CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT: Neighborly Nonsense

"I shouldn't really be bothering you," Shirley said, apologetically, "but I thought you should know.  Giselle just threatened to kill me."

This statement rendered me temporarily speechless.  "Wh-what?" I finally managed.

"She threatened to kill me," Shirley repeated.  "Giselle and Diane's sister were outside with their bratty kids.  Giselle's son, Richard, got into a fight with my son, and then Giselle and them all got involved. They started threatening me and saying they was going to burn down my #house an’ stuff."

"Oh, wow!  I'm sure they wouldn't actually kill you, though."  As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I couldn’t believe I’d said such a stupid thing.  “They were probably just trying to scare you, don’t you think?” I added.

Shirley didn’t appear to to have noticed my assinine statement.  "Maybe.  It is scary, though.  Jerry works nights now, so I'm here by myself.  I called the cops but they said they can't do anything.  Not until someone actually gets hurt."

“Isn't that ridiculous?” I sympathized. “I guess I don't know what to say, Shirley.  I'll have a word with Giselle, but I really can't afford to have her move out right now.  I need the rent."

"I understand," Shirley assured me. “I just thought you should know, seein' as it's your #property."

"Thanks," I said. "I appreciate it, and I will get in touch with Giselle and tell her to cool it.  By the way, did you get the stuff I sent you?"

"Yes we did.  Jerry's working on it now, gettin' all the papers an' everything."

"Good. I do need him to sign that letter requesting the assumption packet, so the bank can send me a new packet of forms.  Then I'll type them all out nicely, once you've filled in the copies you have now. They'll look more professional that way."

"Yeah," Shirley agreed.  "We'll put the letter in the mail to you tomorrow."

When I got home that night, I wrote to Giselle, asking her if she was making any progress with paying off the $1,100.00 she still owed me. I added the following paragraph: “I’ve had complaints from the next door neighbors that you threatened to kill Shirley!!!  Don’t you think that’s a little extreme?  Shirley obviously thinks so because she told me she called the cops on you.  What’s the deal?”

Giselle never replied.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE: Plain Jane and the Lengthy Lunch

We waited and waited, but no judge appeared.  Eventually, at about twenty minutes past ten o’clock, a side door opened and two official-looking women entered the court room. They conducted a hasty discussion in hushed tones just inside the door, and then one of them, a plain specimen with long, gray hair and ugly spectacles, came over to stand before the motley assemblage of petitioners, respondents, children, and counsel.

"Sorry," she began, pushing her glasses further up her nose and looking faintly apologetic. "Judge Grazziano has been delayed at another hearing.  He'll probably be here by eleven if you want to wait.  For those of you with #evictions, if the other party hasn’t shown up, default judgments can be issued, or you can reschedule for another day.  I'll read out the cases in order, and you can decide what you want to do."          

I looked at Diane.  "I know you say you're going to pay me more on May first, but I still have to reschedule for my own protection.  You understand, don’t you?"

Diane tut-tutted and heaved a hefty sigh. "Agh. We took time off work for nothin', and now we have to come back?” She shook her head in disgust. 

At that moment, our case was announced, and we went up to the front of the court room. 

"Eviction for non-payment of #rent?" Plain Jane asked. 

"Yes," I answered.  "We might be able to work something out, but I still want to go ahead and reschedule.  I'm going on vacation May second, so …"

"How long will you be gone?"

"Til May seventh."

"Okay."  The woman leafed through a large diary and pounced on a page.  "May ninth?"

"Fine," I said.  Diane looked on, but didn’t disagree.

"See you on the ninth, then."   Plain Jane made an entry in her diary and began reading out the name of the next case.

In the lofty, echoing marble hallway outside the court room, Diane patted me on the arm.  "I'll get right on that money order," she told me cheerfully.  "And I'll have four hundred ready for you, May first."

I looked doubtful. “I'm going on vacation the next day, so  . . ."

