‘Hey man, you’re back super early,’ said Ricky, the cigarette waggling between his lips. ‘Don’t tell me – you took one look at your new class and totally freaked?’ Ricky was an artist and lived in the first-floor apartment. He was in his early sixties, with a wild mane of gray hair and a droopy gray moustache. His face was creased and leathery, as if it had been weathered by every outdoor rock concert from Woodstock to Altamont. His bare chest was brown and bony like a kipper, and he wore only a tan leather vest and jeans and six or seven necklaces of colored beads. ‘We had some security problems,’ Jim told him. ‘Security problems, huh? What’s that a euphemism for?’ ‘I found a dead girl in my classroom. And some dead cats, too.’ Ricky narrowed his eyes, but he kept on playing his guitar. ‘No shit. What was that all about?’ ‘Wish I knew. It looked like some kind of ritual.’ ‘There’s some fuckin’ weird types out there, man. I tell you. I used to think the sixties were weird.
