The Girl in White Pajamas by Chris Birdy

churning out reports that some guy from Boston was going to buy the place. People mentioned a big guy who was inspecting the property and talking numbers to the realtor. Months went by, and no one heard any more until the guy drove up in a beat-up truck. He had a muscular Latino man beside him. The Boston man didn’t look well. He was thin and walked with his shoulders stooped like he was afraid to move. His hair was all gray. Both men went over the blueprints right in front of the building pointing to areas of interest. Two days later, bulldozers moved in and took down the rental office. The construction on the main building began. Three months later, the building was complete. The man moved about better and had a nice tan. He began to look more toned than sickly. While the work was going on, the tenants were sent notices to vacate the premises. All the apartments were going to be completely overhauled. The tenants laughed believing they were going nowhere since even the cops couldn’t uproot them. The tall stranger from Boston had other ideas.
    On a Wednesday, between four and five o’clock in the morning, a caravan of U-Haul trucks pulled into the parking lot of the complex. Twenty men dressed in black, wearing balaclavas broke down doors simultaneously, carted off residents, their possessions and any paraphernalia in the apartments. By the time the sun came up, the buildings were empty and the trucks were gone. Before the workday started for most people, the apartments in building number one were being gutted.
    It didn’t take long before the neighbors noticed the change in the neighborhood. The sounds of gun shots and police sirens were replaced by loud construction noise during the day and quiet at night. Those who witnessed any part of the removal became minor celebrities. They shared stories of the speed and efficiency with which the occupants were removed. As time went on, the stories grew and had the U-Haul trucks transformed into tanks and armored personnel carriers with teams of Navy SEALS descending on the complex and carrying out body bags. No one complained or reported tenants missing. The former residents were never heard from again.
    The man from Boston was the quiet hero of the neighborhood. But the neighbors kept their distance because they believed he was dangerous and not one to be fucked with. He continued improving his property, and the neighborhoods’ property values increased.
    The unsung neighborhood hero then brought his lovely teenage daughter to live in the main building where she would be safe for the next two years until a blonde man from Dayton, Ohio moved in with his father and fell in love with her.

12 REMEMBERING IS EASY, FORGETTING IS HARD
Boston
    After running from the Omni Parker Hotel to the end of School Street, Bogie turned left onto Washington Street and raced to the end then stopped, ran in place looking for something, telling himself he had no interest in the investigation into Bud’s murder. Faint blood stains on the sidewalk could be seen by an experienced investigator. Bogie stared at One Boston Place realizing it had been given a face lift since he last saw it—more glass on the building, seating outside. Mellon Bank New York was now the primary tenant and they were showcased inside and out on the first floor. Above that, about fifteen thousand legal folks worked on filing suit against anyone, anywhere. Facing the building from across the street, Bogie noted that the old theater marquee that served as the Pi Alley sign had been replaced by a flat sign to blend in with the surrounding buildings.
    Reminding himself he had no interest in Bud’s death, Bogie picked up his pace and ran to the corner and sprinted up Court Street which seemed like little more than an extension of State Street. He turned onto Tremont Street and caught sight of the Steaming Kettle as Bailey’s lovely face and almond-shaped eyes flashed through his mind.
    After he made a quick right turn onto