". . . so you need the money," Diane finished.  "That's why I'll make sure to have it ready for you."

"Okay," I said.  "And when you hear about the job, we need to work out a payment schedule for the overdue rent.  You owe me thirteen hundred now, for January through this month.”

"I know.  It’s a lot."

"I'll be busy packing, so Wim’ll pick up the rent.”

"Mommy, Mommy."  Diane’s little girl was tugging on her mother’s arm. 

Diane shook her off in practiced fashion and glanced at her watch.  "I gotta git back to work."

"Me too."  We headed toward the stairs.  "May first, don't forget?  If you make an effort to pay  me more in the next two weeks, we'll see, but for now, we 're back in Court May ninth, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah." Diane gave me a wave, and we went our separate ways.

I had planned to deal with the information subpoenas after court but my office was short-handed that day, so it would have to wait until tomorrow. 

When the clock struck noon the next day, I was out of the office like a shot and racing over to Schemmerhorn. It took twenty minutes to get there and twenty minutes to get back, which meant I only had twenty minutes to spare at the Clerk's Office.  I arrived, out of breath, weighed down with restraining notices, already-addressed envelopes, and stamped-addressed envelopes for return of the subpoenas. 

The Clerk’s counter was unmanned, but at the sound of my whirlwind arrival, a large lady breezed into the room from a side office.

"Can I help you?"

"Yes.  I've come to collect an information #subpoena."

The woman looked at me with a blank expression on her face.  "A what?"

"An information subpoena.  I spoke to the Clerk.  Apparently Small Claims have their own information subpoenas for service on banks in the area.  I have to pay, like, a dollar for it?"

"I don't know."  The woman began to look harassed.  "Um, maybe they're in this drawer?  The Clerk's out to lunch right now.  Can you come back?"

"No.  I'm on my lunch hour too. I drove over from St. Albans, and it takes twenty minutes to get here, so I can't come back."

The woman halfheartedly shuffled through some forms in the drawer.  "I don’t see anything like that in here."

I glanced at the clock."What time does the Clerk get back from lunch?"

The woman also looked at the clock.  "Around twelve forty-five.  It's twelve-thirty now."

"Okay. I'll go over to the post office and get some stamps on these?" I said, motioning to my armful of envelopes. "Then I'll be back."

The woman smiled, obviously relieved that she could stop looking for the elusive forms.  "All right. The post office is just across the street."

Faced with four entrances on each point of the compass by which to exit City Hall, it took me a few minutes to find said post office.  Luckily there was no line, and I walked right up to the counter.  I bought stamps for twelve certified letters and twelve return envelopes and returned to the Clerk's Office, loaded down with green return receipts and tracking slips.

I had to wait a few minutes for the Clerk to return from lunch, so I occupied myself in filling out the tracking slips and corresponding green postcards and sticking stamps on the envelopes.  I had just finished the last one, when the Clerk bustled in.

"Hello," she said, remembering me.  "You're here for the information subpoena?"

"Yes."

Rummaging in the very same drawer the other woman had searched, she produced a form with ease.  "Here it is.  I'll give you one, and you can make copies and fill them out. Then bring them back to me to stamp.  It's safer to stamp them all because you can't be certain which banks require it."

"I'll go to the library and make copies and fill them out right now," I told her.  "I just need to get this done.  My office will have to put up with me getting back a bit late."

I took all my paperwork out another entrance, across another street, and into the public library.  After making copies of the subpoena, I sat down at a table and proceeded to fill them out.  It didn’t take long. The forms were really basic -- much simpler than the information subpoenas I’d used before for Supreme Court.

When I’d finished, I hauled the papers back to City Hall, and the Clerk stamped them for me.  I sat in my car, stuffing and licking the envelopes.  The glue tasted very nasty and was probably toxic. I hoped I wasn’t going to keel over and die from envelope-glue poisoning like George Costanza’s fiancée did in “Seinfeld.”  When I was finished, I shoved the envelopes though the slot at the post office with heartfelt relief.  Phew, that was over with.  Now I just had to wait.

