The Little Men by Megan Abbott Page B

a roommate?
A pet? It was too dark to tell. When it came
once more, it was almost like a voice shushing.
    â€œI’m late,” she said, taking a step back, her
heel caving slightly.
    â€œOh,” he said, taking a puff. “Next time.”
    That night, she woke, her mouth dry from
gin, at two o’clock. She had been dreaming she
was on an exam table and a doctor with an
enormous head mirror was leaning so close to
her she could smell his gum: violet. The ringlight
at its center seemed to spin, as if to hypnotize
her.
    She saw spots even when she closed her
eyes again.
    The next morning, the man in Number Three
was there again, shadowed just inside the window
frame, watching the comings and goings
on the courtyard.
    Head thick from last night’s gin and two
morning cigarettes, Penny was feeling what
her mother used to call “the hickedty ticks.”
    So, when she saw the man, she stopped and
said briskly, “What did you mean yesterday?
‘She finally got one’?”
    He smiled, laughing without any noise, his
shoulders shaking.
    â€œMrs. Stahl got one, got you,” he said. “As
in: Will you walk into my parlor? said the spider
to the fly.”
    When he leaned forward, she could see the
stripes of his pajama top through the shiny
threads of his velvet sleeve. His skin was rosy
and wet looking.
    â€œI’m no chump, if that’s your idea. It’s good
rent. I know good rent.”
    â€œI bet you do, my girl. I bet you do. Why
don’t you come inside for a cup? I’ll tell you a
thing or two about this place. And about your
Number Four.”
    The bungalow behind him was dark, with
something shining beside him. A bottle, or
something else.
    â€œWe all need something,” he added cryptically,
winking.
    She looked at him. “Look, mister—”
    â€œFlant. Mr. Flant. Come inside, miss. Open
the front door. I’m harmless.” He waved his
pale pink hand, gesturing toward his lap mysteriously.
    Behind him, she thought she saw something moving in the darkness over his slouching
shoulders. And music playing softly. An
old song about setting the world on fire, or
not.
    Mr. Flant was humming with it, his body
soft with age and stillness, but his milky eyes
insistent and penetrating.
    A breeze lifted and the front door creaked
open several inches, and the scent of tobacco
and bay rum nearly overwhelmed her.
    â€œI don’t know,” she said, even as she moved
forward.
    Later, she would wonder why, but in that
moment, she felt it was definitely the right
thing to do.
    The other man in Number Three was not as
old as Mr. Flant but still much older than
Penny. Wearing only an undershirt and
trousers, he had a moustache and big round
shoulders that looked gray with old sweat.
When he smiled, which was often, she could
tell he was once matinee-idol handsome, with
the outsized head of all movie stars.
    â€œCall me Benny,” he said, handing her a
coffee cup that smelled strongly of rum.
    Mr. Flant was explaining that Number Four
had been empty for years because of something
that happened there a long time ago.
    â€œSometimes she gets a tenant,” Benny reminded
Mr. Flant. “The young musician with
the sweaters.”
    â€œThat did not last long,” Mr. Flant said.
    â€œWhat happened?”
    â€œThe police came. He tore out a piece of
the wall with his bare hands.”
    Penny’s eyebrows lifted.
    Benny nodded. “His fingers were hanging
like clothespins.”
    â€œBut I don’t understand. What happened
in Number Four?”
    â€œSome people let the story get to them,”
Benny said, shaking his head.
    â€œWhat story?”
    The two men looked at each other.
    Mr. Flant rotated his cup in his hand.
    â€œThere was a death,” he said softly. “A man
who lived there, a dear man. Lawrence was his
name. Larry. A talented bookseller. He died.”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œBoy did he,” Benny said.