CHAPTER SIXTY: Criminals!

Giselle called me the next morning, shortly after I arrived at work.  “I’m on the corner, and I’ve just been talking to Wim on the phone," she said. "I thought you should know.  Someone’s been raped ... either in your #house, or behind it.”

“What!”

“Yeah. It happened last night.  The cops were  all over it.  You know, Stace, there’s probably crack dealers and dope dealers goin’ in and out all the time, now the house is empty.”

For a moment I was at a loss for words. “Shit, I left the back door open for the electric company to turn the gas back on so the pipes wouldn’t freeze.”

“Yeah, well, they're gonna get in anyways,” Giselle proclaimed, knowingly.

“And I was planning on going there tonight to turn the pilot lights on.”

“Don't go at night," Giselle warned. "Too dangerous.” 

“Believe me, I'd rather not," I said. "Hey, where are you living now? Can Wim get his stepladder back?"

“Yes he can. I told 'im he can fetch it any time.” Giselle rattled off her new address.

“Thanks. Well, er, goodbye then. Keep in touch,” I said, as people do without meaning it. I wouldn’t mind receiving a large overdue-rent check from her, though.

I called Shirley to get the neighbor’s eye view.  She told me that a naked girl had been seen running across the street to the house opposite mine, and someone had called the police. 

“They came and searched the area behind all the houses,” she told me. “Then the cops went into your house to take a look around.”

“My house? How did they get in?”

“The front window was wide open."

"Shit. Really?"

"Yeah. We told the police the house is supposed to be closed up, so they said they had to check it out.  They dove right in through the window.”

“Did they find anything?”

“To be honest, Stace, I don’t know.” Shirley sounded disappointed that she wasn't in the know.  “You’ll have to find that out from the police station.”

Feeling emotionally drained, I stifled a yawn. “Okay, Shirley. If anything else happens, keep me posted, will you?” 

“Okay,” she chirped brightly, thriving on being the bearer of bad news. 

I called Wim and he answered on the first ring.

“You spoke to Giselle?” I said.

“Yah. Some girl got raped, but I don’t know if it was in the house or not.  Whatever, it’s got nothing to do with you.  I’ll go up to there this afternoon and check things out.”

A little while later, a man called from the Electro utility company.  “We’re headed for 51 Manson Street now,” his gravelly voice informed me.  “Is anyone home?”

“It’s vacant,” I told him, “but I left the back door open for you.”  I neglected to warn him that the place might be swarming with cops.  I didn’t want to put him off, now I finally had a live utility worker on the phone.

“I’ll turn the pilot lights on too, okay?” the man said.

“Great. I was going to ask you if you could do that. Thanks so much.  I really appreciate it.”

The unexpected fervency of my gratitude prompted a kind of awkward silence, then the man grunted something and hung up.

An hour later, he called again.  “I’ve turned the gas on and lit all the pilots.  They’re on low.  Where’s the second water heater, though?”

“Up in the attic.”

“Oh. Well, did you know you’ve got a leak downstairs in the basement? I noticed one upstairs too, in one of the bedrooms.”

“Damn," I said glumly, visions of burst pipes and patches of mold dancing in my head. "I knew about the upstairs leak, but I didn’t know about the one in the basement.”  

“Yeah, you should get it checked out.  I’m just telling you.” The Electro man hung up before I could be over-effusive in my thanks again. At least he hadn’t mentioned cops.

That afternoon, Wim went over to Schemmerhorn, half-expecting to find a window broken. I couldn’t remember whether Shirley had said the police dove or stove through the front window.  Apparently, they dove because Wim found no evidence of breakage.  He checked the pilot lights, did a spot of soldering in the basement and upstairs bedroom, and locked the place up tight. This was probably a useless precaution since someone had almost certainly pocketed the keys Giselle claimed she had left on the kitchen counter but were nowhere to be found.

The next day, Wim and a burly African American worker from one of his other jobs went to the house and put all the remaining furniture and junk onto the street for the garbage man.  We planned to go back later in the week to blow the remaining water out of the pipes, turn off the gas again, and board up the first-floor windows.  Meanwhile, I called the #mortgage company to find out the status of things.

“Everything’s going as scheduled,” a woman told me.  “The papers have gone out to our attorneys. You'll be notified any day.” 

That day couldn’t come soon enough, as far as I was concerned.

Wim went back to Manson Street the next week to blow out the pipes and found that the locks had been changed.  A notice nailed to the front door stated that the building had been foreclosed and was the property of the bank.  When I called the mortgage company to tell them we'd been planning to blow out the pipes, a woman confirmed that the house did now belong to the bank and, what's more, had officially belonged to the bank for the past few weeks!  This meant that I, Wim, Wim's burly helper, even the man from the utility company, had, in effect, been trespassers! We were criminals!

“We appreciate your continued care of the property, though,” the woman hastened to assure me when I complained about not being notified. 

On December 10th, I cheerfully signed a bargain-and-sale deed to the effect that:

. . . Anastasia Scuttlebutt, party of the first part, and Attractive Mortgages, party of the second part, witnesseth, that the party of the first part, in consideration of Ten Dollars and other valuable consideration paid by the party of the second part, did hereby grant and release unto the party of the second part, the heirs or successors and assigns of the party of the second part forever, all that certain plot, piece or parcel of land, with the building and improvements thereon erected, situate, lying and being in the City of Schemmerhorn . . .

Of course, I never did receive the ten dollars.