CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Brother Johnny's Back!

Twenty-five minutes later, Wim and I arrived at 51 Manson Street, and at the same time so did a police car.  Two #cops emerged and dubiously eyed the dented door of the upstairs #apartment then proceeded to add to the dents by hammering on it with great enthusiasm, demanding entry.

A Puerto Rican-looking youth leaned over the balcony and yelled, "Who's there?  Whaddaya want?"

"Police," one of the cops yelled back.  "Open up."

Blaring music ceased abruptly, and we heard a rumble of conversation.  After a few minutes feet thumped down the stairs, and the door opened to reveal the same Puerto Rican wearing a torn pair of shorts and nothing else.

He looked us over from insolent, heavy-lidded eyes.  Judging by the strong resemblance to Natasha’s mother, this was dear brother Johnny, whom I distinctly remembered telling Natasha was not welcome.

I told the police who Johnny was, described the beating-up incident, and said that I had demanded that Johnny stay away from my property.  I was also worried that he would do more damage to the apartment and told the police as much.

"Let's take a look upstairs," the cops said, shouldering their way past Johnny.

At the top of the stairs we were met by a strong smell of beer.  Upon entering the apartment, we found out why.  The living room was littered with empty beer cans, remnants of incense sticks, and other unidentifiable bits and pieces of junk.  Items of clothing and ancient, dried food added to the mess, and ashtrays overflowed on every surface.

"Look at this place!" I gasped.  "I want Johnny out of here.  Right now!"

"And who's this?" one cop asked, going out onto the balcony where a young girl lounged in a deck chair, a cigarette in one hand.  She couldn’t be more than fourteen years old, but her eyes were going on twenty-one.

"I'm Johnny's girlfriend," she volunteered, looking a little nervous.

"Well, you're too young to hang out with a guy like that," the cop stated.  "Does your mother know where you are?"

"Uh, yeah.  What’s it to you?" 

The girl uncoiled herself from the chair and stood up.  She was just a gawky young teenager, who’d seen – and probably done – more than her years.

"I suggest you go on home," the cop said and shepherded her out the door.

Meanwhile, the other cop had been standing over Johnny while he gathered some things together and shoved his bare feet into some battered, old army boots.

"Before you go, I want the keys," I demanded.

"Don' 'ave ‘em," Johnny answered back.

"Where are theyn?"

"Dunno.  Natty's got 'em.  Door was open."

"Come on, you.  Get going."  The cop pushed Johnny towards the door.  "This lady doesn't want you round here no more, you hear?  Don't make us come again, okay?"

"Whatever." 

Johnny thumped down the stairs and out of the building, not bothering to close the street door behind him.  He whistled as he sauntered nonchalantly down the street.  Gotta keep up the cool, man.  Yeah!

The cops took a last look around and then departed, leaving Wim and I standing amidst the mess.

When we got home, I called Natasha's mother.  Her phone number was on Natasha's #rental #application.  When she answered, I told her about the state of the apartment and asked her if she could exert some authority over her darling son, Johnny.

Mrs. Fluff was very apologetic.  "I just can't do anything with that boy," she said.  "He does his own thing, you know?  I'll tell him not to go there no more, but . . ." she trailed off.

"Okay," I said, "You do that, but where is Natasha?"

"She’s, uh, away," came the vague answer, "but I'll get up there this weekend and clean the place up, I promise you."

That weekend, Allen and I paid the apartment a visit.  Mrs. Fluff had just arrived.  She looked around at the beer bottles and ashtrays and sighed. 

"I'm sorry about this.  Natasha's a good girl, you know. She's had some troubles . . . But, Johnny . . ."  She shook her head mournfully and raised her hands helplessly.

"Well, I'm glad you're here," I said.  "I see you have a key.  Can I have it, please?  You can latch the door when you leave."

 

The next thing I had to deal with was my new #tenant, Miz James, moving in downstairs, a few days after the first of the month.  This would give me some time to paint the apartment.  However, when the threesome left at the end of the month, there proved to be a lot of cleaning required.

The apartment looked different now that it was empty – or, I should say, virtually empty.  The three had very kindly left behind some moldy mattresses for me to dispose of, and all the dirt and damage was starkly revealed in the cruel light of day.  I’d really only ever seen the place in the evenings.  Electric light and twilight evidently do a lot of mellowing.

A score of little repairs awaited Wim's attention, and I gritted my teeth and started to clean.  I found damp cat litter and poop in one of the bedrooms, and the #stove and #refrigerator were filthy.  It took me several hours to scrape off the burnt-on lumps, while Allen gamely attacked the grease-caked oven.  

The bathroom wasn’t much better -- a thicker, blacker, more furry ring around a #bathtub than I had ever seen before, and there was pee and something else in the #toilet.  A final snub?

Anyway, to make a long story short, all this #cleaning, #repairing and #removing was taking time, which I was rapidly running out of.

Miz James kept calling to ask if me I had painted yet, and I kept telling her not yet.  Eventually, when it came to the point where I would have to paint throughout the night in order to get it done, I reluctantly accepted Miz James's offer of painting the place herself.  At least I would provide the paint.  I didn’t really want her doing the painting and maybe asking for a reduction in #rent in return but it seemed I now had no choice.  However, other than Miz James praising the shade of white paint I had chosen, no more was said on the subject.

Three days after she moved in, Miz James phoned me in a tizzy.

"We got #fleas!" she announced dramatically.