I pressed the buzzer for Mrs. McCullough's flat. "Yeah?" the voice screeched from the speaker.
"It's Mike Daniel, I'm here with the..."
"Why are you buzzing me, Daniels? You live in the goddamned building."
Such a pleasant woman! Mrs. Gladys McCullough, the landlady from hell. Short, stout, freckled, and perpetually complaining about some ache or malady. Her face is frozen in an unbreakable grimace.
I walked up a flight. She was waiting at the door. "What do you want, Daniels?"
I don't even bother to correct her anymore. "I'm here with the rent."
I don't even bother to correct her anymore. "I'm here with the rent."
"Good God Almighty! Four days early! What'd you hit it big at the track?"
"I don't have any luck at the track."
"You don't have any luck, period," she inferred. I wasn't sure that I disagreed. "And what's with that broad runnin' outta here at seven in the morning? Didn't I tell you about having women upstairs?"
"That was a client."
"Not at seven in the morning," Mrs. Wonderful argued.
"Can you just give me a receipt?" I asked. I felt sorry for the old cow, but I wasn't in the mood to put up with her senseless abuse.
"Yeah, wait a minute. I gotta find my glasses. My back is killing me."
She counted the money - twice - and handed me a receipt. Her memory isn't reliable, and I don't want to get into an argument when she forgets that I've paid her already.
"I thought you was moving out with all that banging upstairs," she said cryptically.
"Banging?" I asked. I was puzzled. I'm careful not to make too much noise given that I prefer to work at night.
"Yeah, a little while after your chickie left, there. I was gonna call the cops, but the banging stopped before I could get to the phone."
"I apologize, Mrs. McCullough." I was biting my tongue. "I know how much noise bothers you, and I won't let it happen again."
"Well, we're square here, Daniels. You paid early this month. Oh my God, I have to sit down."
"Thank you, Mrs. McCullough."
I dashed upstairs. The door was open. The place had been ransacked.
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