Custalow is only working a half-day today. Marcia told him they didn’t need him until after noon. He’s already worked probably fifty hours this week. The damn boiler, which is about twenty years past its logical expiration date, is acting up the way it always does when we get our first cold snap. It’s like an old ballplayer who has to warm up a little, do some stretching, get the kinks out. And Custalow is pretty good with boilers, so he’s been busy. The meeting that will settle his hash is on Monday. While nothing else has been stolen, nothing’s been solved, either, and Abe Custalow—as he and I and everyone in the building are aware—is the prime and only suspect. He’s watching an old movie and only criticizes my bad habits—smoking and fouling my former wife’s living room— with his eyes. “What?” I ask him as I carefully stub out the cigarette prior to carrying the ashtray over to the sink, wetting the stub down, then putting it in the plastic Ziploc bag I keep next to the trash can, into which I will empty the bag so that not even my trash can smells of smoke.
