CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: Rattletrap Ray

"I'm phonin' ‘bout the #apartment," said a gruff voice, anxiously.  "Is it still 'vailable?"

"Yes."

"When can I look round?  C'n I come now?"

"Don't you want to hear about it, first?"

"Says in the paper it's got three bedrooms, right?"

"Yes.  It also –"

"So, c'n I come look at it?"

"Um, it'll take me about half-an-hour to get there.  It's number fifty-one Manson Street.  Do you know where that is?"

"Yeah, I know.  See you in a half-hour, then."

"What's your name?" I asked quickly before the caller hung up, since he sounded as if he was in a great hurry.

"Ray Molinard," he rasped and slammed the phone down in my ear.

I grabbed the car keys and headed for Schemmerhorn, arriving at the #house to find a large, mud-brown, run-down rattletrap of a station wagon parked outside. It had a distinct list to the left.  When I pulled up behind it, all four doors opened, and a man and three children erupted from the car.  The leftward list remained.

"Hey, I'm Ray," said the man in the same urgently harried manner as on the phone, earlier. 

I took one look at him, and my heart sank. 

He was tall and burly, and his skin was a dirty brown – either from a tan or from not bathing for a month, I couldn’t quite tell.  Since it was winter, I suspected the latter, though a few tentative sniffs in his direction did not reveal any unwashed body odor.  However, the lank, dark brown hair that hung down his back in a straggling ponytail had obviously not seen shampoo for quite a while.  It looked as if you could wring the grease out of it.  His clothes had also seen better days and looked as if they had not seen the inside of a washing machine for quite a while, nor the children's clothes, judging by the multitude of stains on the fronts of their sweatshirts.

"Stacy, maybe they're just poor and don't have money for laundry," I reminded myself.  "Imagine if you couldn't afford to pay for hot water or to wash your clothes?"

Ray's children were two girls and a boy, ranging in age from about eight to eleven years old.  They all had long, glossy, black hair and dark eyes and were quite exotic-looking.

The eldest girl came up to me and plaintively asked, "Are you going to be our new #landlord?"

"We'll see," I said with a smile and led them up the stairs to the apartment. 

When I opened the door at the top, the children instantly disappeared into various rooms to explore, calling excitedly to one another. 

Ray quickly walked from room to room, barely looking at anything. 

Once in the kitchen, he turned to me and said, "So you're asking four-fifty, is that right?"

On the spur of the moment, I said, "No, the rent is actually four seventy-five," implying that the amount listed in the newspaper ad was an error.

"Well, that's okay," Ray said, seemingly unfazed by the increase.  "Social Services will pay that much ‘cause I got four kids.  My oldest girl, Jenny, is in a children's home.  I had to put her there 'cause she kept tryin' to run away."

The fact that Ray had cared enough to put his daughter into therapy couldn't help moving him up a couple of notches in my estimation.

"Well, Ray," I said, "my last #tenant was a real slob.  I had to have the place fumigated for cockroaches.  I finally got rid of them, so I wouldn't want to see any here again."

"Oh, no, I hate them things," Ray agreed.  "I don't want none a them, neither."

"So you’d keep the place clean and tidy?"

"Oh yeah."  Ray nodded vigorously.  "The girls help with the dishes, you know, and –"

"Yes, the children.  I've got a fussy tenant downstairs, who really wouldn’t appreciate hearing a lot of noise above her head from rowdy kids."

"No, no, I'll keep 'em quiet," Ray said, earnestly.  "They can get a bit wild sometimes, but if you get any complaints, you just tell me."

"Can you give me any references?" I asked.  "Why are you moving, anyway?"

"Well, my landlord and me, we don't get on too good, and he keeps comin' in my place without tellin' me.  He wants to rent it out to some other people he knows, so he'll be glad I'm goin'.  You can call him for a #reference, if you like."

"Okay, good.  You can give me the number when you fill out this application." 