The next day -- surprise, surprise -- the mailman delivered a money order for $300.00.  Diane actually phoned me that night to check that I received it.

The mail also included a note from my realtor, Wally. Fifty-one Manson Street was now listed for sale at $45,000.00.  Big whoop.

Wim went over to Schemmerhorn on May 1st to collect the additional $400.00 Diane had promised.  Upon his arrival, he was treated to an earful from Giselle because one of the beams that supported the porch had a crack in it.  According to her, it was shameful that it was cracking already, since Wim had only recently replaced it.  In Giselle’s expert opinion, he must have used inferior materials and done a shitty job as usual.

He came home, quite shaken from the barrage of verbal abuse Giselle had subjected him to. She must have hopped straight on the phone to me after he left because she was still complaining in my ear when Wim returned home twenty minutes later.

"Phew!" I sighed, as I eventually hung up the phone.  "What's the story, Wim?  Giselle's been bending my ear about the porch and going on and on about the shitty work you do.  She said you refused to listen to her and just stood there, shaking your head."

Wim exploded in a rare display of fury.  "Agh, that woman just has to have something to complain about!  Yah, the beam is a little cracked, but I told her it's normal.  It's just surface-cracking.  That porch is solid.  I laid cement under it and it's not going anywhere.  I tried to tell her that, but she wouldn't listen, yelling and screaming and cursing at me like some mad woman! I told her I wasn't going to listen anymore, and just got in my car and drove away."

Fortunately, despite the earful, Wim had remembered to collect the $400.00 money order from Diane.  Her #debt to me now stood at $1,250.00.  

CHAPTER TWENTY: Natasha No-Show

          The next morning, I dropped off the #eviction petition with the Schemmerhorn Court Clerk, and swung by the house to collect the letter from Miz James complaining about Natasha.  I left a curt note on Natasha's door, telling her the time and date that the pest-control people were coming.  She was nowhere to be seen. Probably avoiding Wim, who was at that moment fixing her front door.

As I was leaving, a young man in a pick-up truck pulled up next door.  I stopped and asked him if he was the witness to the gun-toting characters seen entering my house the other day.  He said he was indeed, introduced himself as Dave, and invited me in to where he was working on the upstairs #apartment. 

He then proceeded to tell me his life story.  Apparently, he had fathered a baby, and his ex-girlfriend was soaking him for child support. Although a self-proclaimed, brilliant but as-yet-undiscovered musician, he was currently penniless and was being paid for his work with time in his boss's recording studio. 

Dave was two inches shorter than I, closely resembled a weasel, and smoked incessantly.  Definitely not my type.  He also spent more time coming on to me than telling me anything really useful.  In between fending off his advances and surreptitiously trying to wave the cigarette smoke away without offending him, I did however manage to get the approximate date and time that he had spied the gun-toters, as well as his address and phone number, willingly given.  Then I turned down his request for a date and gladly escaped outside to cleaner air and my car.

The City Court Clerk called me at work on October 28^th to tell me that my court date was scheduled for November 10^th.  Miz James was glad to hear that we didn’t have to wait long.  She intended to come along to Court too. 

The call from the court stoked the fires smoldering in my brain, and after fuming for a while, I felt I had to vent my anger somehow. 

So I did. 

On paper. 

In the form of a letter to the #Social #Services Commissioner, with a carbon copy to a Mr. Catcher in #Fraud and #Investigations, the department responsible for paying #landlord damage claims against #D.S.S. #tenants.

The next thirteen days until the hearing dragged on as before, with regular complaints of noise blaring from Natasha's apartment being phoned in to the #police by both the downstairs and next-door #neighbors. 

I, meanwhile, continued to gather ammunition by filing a Freedom of Information request for copies of police records for 51 Manson Street, dating back to when I bought the house.  The records were ready the day before the hearing, and Wim picked them up from City Hall for me.

