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.

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 SEVEN: The Belligerent Brother

YEAR ONE

 

House Bank Account: $600.00

Mortgage:  $507.00 - $513.48

 ***********************

 

I was sitting at home one evening, contemplating snuggling down in my soft bed, when the phone rang.

"Um . . . this is Greg . . . from Manson Street," a voice stammered.  It sounded as if the owner of the voice was having difficulty enunciating around a mouthful of mashed potato.

"Yes?" I ventured after a silence.

Interspersed with hems and haws and long pauses, Greg finally managed to choke out the information that he had just been beaten up by Natasha's brother, Johnny.  Johnny had then apparently proceeded to kick dents in both street doors.

At this early stage of the landlord game, the news alarmed me.  Later on, when I had grown  more wise as to the quirks and foibles of some inner city Schemmerhornians, I realized that beating up on people and property was not an unusual pastime in that neighborhood.

Resigning myself to the thought of the twenty-five minute journey to Schemmerhorn, and a delayed bedtime, I promised Greg I would be over soon.  Then I telephoned Wim. 

"Come on over.  We'll go together," he sighed in a tired voice. 

I went to uproot the girls from their sleep.  Fifteen minutes later, Mummy gathered her sleepy granddaughters inside, and Wim and I took off for Schemmerhorn.

Upon our arrival at 5 l Manson Street, we were greeted by the sight of two badly-dented front doors.  The dents added some character to the house.  The left-hand door opened, and a shadowy figure beckoned us into the murky hall.  Judging by the bulky form, it wasn’t Melissa.

We followed the bulk into the apartment and emerged into the somewhat brighter light of the dining room.  The bulk turned out to be Greg.  Otherwise, I experienced a sense of déjà vu;  although the exercise machines were missing, the oil marks on the beige carpet remained, and Melissa and Tom were still sitting on the couch.  Come to find out, the exercise machines were now gently dripping onto the pale blue carpet in the back bedroom.

After a few moments of silence, during which we took stock of one another, I said, "Well?  What happened?"

"Mm, y'see," Greg began, "those people upstairs have been making trouble for a while now, right?"  And between gulps and stutters, the story eventually came out.

It appeared that Natasha had a penchant for frequent, large, noisy parties.  Groups of her friends would sit on the balcony and drop cans and papers and such over the railing onto the heads of the unwary beneath.

"Yeah, we clean up all the time out front," Melissa piped up in a breathy whisper.  "We'll just have finished clearing up, and they'll drop a candy wrapper over just to bug us."

"Yeah!"  Tom came to life with a husky baritone.  "And their garbage stinks!  It's strewn everywhere."

Sure enough, when we went outside we could see and smell the garbage which littered the alley between number 51 and the next-door neighbor.

"We've even cleaned up their garbage for them," Melissa breathed, "but they just keep throwing their bags over the side, and they split open like that.  We’re tired of it."

We stood and looked at the rubbish - but not for long.  The stench was overpowering. 

“I’m sorry this happened,” I told Melissa, Tom and Greg.  “If you want, you can report Johnny to the police.  Meanwhile, I’ll speak to Natasha and advise her that her brother is no longer welcome on the property.  I don’t see what else I can do at this point.”

"Yeah, well, mmm, okaaay . . ." the threesome murmured in disconsolate tones.

I left them standing there in the dining room, hands in pockets, staring at one another.

The following day, I wrote to Natasha to inform her that her brother was not permitted on the premises, and that this landlord would not tolerate that kind of conduct.  I also told her about her downstairs neighbors' complaints about the garbage littering the alley and suggested she buy herself a garbage can. 

Was I naive, or what?