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Dillan Ruddick called on my cellphone.
“I have your apartment pretty cleaned up, and the claims adjuster is going to be here in ten minutes,” he said. “I thought you might want to walk through with him.”
“Sure,” I told him. “I’m on my way.”
“What about me?” Briggs asked. “Am I on my way too? What was that about?”
“I’m going to meet the claims adjuster at my apartment.”
“I could be helpful,” Briggs said. “I have a good head for finance. I could take notes for you.”
NINETEEN
THE ADJUSTER WAS already in my apartment when I walked in with Briggs.
“This isn’t so bad,” Briggs said. “They’ve got your rug taken up already, and all the stuff’s gone that was in the living room. It doesn’t even smell bad.”
Correction. The apartment didn’t smell as bad as Briggs. Briggs smelled like burning rubber, and he looked like a train had run over him.
“Hey, I remember you,” Dillan said to Briggs. “You’re the little guy who was in the apartment when it got hit by the rocket.”
“Yeah, lucky me,” Briggs said.
The adjuster looked up from his clipboard. “Goodness,” he said, “are you still wearing the same clothes?”
“No,” Briggs said, glancing down at himself. “Different explosion. Some idiot blew up my car this morning.”
“That’s amazing,” the adjuster said. “Two explosions in one week.”
“Three,” Briggs said. “Three explosions.”
“Maybe you want to check out the rest of the apartment while I walk around with the adjuster,” I said to Briggs.
“This is a fairly straightforward claim,” the adjuster said. “Most of the significant damage was confined to one area. There’s some smoke and water damage. And there’s the hole in the wall. That’s actually covered under another policy.”
“Probably you don’t get a lot of claims for damage done by handheld rockets.”
“Not in this neighborhood. Mostly those claims are in the projects and in the area around Stark Street.”
The adjuster left, and Dillan stayed behind.
“We’re doing the same carpet and paint color as last time, right?” Dillan asked.
“Right.”
“That makes it easy. I should have you all put back together in a week, depending on the carpet guy, the masons, carpenters, drywallers, and painters.”
Dillan left, and Briggs went from the bedroom to the kitchen, looking in the refrigerator and the cupboards.
“There’s even mustard in the refrigerator,” he said. “And your dishes look okay. You could move back in.”
“It’s easier for me to live with Morelli,” I said. “I probably need to get a new mattress, and I’d rather not live with the paint smell.” Not to mention that Morelli has a toaster, his mom fills his refrigerator with lasagna and ricotta pie, and he is available for snuggling. Snuggling with Morelli is not to be underestimated.
“I don’t mind paint smell,” Briggs said. “I could live here until you want to come back.”
This was much better than having Briggs live with Morelli and me. I was running the risk that eventually I’d have to eject Briggs at gunpoint, but I’d deal with that later.
“Sure,” I said. “But you have to leave when the carpet goes in.”