On November 10th, armed and ready, I stalked into the courtroom at ten o'clock in the morning. Wim and Miz James stalked along behind me.

No sign of Natasha.

Our case was called about twenty minutes later. 

Still no Natasha. 

The #judge, a portly, middle-aged Giuseppe Grazziano, wrinkled his swarthy brow, twirled one end of his luxuriant moustache with a fat finger, and pondered the matter. 

"I'll hear your case last," he declared.  "If the respondent hasn't appeared by then, I'll grant a default."

We sat through a few more cases, and then Miz James had to leave, disappointed that she hadn't got to see any action.  It must have been hell for her.

Just as the judge was banging his gavel at the end of the last case, his clerk received a phone call and whispered something in the judge's ear.  

Judge Grazziano slapped his large, ham-like hands on his desk top and heaved himself to his feet. 

"We've found your tenant," he announced.  "She couldn't appear here because she's currently being held across the street in Police Court."

He conferred for a moment with the stenographer and then turned back to us. 

"We'll go over to Police Court.  They'll lend us a courtroom there."

We trailed across the street after Judge Grazziano's flapping black robes, the stenographer trudging along behind, lugging her stenograph machine.  Thus, we descended on the police station, wherein was situated Police Court.  We were shown into a small courtroom. 

A few minutes later Natasha appeared, escorted by a policewoman, who stayed watchfully nearby.

Judge Grazziano seated himself on his borrowed throne and read my petition out loud.  Then he turned to Natasha. 

"Well?  What have you got to say for yourself?"

"It’s not all true," Natasha mumbled sullenly, eyes averted.  "I got no place to go.  I got me three keeds."

"Your Honor?" I broke in - I’d always wanted to say that line, like they do in my favorite T.V. lawyer shows - "Natasha’s children have been taken away from her by Child Protective.  She doesn't have them with her anymore."

"Hmm.  Can you find an apartment by the end of the month?" the judge asked Natasha.

"Yeah, s'pose," she admitted in a resigned tone.

Judge Grazziano looked to me.  "Will you agree to let her stay until the end of the month?"

"Yeah, I suppose," I said in turn.  "But that's three weeks away.  She's going to keep on having loud parties and upsetting the neighbors, and –"

"Okay, okay," the judge broke in.  "Natasha, I'm ordering you to refrain from causing any further disturbances at your apartment from now until you move.  Is that clear?"

"Yeah," Natasha drawled, eyes still averted.

"Right.  Respondent ordered to be out by November thirtieth.  Petitioner to compose an Order to that effect for my signature." 

Bang!  The gavel came down.

"Thank you, Your Honor," I said.

As Natasha passed by with her escort, I asked her about paying me her share of the rent for November.

"Yo wan' it, yo come git it," she growled, glowering at me from under her brows.

"Fine," I said, fully intending to stay away from Manson Street until Natasha had moved out. 

"Oh, well, it's only a few bucks," I sighed to Wim as we drove home.

We were just getting ready for bed that night, when Miz James rang. 

"Did Natasha show up?" she demanded.

I told her what had transpired that morning after she left the courtroom. 

"I think Natasha's in jail right now," I assured her, "so it should be peaceful for a while."

"What’s that?" Miz James panted.  "Then there's a whole lotta people partyin' upstairs without her."

"What!" I exclaimed.  "I don't believe it!  Call the cops and let me know what happens."

Miz James gave one last huff and hung up.

The next day, I called Judge Grazziano's chambers and told the clerk that Natasha had instantly disobeyed the judge's Order.  The clerk promised to relay this to the judge and told me she would take care of setting up another court date for Natasha's eviction.

Just about every other day or night, Miz James called to report that a bunch of people were raising hell overhead, with or without Natasha. 

One morning, I decided to go up there to see for myself what was going on.

