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It was not necessarily a well-kept neighborhood. There was some trash in the gutters of the street. The masonry exterior of the buildings had holes and large cracks that needed patching. Some appeared to have needed attention years earlier, as wild plants had taken seed in the cracks and were growing thickly there.
Nola stopped at a wooden door to one apartment house. It once had been painted a bright yellow color but now was faded and peeling. A small, weathered wooden cross was hung centered in a small niche above the door.
Next to the door was a large, single window with ornamental wrought iron protecting it. The rusted ironwork had a series of four iron baskets welded to it, and each of these held a clay flowerpot painted in elaborate colors. The plants in the pots looked unattended, their leaves drooping and dirt dry.
Clearly, no one’s tended to those recently, Canidy thought.
The lace curtains behind the dirty panes of the window were drawn shut. There was no evidence of movement or light inside.
Nola knocked loudly on the door. There was no answer after a minute, and he banged even louder.
That should awaken the neighborhood, Canidy thought, if not the dead.
Nola looked impatient. He glanced over at the window, then back at the door. Then his face registered something.
He went over the wrought ironwork and began lifting the far-right pot out of its holder. He looked inside the holder, under the pot, then immediately dropped the pot back in. He moved to the pot to its left and repeated the procedure. When he pulled out the third pot and looked inside, he shook his head. He then reached in under the pot, pulled out a big brass key, its finish mottled by minerals from the potting soil, and dropped the pot back in its holder.
“My cousin’s wife,” Nola said, rolling his eyes. “Nicole, she never puts anything back where she gets it. We are lucky there was a key in any of the pots.”
He went to the door. He slipped the key into its lock, turned it, then worked the wobbly doorknob until it finally rotated. The door swung inward and they all quickly went inside.
The first room off the front door, which turned out to be the kitchen, was dark.
“Ciao, Mariano!” Nola called out as he walked to the window. “Ciao, Nicole!”
Nola put his leather satchel on the kitchen counter, then pulled the lace curtains open.
“That’s not a good idea,” Canidy said, “letting people see who’s in here.”
Nola looked at him a moment. He considered what Canidy had said, then looked around the room. He saw two large candles and a box of matches on the flimsy folding table in the middle of the kitchen. He pulled the curtains closed and then lit the candles.
“I will go check if anyone is here,” Nola said, then motioned toward the two wooden chairs at the flimsy table. “Sit. This will be our home.”
Canidy looked around the kitchen. It was filthy. A garbage can stood un-emptied. The sink overflowed with foul-looking plates that were crusted with what was left of some rice and chopped meat, maybe pork or lamb. The tiled countertop had a collection of dirty glasses. One was half empty, a nasty growth of some type floating in it. A fat black cockroach scampered out of a chipped bowl, then disappeared into a gap in the grout where the counter met the wall.
Our home? Canidy thought. Not in this dump, if we can avoid it.
“Please, sit,” Nola said, adding: “I be right back.”
Nola started for the back of the apartment.
“Nicole!” he called as he went. “Mariano!”
In moments, they could hear him going up wooden steps, still calling out the names.
Canidy put his duffel on the floor beside one of the chairs, pulled the chair back from the table, moved it so that he would have a view of the window and door, and sat down.
He motioned to Fuller.
“Go ahead, Tubes. Take a load off your feet.”
Fuller slid the suitcase under the table, then put his duffel on the floor, untying the pouch from its strap. He put the pouch on the table.
Canidy looked at it, and, when it showed movement inside, he grinned.
“Thank God for small comforts, huh?”
Fuller shrugged. “I guess.”
