Men of the Mean Streets

by Greg Herren

  She came up beside me. I stepped away from the door, but could still hear them as I refilled my coffee. “Yes, Blaine?” She asked, lowering her voice.

  “We’re going to take Dufour down to the station while the lab finishes processing the apartment. Do you want to talk to him before they take him?”

  “No, have someone take his statement. I’ll finish interviewing Mr. Spencer and head down.”

  “All right.”

  She shut the door and sat back down on the love seat. “Sorry about that, Mr. Spencer.” She flipped through her little notepad. “Where were we? Oh yes, you were saying there was something about the Dufours you didn’t like?”

  I took another drink from my coffee. “I wish I could be more specific, but I really can’t. I remember when Mildred—the lady who owns the property—hired him, and they were moving into the house…he worked on gutting my side of the house during the day and was fixing up a few rooms for them to live in on Mildred’s side…”

  “So you’re a renter?”

  “Yes, I’ve lived on the 1367 side of the house for about six years. The property owner, Mildred Savage, lives on the other side. Well, not now, obviously. She and her husband are living with some friends down on Jefferson Avenue. And I’m living here in the carriage house, until the house is done. Bill’s doing my side first.” I gestured around the small room, the piles of boxes. “This place is kind of cramped, as you can see.” I gave her a small smile. “I know I shouldn’t complain—at least I have a place to live.”

  “This neighborhood didn’t flood, did it?”

  “No, our roof came off.” I laughed, shaking my head at the irony. “Unlike most people, we had water from above, not below. I lost everything on the second floor—all the furniture and everything was ruined, my clothes—my bedroom was upstairs.” I waved at the piles of boxes. “Everything I was able to salvage is in these boxes.”

  “You evacuated, I gather?”

  “Yes. I went and stayed with my sister up north. Indianapolis—a horrible place.” I made a face. “I couldn’t wait to get back here as soon as possible. And the carriage house was open, so Mildred let me move in here while the house is being worked on. It was very kind of her. Otherwise I’d have been stuck up there for God knows how long.”

  “How long have you been back?”

  “I came back on October eleventh. There was still a lot of debris from the roof around. I cleaned it all up, and moved whatever I could salvage out of my side of the house in here. It’s a little cramped. Cozy, I guess. Are you sure you don’t want any coffee?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Well, excuse me while I get some more.” I got up and refilled my cup. “If I don’t drink a pot every morning, I’m useless for the rest of the day.” I sighed. “And I have some work to do today—a deadline.”

  “What do you do for a living, Mr. Spencer?”

  “Well, I’m a photographer—that’s my real passion, but I mostly make my living from doing graphic design work.” I sighed. “I work from home, and this place is so small I can’t really…I’ve thought about renting office space somewhere, but…I keep thinking the house will be finished and everything will go back to normal.”

  She nodded sympathetically. “So, the Dufours moved onto the property how long ago?”

  “About three months or so ago.” I shrugged. “March? Yes, it was March, I think…since Katrina I can’t keep track of dates and things—which is a problem when you work on deadlines.” I took another sip of coffee. “But like I said, at first they seemed nice, but you know, I’m not really used to being around people much.” I laughed. “I’ve always worked at home, you know, and do most of my communication with clients over the phone or through e-mail. I didn’t really leave the house much before the storm…but since the storm, you know, being the only person here on the property and the rest of the block being deserted, I felt kind of lonely, you know? I never felt it before the storm. Only after.”

  “I understand what you mean. The storm changed everything, didn’t it? The way we look at things?”

  “Exactly. I remember the day they moved in…it was a nice, sunny day. Mildred had called and told me they’d be moving in—I couldn’t believe anyone was willing to live in the house the way it was—but they did! At that age, they were basically living like squatters while he redid the walls and floors in the back bedroom and the bathroom and the kitchen…”

  *

  The sound of hammering drew me out of the carriage house with my coffee mug. It was a gorgeous March afternoon—seventy degrees or so, white wisps of clouds drifting across a blue sky, and a warm breeze rustling the crepe myrtles running along the property line fence.