My trusty Dutch bodyguard at my side, I entered Natasha's apartment at about nine a.m.  The stench of garbage was still overpowering, and cockroaches were still crawling everywhere.  In each of the three bedrooms, someone was sleeping on a mattress on the floor, beer and pot fumes providing ample explanation for their late rising. 

Wim marched into one bedroom.  I marched into another.

"Get out!" I yelled, ignominiously waking the slumberer from sleep.  "This is my house, and you have no right to be here.  I want you out.  Right now!"

Wim could also be heard saying words to that effect as he rousted out the occupants of the two back bedrooms.

Eventually, three dopey-eyed girls were blinking blearily in the hallway in various stages of undress. 

One of them showed signs of coming to life. 

"Why don't you do somethin' 'bout dem roaches?” She grunted.  “It's disgustin'.  What kind of landlor' are you?"

"Did I put those garbage bags there?" I screamed, gesturing wildly at the oozing black bags advancing ever further into the kitchen. 

"Now, get your stuff together, and get out!"

They snatched up a few belongings, and I shepherded the girls to the front door where they sullenly took their leave, grumbling to one another as they traipsed down the stairs.

A week later, Natasha and I were back in court.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Miz James, if you Please, has Fleas

I stood holding the phone, not sure I had heard my #tenant correctly. 

"Miz James, you've got what!" I asked.  "Fleas?"

"Yes.  The Child Protective women came over to check the place out -- to see if it's okay for the kids, you know? -- and the #fleas bit them."

For some reason, I found this highly amusing, though I didn’t let on to Miz James.  My parents had found fleas when they'd first moved into their #rented house.  The problem had been quite bad but easily solved with an insecticide "bomb" and a few carpet powderings.

Wim and I went over to Manson Street the next day, armed with a bomb and a couple of canisters of flea powder.  Miz James was ready for us and had transformed her #apartment into an alien landscape.  Sheets, blankets, tablecloths, and towels covered every item of furniture, stereo and fish tank.  All closet doors and drawers were firmly shut.

I handed Miz James the powder to apply a few hours later, when it was safe to return to the apartment.  Wim set the bomb down in the hallway at the halfway mark and pulled the tab.  It began to sputter and smoke as we ran for the door.

"Hope that'll do the trick," I said to Miz James, once we were outside.  "Don't go back in until the stated time, will you?  A phone call that you're in the hospital with de-fogging poisoning is the last thing I need."

"Sure," Miz James nodded eagerly.  "I ain't going in there til tonight, long after it's s'posed to be safe.  Don't you worry."

She called again a couple of days later.  The situation had definitely improved but she was still seeing a few fleas hopping around.

I went back to Manson Street that evening with some cans of spray.  The problem was that Miz James had laid carpet on top of the #flea-infested carpet in the children’s room and then put heavy bunk beds on top of that. 

I just had to do the best I could, thoroughly wetting the carpet with the spray cans in the hope that the fumes would penetrate to the carpet beneath.  I also sprayed nooks and crannies and furniture for good measure.  I didn’t want any fleas jumping for safety onto the couch.

Life at Manson Street remained blissfully uneventful for the next couple of weeks.  The end of September was approaching and, with it, the end of Natasha's #lease term.  I didn’t really want to tell her to move out, what with three kids and all.  I had just received a cursory statement from the Department of Social Services stating that Natasha's #rent was henceforth being reduced by $3.10.  Why bother? 

I intended to increase her rent by $25.00, which meant she would need to come up with an additional $28.10 a month.  I figured she could afford it, judging by the imposing entertainment center that graced her living room and the large, tasseled, Persian-type rug that covered a majority of said floor space.

I was about to write to Natasha to ask her if she wanted to renew her lease, when Miz James called to complain about loud music coming from Natasha's apartment.

"She keeps it cranked up 'til about three in the morning," she complained breathlessly into the phone.  "On a Sunday night, too!  My kids have to go to school in the morning and they can't sleep with all that noise going on. 

