Invasion of Privacy

small living room.
    There was a La-Z-Boy recliner in front of the television set, a TV tray to the side of the recliner. Animal crackers were scattered on the tray, which also held a glass of milk. Videos of some Disney animated features lay jumbled next to the VCR, a cable box on top of the television itself. From hooks on the wall hung gardening equipment, like his rake, hedge clippers, and so on. Next to the gardening gear was a snow shovel, an ice scraper, and a few more winter-weather tools.
    No pictures or photos, though, and no other furniture in the room, either. “Looks comfortable, Paulie.”
    “Yeah.” Fogerty went toward the recliner, then stopped. “Wait.” He bustled into another room, I assumed the bedroom. I could see a second door, probably for a bath. The galley kitchen was spotless.
    Fogerty came back with a gray, metal folding chair, opening it for me. I thanked him and sat down as he took the recliner and leaned it back to the halfway position.
    Then he seemed to notice the glass on his tray and started to get up. “You want some milk?”
    “No, thanks.”
    “You sure? I got more, and it’s good milk.”
    “No, really.” I leaned forward in the chair, my elbows on my knees. “Paulie, I was wondering if you were around here last night.”
    “I’m around every night.”
    “What time did you go to bed?”
    “I don’t know. After dinner, I think about the tools for a while, so I know what I’m gonna do tomorrow. Then I watch TV till I get sleepy.”
    “But you worked on the grounds before that.”
    A blink. “The grounds?”
    “Around the complex here?”
    “Oh, yeah. I’m the super. I work for Mr. Hend’ix.”
    “When you were working, did you see Mr. Dees?”
    A blink and a nod. “I see him all the time.”
    “Did you see him last night?”
    Just the blink. “I don’t know.”
    “Did you see him loading anything into a car?”
    “He has a lot of papers. I help him sometimes.”
    I recalled Dees as I’d first seen him, carrying a box and paperwork while coming down the path of his unit. “How about suitcases?”
    “No. I help him with his papers. Boxes, sometimes.”
    “Paulie, I mean, did you see Mr. Dees putting any suitcases in a car?”
    “No. I help him with his papers in boxes.”
    “How about an orange car?”
    The hang-jaw smile. “The nice lady.”
    I made myself slow down. “Yes, the nice lady. Did she come to visit Mr. Dees?”
    “She comes to see him a lot.”
    “How about last night, Paulie?”
    “Last night?”
    “Yes. Did you see her last night?”
    The blink. “I don’t know, but she’s nice. I helped her too.”
    “Helped her how?”
    “She had a lot of bags one time, from the store. She couldn’t carry them all, so I helped her.”
    “And she drove an orange car.”
    A blink and a nod. “The only orange car I ever saw.”
    “Did you see the car last night?”
    Blink. “I don’t know.”
    Dead end. “Paulie, how did the nice lady get into Mr. Dees’ house?”
    “Unit.”
    “I’m sorry?”
    “Unit. Mr. Dees has a unit, just like Mr. Eh-men-dor and everybody. I have the house.” He looked around proudly.
    “Unit, right. How did the nice lady get in?”
    A blink and a nod. It was hypnotic after a while. “She had a key.”
    I smiled. “Do you have a key too?”
    “No. I’m the super. I don’t need a key for the trees and the grass and the tennis courts and the—”
    “Right, Paulie. Do you know if anybody else has a key to the unit Mr. Dees lives in?”
    “Mr. Hend’ix. I work for him.” The hang-jaw smile. “I’m the super.”
    I nodded this time, Paulie Fogerty gazing at me happily, molded to his chair like a seal on a rock in the sunshine.

    Leaving the prefab house, I drove to the front of the complex, hoping the brown Toyota or the orange Porsche would magically appear by the yellow-trimmed cluster. Neither did.
    Parking farther along the leaf-shaped access road in front of another quartet of townhouses, I walked back toward the Stepanians’ door. Looking around quickly and seeing nobody, I went behind their unit. At the rear deck, I lifted a long, stiff-tined fork from their barbecue, hoping the committee meeting would keep them away for an hour or so more.
    At the next deck, I climbed over the low railing belonging to Andrew Dees—or Alfonso DiRienzi, take your pick. A set of drapes was drawn across the inside of the glass door, only darkness on the floor beneath the hems. Using the fork as a jimmy, I