  The Dufours had moved in three days earlier, and my mood was good. After six months in the carriage house, there was an end in sight.

  At last.

  I walked to the back door to Mildred’s side of the house. The door was open, and I could see Bill hammering at the moldy walls in what had been Mildred’s utility room at one point. The room was now empty—everything in it had been ruined. He looked up as I climbed the four wooden steps to the door frame, a big smile on my face. “Hey there, Joe, what do you think?” He put the hammer down and put his hands on his hips. He puffed his chest out.

  “I just thought I’d look in and see how things are going. Wow.” I whistled. “You certainly have gotten stuff done around here.”

  “I like to work.” He preened a bit. He was wearing dirty overalls with a red flannel shirt underneath.

  “Where’s Maureen?” I leaned against the door frame.

  “The Laundromat. That woman sure likes to do laundry.”

  “She drags the laundry down to the Laundromat?” I gaped at him, not believing my ears.

  “Yup, she sure does.” He gestured me to follow him into the next room. The sun shone through the windows into what used to be Mildred’s kitchen. He pointed proudly at the new plasterboard. “Look at these walls! Now, that’s some quality workmanship, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, yes it is.” I touched the wall closest to me and returned his smile.

  But couldn’t get the image of the old woman dragging a laundry bag down the sidewalk out of my mind.

  “This is the kind of work I’m doing on your place. Should be done gutting everything tomorrow, got some Mexicans coming to help haul the shit out. Once that’s out, I’ve got the electrical guys and the plumber coming out to get all that fixed up nice. Then I can start on your walls.”

  “That’s great,” I said, my heart starting to lift. I’ll be in my home in no time, I thought happily, finishing my coffee—and made a decision. “Bill, you know—I’m a little worried about Maureen. She shouldn’t have to go to the Laundromat. I mean, that’s a long way for her to go, dragging loads of laundry down to the corner. And she’s not—” I hesitated.

  Bill threw his head back and roared with laughter. “You can say it, son. She’s not young. I know that, son, I’m married to her, you know! She’s seventy-eight.”

  “And she shouldn’t be dragging the laundry to the corner,” I insisted.

  “She has a cart, Joe. Don’t worry about her. She’s fine. She’s like my second wife—”

  “Your second wife?”

  “Yup, that’s right, Maureen’s my fourth wife. I’ve already buried three, son, and I’ll probably bury her, too.” He laughed again. “I’ll just find another one when that day comes, I suppose. A man needs a wife, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, I suppose.”

  “Why aren’t you married, Joe?”

  “I was.” I stepped out onto the back stairs. “Well, I just wanted to stop by and say hello.”

  “Stop by any time you like.”

  He started pounding at the walls again as I went down the stairs.

  My mind was made up.

  *

  “So, you offered to let her use your washer and dryer? That was kind of you.” Venus smiled at me.

  “I could
n’t stop thinking about her dragging it all the way down to the corner. I couldn’t get that image out of my mind all night. She was a seventy-eight-year-old woman, for God’s sake, and I couldn’t understand why he would let her do that, cart or no cart. She had one—I saw her with it the next morning, bringing in the groceries from her car. You know, one of those old-lady carts with four wheels that you can load up with just about anything? I mean, Mildred’s washer and dryer were damaged—I dragged them out to the curb myself. But mine was in the back just beyond the kitchen, and they worked just fine. I used them all the time. And so the more I thought about it, the more it really bothered me…so I decided the next time I saw Maureen, I’d tell her to just use mine…”

  *

  The very next day, I ran into Maureen at the front gate. I’d run some errands and had stopped to get some things at the grocery store.

  “Morning, Joe!” She beamed at me. Her iron-gray hair was wrapped up in a babushka. She was maybe five-four in her white Keds. She was wearing a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt.