"Also, Natasha's friends keep coming by and banging on her door, real hard.  I think her doorbell ain't working ’cause they hammer on the door.  And then, if she don' answer, they climb up over the balcony.  You gotta do something, Stacie!"

"I'll be sure to write to Natasha first thing in the morning," I promised when Miz James paused for breath.

"I mean," Miz James carried on, "if she could keep the noise to the weekends, I wouldn't mind so much.  But week days?  Oh, no, we can't have that!"

"No," I agreed.  "As I said, I'll write to Natasha."

I wrote to her the next day.  The noise problem didn’t seem too difficult to fix.  I would just ask her to turn it down, and Wim could fix the doorbell.

Natasha did not respond to my letter. 

I knew she’d been away for a few days but when the neighbors informed me that she was back in town, I paid her a visit.  I was pleased to see that the apartment looked totally different from when I’d last seen it.  It was now clean and tidy.

Natasha was short and stocky, with plump, brown, shiny cheeks, sleepy eyes like her brother, and an insolent mouth that she kept pursed with the corners turned down, giving her a prissy expression.  I didn’t take to her, and she looked the type who didn’t give a hoot about anything or anyone but herself.  No doubt, my written requests to keep her dear brother away from the premises and the music turned down had not endeared her to me any.

I found her about to sit down at her glass dining-room table with a friend.  Boxes of fragrant Chinese food steamed gently before them. 

Natasha grimaced at the rent increase but seemed quite willing to pay the difference.  She signed the new lease, while I admired the octagonal fish tank.

"Thanks," I said when she handed the forms back.  "Where are your kids, by the way?"

"They're not here," Natasha answered rather obviously.  She picked up her fork with an expectant raise of her tweezed eyebrows and volunteered no further information.

I took the hint, told her I admired her tasteful furnishings, and took my leave.

No sooner had Natasha signed her new lease than Miz James began complaining again.  She phoned me several times to moan about the noise and to report that people were coming and going at all hours of the day and night. 

Next-door neighbors, Shirley and Jerry, complained about Natasha, too.

"She's either practicing prostitution or drug dealing," Shirley remarked to me one day when I stopped by.  "Why else would she have such a continual stream of traffic going in and out?  Even when she's not there, it still goes on. Oh, and Johnny's been back again, you know."

"Crap," I groaned.  "He's trouble . . . and speak of the devil!"  For who should suddenly appear from the alley, but Johnny? 

He took one look at us and took off down the street at top speed.

"The cops told you not to come back here again, Johnny!" I screamed after him in my best fishwife shriek.

The shriek produced a flustered Miz James, who had evidently struck up a friendship with Shirley as a fellow victim of Natasha's nonsense.  The two of them were enthusiastically discussing decibels as I drove away.

That night, the partners-in-misfortune both called the cops on Natasha, then called me.  The noise level was so loud, I could hear the music clearly through the phone from where I stood in the open doorway to my parents' bedroom. 

It was two a.m.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: Meet Miz James

My downstairs #tenant Greg called again at the beginning of August.

"Uh, we're gonna be a b . . . b . . . bit late wiv' the r . . . r . . . rent this month," he finally managed.  "W . . . we'll b . . . be able to p . . . p . . . pay it in ab . . . bout a week."

"Oh.  Er, o--kay," I said.  "Is anything wrong?"

"No, w . . . we've j . . . j . . . just had a f . . . few expenses to p . . . p . . . pay," he stammered.

"All right, I suppose a week's okay," I said.  "You do know that after ten days there's a late fee, don't you?"

"Y . . . yes, we know.  Th . . . thank you," Greg stuttered, and hung up.

I didn’t start to feel a mite suspicious until ten days had passed and I hadn’t yet received the promised #rent.  I called the threesome's number a couple of times but there was no answer.

Finally, after another few days, I asked Wim to go over to Schemmerhorn to collect the rent for me.  He kindly obliged. 

No one answered the door when he rang the bell but he knew they were home because he could hear them.  I wouldn't have been so bold, but after a few more ignored knocks and rings, he let himself in.

