholes.”
“OK, listen, bro,” Jack said. “You know Gene’s dead, right?”
Diego snorted. “I heard. Good riddance.”