  “Good morning—um, I see you’re off to the Laundromat.”

  “Yes, it sure does seem to pile up. I swear, I’m doing laundry every day, it seems!” She laughed. “Good thing Bill bought me this cart. I’d hate to have to carry a basket all the way down there. I mean, sure it’s just the corner—I’m sure a handsome, strong young man like you could easily carry a laundry basket all that way, but an old lady like me—well, good thing I’ve got the cart.”

  “Yes, well, I’ve been meaning to tell you—”

  She cut me off. “Where’ve you been? You’re usually not out and about this early!” She peered at my grocery bags.

  “I had to mail some things, and I had to pick up some things at the Sav-A-Center.” I smiled back at her. “Maureen, I’ve been meaning to tell you—you know, you don’t have to take your clothes to the Laundromat.”

  “They aren’t going to wash themselves!” She guffawed loudly at the thought of it.

  “There’s a perfectly good washer and dryer in my side of the house, just sitting there. You know you can use them instead of going to the Laundromat. I mean, I don’t use them that much myself, and well, I just hate the thought of you—”

  A smile spread across her wrinkled face. “Oh, thank you, Joe! That’s so nice of you! I told Bill what a nice young man you are, and that is so kind! I swear, I won’t be a moment’s trouble. I won’t make you sorry you offered! That would be so much easier—I wouldn’t have to sit there and wait for the clothes, you know how they always say at the Laundromat they’ll throw unattended clothes right in the garbage, can you imagine that, and I just can’t see telling Bill his best shirt was thrown away, you can only imagine the temper that man has, no sir, so I sit there and wait for the clothes. Oh, thank you thank you, thank you!”

  I winked at her. “You can start with that load, Maureen.”

  And I walked back to the carriage house.

  *

  Venus perked up. “She told you he has a temper, did she? Did she sound like she was afraid of him?”

  “Well, that was the first time I heard about it. But I used to hear him yelling at her sometimes, late at night. Well, late at night for them. They were usually in bed by nine.”

  “Was this frequent?”

  “She didn’t have a heart attack, did she?”

  “If you don’t mind, Mr. Spencer, I’ll ask the questions.”

  “Did he kill her?”

  “Mr. Spencer—”

  I crossed my arms. “I’m not answering another question until you tell me what’s going on.”

  “Someone killed Mrs. Dufour, yes.” She inhaled. “We’re gathering evidence, Mr. Spencer, and that’s why you need to answer my questions.”

  “Murdered. Someone killed her. Murdered.” I shivered. “My God, the door to their rooms is just twenty feet maybe from my front door… Did someone break in? Climb the fence? Oh my God, oh my God!”

  “Did you hear anything last night? Anything out of the ordinary?”

  I thought for a moment. “No, no I didn’t. But I was upstairs in the bedroom watching television, and I’m afraid I had the sound up rather loud…it was really windy last night…the tarp on the roof was making a lot of noise, and so I turned the television up.”

  “Did you see either one of them last evening?”

  “I saw her, I don’t know, around six maybe? I was down here working at my desk, trying to get a rush job done. He was sanding things—you see where he has the sawhorses set up, right near my front door?—so I was having difficulty concentrating, but he finally stopped around four o’clock, I think. I finished the job right around six, and I happened to look out the window and saw her walking around the back of the house—heading for their door. I guess she was over doing some laundry on my side of the house.”

  “Did you see anything out of the ordinary?”

  “No, I pretty much saw her every day around that time. Actually, seeing her come around the house was a regular thing.” I laughed. “Doing the laundry—it was like a fetish for her.”

  “A fetish?” Venus looked puzzled.

  “I know that sounds crazy, but it’s true. She was constantly doing laundry.”

  “Surely you’re exaggerating?” Venus smiled.

  “No, I actually wish I were…”

  *

  I climbed the steps to the back door, carrying my laundry basket. I could hear the dryer running, and moaned to myself.

