says, “We’re here. Knocking now.”
The other man knocks briskly, three times in rapid succession.
The cops hear locks being undone on the other side of the door. One of them makes a joke, perhaps about the number of locks, but both men straighten instantly as the door opens. They back off a few steps to allow the man inside to come out.
Inside the stairwell, the janitor peers through the crack between the doors. He sees his man, almost as wide as he is tall, come out of the apartment. The big man nods at the policemen and turns to re-lock the door. Behind him, one of the cops taps his watch: they’re late.
The big man is in his early fifties, loose-lipped and red-faced with the spider-veined complexion of a heavy drinker. He has sloping, powerful shoulders, oddly long arms that let his hands dangle almost at his knees, and a relatively small head. His hair stands up on one side, as though he’s forgotten to smooth it downafter a nap. His white shirt is wet enough beneath the arms to be almost transparent. He pushes between the policemen and trundles stiff-hipped toward the elevator. The cops follow, the one with the sunglasses briefly imitating the wide man’s walk.
Looking back, the wide man says, “Something funny?” His voice is unexpectedly high-pitched.
The cop who had been imitating him says, “Got a rock in my shoe.” The wide man pushes the button to summon the elevator car.
Behind the swinging doors, the man in the janitorial uniform makes a final check of everything in his case, touches the pockets on his work shirt, counts to three, and pushes through into the hallway.
One of the doors creaks, and the big man and one of the cops turn their heads at the sound. They see a thin, stooped, white-haired man silhouetted against the window’s glare, carrying a wooden box clearly too heavy for him. His halting step suggests a limp although it’s unclear which leg he’s favoring.
The elevator door opens. The cop with the sunglasses steps into the compartment and holds the door for the big man. The other cop and the big man get in.
The janitor calls, “Can you wait for me, please?”
The big man says, “Fuck off” in his high, aggrieved voice and pushes the button to close the door.
The janitor drops the case of bottles with a crash and makes a leap for the elevator. He has an automatic pistol in one hand and a bottle of cleaning solution in the other. The policeman wearing sunglasses makes a snatch at his gun, but the automatic in the janitor’s hand jumps twice with a muffled sound like
pfuttt
, and blows a pair of holes in the elevator’s back wall. Both cops raise their hands above waist level, the big man screaming for them to shoot. He flails at the elevator doors with small, plump hands, as though he thinks he can hurry their closing.
The janitor reaches the elevator as the doors start to slide shut. He pitches the bottle of cleaning solution, overhand, between thedoors. It smashes against the wall, and the hallway fills with the scent of gasoline. One of the policemen tries to force his way out, but the janitor shoots him low in the stomach, and the cop is thrown back against the wall. He slides down into the pool of gasoline on the floor, his hands grasping his abdomen, his eyes wide, his mouth opening and closing. The sunglasses fall off his nose and land in his lap, which is a bright, shiny red. The big man is screaming and kicking at the fallen policeman. The other cop backs to the far side of the elevator as though he’s hoping he can push his way through the wall. Just before the elevator doors meet, the janitor yanks a handful of wooden matches from the pocket of his work shirt, strikes them on the zipper on his pants, and pitches them into the elevator, shouting four words as he backs away.
But not fast enough. The plume of flame billowing through the narrow gap between the closing doors is so hot it burns off his eyebrows and eyelashes.
The screams grow fainter as the car
The other man knocks briskly, three times in rapid succession.
The cops hear locks being undone on the other side of the door. One of them makes a joke, perhaps about the number of locks, but both men straighten instantly as the door opens. They back off a few steps to allow the man inside to come out.
Inside the stairwell, the janitor peers through the crack between the doors. He sees his man, almost as wide as he is tall, come out of the apartment. The big man nods at the policemen and turns to re-lock the door. Behind him, one of the cops taps his watch: they’re late.
The big man is in his early fifties, loose-lipped and red-faced with the spider-veined complexion of a heavy drinker. He has sloping, powerful shoulders, oddly long arms that let his hands dangle almost at his knees, and a relatively small head. His hair stands up on one side, as though he’s forgotten to smooth it downafter a nap. His white shirt is wet enough beneath the arms to be almost transparent. He pushes between the policemen and trundles stiff-hipped toward the elevator. The cops follow, the one with the sunglasses briefly imitating the wide man’s walk.
Looking back, the wide man says, “Something funny?” His voice is unexpectedly high-pitched.
The cop who had been imitating him says, “Got a rock in my shoe.” The wide man pushes the button to summon the elevator car.
Behind the swinging doors, the man in the janitorial uniform makes a final check of everything in his case, touches the pockets on his work shirt, counts to three, and pushes through into the hallway.
One of the doors creaks, and the big man and one of the cops turn their heads at the sound. They see a thin, stooped, white-haired man silhouetted against the window’s glare, carrying a wooden box clearly too heavy for him. His halting step suggests a limp although it’s unclear which leg he’s favoring.
The elevator door opens. The cop with the sunglasses steps into the compartment and holds the door for the big man. The other cop and the big man get in.
The janitor calls, “Can you wait for me, please?”
The big man says, “Fuck off” in his high, aggrieved voice and pushes the button to close the door.
The janitor drops the case of bottles with a crash and makes a leap for the elevator. He has an automatic pistol in one hand and a bottle of cleaning solution in the other. The policeman wearing sunglasses makes a snatch at his gun, but the automatic in the janitor’s hand jumps twice with a muffled sound like
pfuttt
, and blows a pair of holes in the elevator’s back wall. Both cops raise their hands above waist level, the big man screaming for them to shoot. He flails at the elevator doors with small, plump hands, as though he thinks he can hurry their closing.
The janitor reaches the elevator as the doors start to slide shut. He pitches the bottle of cleaning solution, overhand, between thedoors. It smashes against the wall, and the hallway fills with the scent of gasoline. One of the policemen tries to force his way out, but the janitor shoots him low in the stomach, and the cop is thrown back against the wall. He slides down into the pool of gasoline on the floor, his hands grasping his abdomen, his eyes wide, his mouth opening and closing. The sunglasses fall off his nose and land in his lap, which is a bright, shiny red. The big man is screaming and kicking at the fallen policeman. The other cop backs to the far side of the elevator as though he’s hoping he can push his way through the wall. Just before the elevator doors meet, the janitor yanks a handful of wooden matches from the pocket of his work shirt, strikes them on the zipper on his pants, and pitches them into the elevator, shouting four words as he backs away.
But not fast enough. The plume of flame billowing through the narrow gap between the closing doors is so hot it burns off his eyebrows and eyelashes.
The screams grow fainter as the car
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