Not surprisingly, he found the three huddled together in their favorite spot on the couch, indignantly staring at him for having dared to invade their apartment uninvited.

"I've come to collect the rent," Wim announced.

"We're moving," Greg said, "so we're not paying.  We've had it with Natasha, and this area's too dangerous.  You can use our #securitydeposit for the rent."

“There didn't seem much point in arguing with them,” Wim told me when he got home.

I received the news with some equanimity.  "It's not too bad," I said.  "At least we've got a couple of weeks to find another tenant, and their security deposit was six hundred.  The rent is four seventy-five so I'll make a hundred and twenty-five on the deal. 

"And last time I saw their place, it didn't look too bad.  A touch up here and there with a paint brush should do it."

The next day I paid the local newspaper $14.00 for a week-long advertisement.  My ad briefly described the apartment’s features and listed the rent as $475.00, with one month’s deposit required.  I was quite looking forward to playing at real estate agent and showing prospective tenants around the apartment.

The word "Jacuzzi" prompted several phone calls almost immediately, and I made some appointments to show people around that weekend.  I asked Wim to go with me, as I was new at this and felt I could do with a second opinion.

Saturday arrived.  The first few appointments did not.  Maybe they had changed their minds or found another place.  Nice of them to call!

Wim and I spent a few boring hours sitting in my car outside 51 Manson Street. 

It wasn’t the most comfortable of times. 

Melissa, Greg or Tom occasionally peered out the window at us while I steadfastly pretended not to notice.  I don’t know how Wim felt but, being so shy, it was a very painful couple of hours for me.

Eventually, the last appointment decided to show up and did so in a regal, white monstrosity of a Cadillac-type vehicle.  The door opened and a large woman with lots of tight black braids sticking out all over her head eased herself out onto the pavement and walked in a jerky fashion across the street to meet us.

"Hi, I'm Miz James," the woman introduced herself rather nasally in a self-important but friendly manner.  Wim and I shook hands and said hello.

I showed Miz James around the apartment, and Wim tagged along behind.  Melissa, Greg, and Tom were naturally seated on the couch and, thankfully, the place looked neat and tidy.

 Miz James surveyed the small bedrooms doubtfully. 

"Hmm, my bedroom set'll never fit in here," she stated.  "But, maybe I could make the living room into a bedroom.  I've got all my own closets.  Black enamel, you know." 

She looked expectantly at me, obviously waiting for some comment.

"Oh," I said.  "That's nice."

"Yes," Miz James agreed and jerked her way into the bathroom where she stood, hands on ample hips, appraising the slightly grubby bathtub.

"Hmm."

“I’ll get that cleaned up for you,” I hastened to assure her.

We then proceeded to the kitchen.

"Now, this I like," Miz James announced.  "Nice and big.  I can have my table in here."

We followed her out the back door and onto the deck.

"Very nice," Miz James approved.  "I like it.  Now, I have some questions for you, if you don’t mind?"

We sat on a wooden bench that ran along the left side and back of the deck. In her self-important, fussy manner, Miz James proceeded to ask me questions, some of which I couldn’t answer, such as how much did the monthly electric and gas bills amount to.

"Now, are you planning on painting?"  she asked.

"The place isn't too bad but I do plan on doing some painting, yes," I answered confidently. 

I had never painted a room in my life.

"Good.  Now, I didn't notice any washer/dryer hook-up.  Would it be possible to have one put in in the basement?"

I looked to Wim for that one.

"Yah, tha’s possible," he said.

"Good.  I'd be moving in a few days after the first of the month ‘cause I have to pack my stuff.  Would that be all right with you?"

I barely opened my mouth to answer, before Miz James continued on.

"If you'd like a reference, you can call my landlord.  I live over a doctor's office.  It's a real big apartment but I just became guardian of my niece Princess and my nephew Desmond.  Their mother -- she’s mah sister -- is useless at looking after them.  My landlord don't want children above the office, even though they're eleven and twelve years old and really good, quiet kids, so we have to move.  I bring the kids up right, though.  They go to private school, you know.