I handed Ray a #rental application and a pen, and he filled it out in laborious capital letters. 

I eyed him furtively as he concentrated on his task.  I had grave doubts about renting to Ray.  His whole air and appearance was one of low-down, dirty sleaze.  No matter how much he might promise to keep the place clean and control his kids, that could be just talk.

Just then, the three children joined us.

"It's nice here," the boy said, flicking a shock of shiny, black hair off of his forehead.

"Can we live here, Dad?" the older girl asked.

Her younger sister came to stand next to me, gazing up at me soulfully with huge, dark eyes. 

"We're half Red Indian and half French." she announced.

"Yeah, my wife was an American Indian," Ray put in.  "I'm mostly French, though."

"Oh," I said. 

The three children stood around, looking at us.

"Our mother died," the boy volunteered then, his mischievous dimples disappearing for a brief moment, hair drooping in his eyes again.

"Oh, no.  Really?  I'm sorry."

"Yeah.  Few years ago, now," said Ray.  "I'm on disability ‘cause I got a bad heart, so I stay home with the kids."

"Are there any kids living downstairs?" asked the youngest daughter.

"Yes," I answered.  "The lady downstairs has two children, just about your age.  If you come and live here, maybe you can be friends."

"Hooray!" whooped the boy, and dashed off to the front of the apartment, his sisters running along behind.

"Um, could you fill out a landlord statement for Social Services, just in case we do move in?" Ray asked, pulling a crumpled form from his pocket and smoothing it out on the counter.

I quickly filled in the form, dodging a spatter of grease spots. 

"Well, I think that's it for now, Ray," I said.  "I'll call your landlord tonight and let you know, okay?"

"Please do it soon," Ray urged.  "I really have to get out of that place." 

With difficulty, he collected his reluctant children from the balcony, loaded them into the station wagon, and rattled off down the street.

On the drive home, my mind churned with indecision. 

Should I? 

Shouldn't I? 

In my heart, I knew the answer should be a resounding no.  But Ray was the first taker in two months, and I really needed to rent out the apartment soon. 

After supper, I dialed the number for Ray’s landlord.

" ‘ello?" a man shouted into the phone.  I could hear a television blaring in the background. 

"Wait just a minute, please.  Hey!  Turn that thing down!" he yelled, and the television sound grew somewhat muted. 

"Right, now, who d'you want?"

"I'm looking for Ray Molinard's landlord," I ventured.

"Yup, that's me.  What can I do for you?"

"Ray's interested in renting my apartment and gave me your phone number.  Could you give me a reference for him?"

"Oh, yeah.  Well . . . Ray's okay."

"Did you have any problems with him?"

"Noooo.  Well, yeah, we had some arguin' about the recyclin'.  Ray wouldn't sort things into the recyclin' bins properly.  But, you know . . . little things like that.  Nothing major or nuth’n."

"What about the children?"

"They're just kids, you know?"

"Yes.  Well, it's rather short notice.  Would you be comfortable with Ray moving out now?  I mean, not getting his rent for next month?"

"Oh, tha’s okay.  I got some other folks wanting to move in, anyhow.  Ray can move out any time he wants to."

"Okay, then.  Thanks very much.  Goodbye."

I decided I would #rent the apartment to Ray, albeit on a six-month trial at first.  I hung up the phone and made a note to myself to call the #Department of #Social #Services in the morning to let them know about the change in landlord and to arrange for them send February's voucher to me instead.  I also had to call Mr. Catcher to come and write up the #security #agreement.  Unfortunately, he proved to be booked solid until March 2nd.

When I called Ray to tell him he could take the apartment, he was very pleased to hear the news.

"But you've got to do the recycling bit," I warned him, and he promised me he would.  As the first of the month was a Tuesday, I also told Ray I would give him the keys on the evening of Friday the 28th, so he could move in over the weekend, for which he was profoundly grateful.