  Sure enough, Maureen was turning the dial on my washing machine. She pulled the dial out, and I heard water start rushing into it. I closed my eyes.

  “Why, good afternoon, Joe! Wanting to use your washing machine, I see!”

  “Well, um, yes.”

  “’Fraid I beat you to the punch, there, Joe! I just put in a load!” She laughed, winking at me with her right eye.

  “But you were doing laundry this morning…I thought you’d be finished by now.” I said slowly.

  “Oh, it just piles up when you’re not looking, doesn’t it? You’ve got to stay on top of it, you know, or you’ll be doing it for days on end!”

  “But you were using the washer all day yesterday…I really need to do a load of clothes, Maureen. I don’t have any clean underwear or socks.”

  “It does pile up when you let it go for a while, doesn’t it?”

  “But the reason it’s piling up for me is because you’re always using my washer.”

  She laughed again. “Well, Joe, there’s the two of us, you know. We dirty up twice as much as you do.”

  “But at the rate you’re using my washing machine, you and Bill would have to be changing clothes every hour.”

  “Oh, Joe, you are the funny one! Talk to you later!” Still laughing, she went out the back door.

  I bit my lip. I set my laundry basket down on the floor. What the hell is she washing all day, anyway? I asked myself. I walked over to the washing machine, and opened the lid. I stared down into my washer in disbelief.

  There were two dish-towels floating in the sudsy water.

  “What the—” I couldn’t stop staring at the towels. I slammed the lid down, and the machine started agitating again.

  Is she insane?

  I bit my lip and reached for the dryer door, and opened it.

  An LSU baseball cap nestled in the bottom of the dryer.

  A baseball cap.

  “Dear God in heaven, what is wrong with that woman?” I said out loud.

  *

  “She was doing a load of just two dish towels? And another load that was just a baseball cap?” She clearly didn’t believe me—it was written all over her face. “You’re exaggerating a bit there, aren’t you, Mr. Spencer?”

  “I wish I was, Detective.” I leaned back in my chair. “I sat on the back steps until I heard the washer stop, and then I went in and put my load in—I took the dish towels out and left them sitting on the dryer. I was working on a job, so I came back here and lost track of time.
About forty-five minutes later I realized my load would be done, and I could put it in the dryer, you know, start my second load. So I walked back over.” I sighed. “You’ll never guess what I found?”

  “What, Mr. Spencer?”

  “I heard the washer running when I went in the back door, you know? I was puzzled—it had been almost an hour since I started my load, you know—the baseball cap should have been finished.” I shook my head at the memory. “My wet clothes—my underwear—was sitting on top of the dryer. I opened the washer and there was another load—two bath towels—not mine—my laundry basket with the next load was still sitting there on the floor. She took MY clothes out, put them on the dryer, and even though she could see I needed to do a second load, she started a load with just two towels. TWO TOWELS!” I took a deep breath, trying to keep the rising anger down.

  “That must have been incredibly frustrating for you—”

  I cut her off, the frustration and anger bubbling up all over again. “I didn’t know what to think. I was shocked at the total lack of concern for my needs—especially since they were MY MACHINES, which I bought and paid for—and she just blithely ignored that I needed to do my own laundry, after I had told her—and then took MY stuff out of MY goddamned washer SO SHE COULD WASH TWO FUCKING TOWELS?”

  “Mr. Spencer, please calm—”

  “I’m so sorry.” I interrupted her again, taking a few deep breaths. I smiled at her. “I just don’t understand whatever happened to common courtesy. I mean, here I was, doing her a favor, and she was putting me into the position of having to BEG to use my own appliances!”

  “No good deed goes unpunished, Mr. Spencer?”

  “Exactly. So I decided to try talking to her again.”

  “And how did that go?”

  *

  I hesitated at the back door. I could hear some big band music playing, and Maureen humming along to it. I knocked, but there was no response. I gritted my teeth and knocked louder.