"Also, my mother died a short while ago and left me her house near here, but I'm going to sell it.  I don't want to live in that part of Schemmerhorn -- on the 'Hill' you know? -- so I'm gonna be a landlord too.  I got me a book of rules 'n regulations for landlords.  You should look at it some time, or I could get you a copy.  They're free from the City."

"Okay, yeah, sure," I hastily interjected, getting up and dusting off my butt.  "Is there anything else?  If not, I think we're about done."

"Yes, though may I make a leeetle suggestion?" 

Miz James heaved herself to her feet and patted my arm conspiratorially.

"Sure," I said.  "What?"

"If I were you -- and I don't mean to tell you your business -- but I'd put a closet in the front hallway.  Silly to have all that space and not use it, don't you think?"

"Yes, I suppose so.  Something to think about, anyway.” 

I had had enough of Miz James's pompousness for one day and attempted to salvage some control. 

"I'll call the reference you gave me," I told her, firmly ushering her out, "and I'll let you know."

With a wave goodbye, Miz James made her jerky way across the street to her big, white car.  It took her five minutes of easing the car backwards and forwards, a few inches at a time, to complete a three-point turn at the end of the street.  She almost knocked down the neighbor’s fence in the process but eventually managed to turn the car around and drove away, looking down her nose at us as she passed.

As Wim and I were leaving, I almost fell over a small, furry animal in the hallway.  Since when did my tenants have cats?  Just then, another kitten peeped out from behind the front door.  I distinctly remembered a clause in the lease, which stated that tenants may not introduce pets into the house without notifying the landlord first. 

Oh, well.  They were leaving anyway.

Wim and I left without saying goodbye to Tom, Greg, or Melissa.  They didn’t bother saying goodbye to us, either.

Wim and I discussed Miz James as we drove home.

"What did you think?" I asked.

"She's certainly very bossy," Wim said.  "I’m afraid she's the type that'll find fault with everything and keep wanting me to come over to fix this, that, and the other thing."

"Yes, I didn't like her manner very much," I agreed.  "Right from when she introduced herself.  Miz James, if you don't mind.  I don't even know what her first name is.  I'm sure she'd keep the place spick and span, though, and the kids sound okay."

"What does she do for a living?" Wim asked.

"She told me she just found a job as a counselor at a center for the mentally disabled.  Not the outfit you work for, though.  But, can you imagine?  She probably bosses her clients around to her heart's content.  She gets money from the County, too, for being the children's guardian."

"Sounds like she'll be able to afford the rent, then," Wim said.  "But, I tell you, she'll be trouble if you let her."

“I agree,” I said, down-shifting to turn a corner.  "Let's see what her landlord says about her."

That evening I called the number Miz James had given me.  The doctor wasn’t home, but his wife gave her a glowing reference and verified the reason Miz James had to move. 

"You won't find a speck of dirt anywhere," she told me.  "You're lucky to get her, and her kids are wonderfully behaved.  We're sorry to lose her, but with two more pairs of feet overhead and the doctor's office downstairs  . . . you understand?"

"Yes, I do," I assured her.  "Thanks very much, then.  It seems your tenant has found a new home."

I phoned Miz James to give her the news, and we arranged to meet a couple of days later to sign the #lease.

 

The next evening, I received a telephone call from the left-hand next-door neighbor in Schemmerhorn.  She was a blonde, buxom woman named Shirley, whom I had met a couple of times and given my phone number.

"There's really loud music coming from Natasha's place," she told me.  "Natasha's away, though.  I've called the #cops, but I thought you might wanna check it out."

I let out a huge, disgruntled sigh.  What now?  "Thanks for letting me know, Shirley." 

“Oh, Wim?” I called as I put the phone down.  “Fancy another trip to Schemmerhorn?”