More Twisted

one of the gray uniforms of the apartment complex’s groundskeepers. Pullman rose and slipped into his bedroom, where he’d have a better view of the courtyard. Yes, there was no doubt. The skinny young guy was peeping. He had a small pair of binoculars. Goddamn pervert!
    Pullman’s initial reaction was to call 9–1–1 and he grabbed the phone.
    But he hit only the first digit, then thought, hold on . . .maybe he could use this somehow. He set the phone down.
    Tammy’s curtains closed. He focused on the voyeur and he felt a chill as the maintenance guy’s shoulders slumped in disappointment—like he’d been hoping to get a look at her stripping for the shower. Still, the man stayed in position, waiting for a chance to resume his spying. But then Tammy’s door opened and she stepped outside. She was wearing her pink top and tight floral pants. Her blue leather Coach purse was over her shoulder and sunglasses rode high on her head, stuck into her hair, which was loose tonight.
    The voyeur crouched down into the bushes, out of sight.
    Tammy locked her door and walked down the sidewalk toward the parking lot. Where was the maintenance man? Pullman wondered in alarm. Was he crawling closer to her? But just as Pullman snatched up the phone and started to push 9, he saw the stalker rise. He hadn’t been about to pounce; he’d only been gathering up his tools. Carrying them, he turned away from Tammy and walked in the opposite direction, toward the back of the building.
    Tammy disappeared into the lot and a moment later the rattle of her MG engine and the whine of the gears filled the night as she sped away in the little green car.
    That evening Pullman stayed close to home, ordering in a pizza and keeping a close eye on the courtyard. Hours passed without any sign of Tammy or her stalker. He nearly fell asleep, but he made some coffee, drank it down black and hot, and forced himself to stay awake so he could scope out the courtyard. Reflecting, with a shiverof excitement, that this was just like the Hitchcock thriller Rear Window, where Jimmy Stewart, housebound in a wheelchair, spends his time peering through his neighbors’ windows. It was Pullman’s favorite movie; he wondered if Tammy had ever seen it. He had a feeling she had.
    At nine p.m., still seeing no sign of Tammy or the skinny voyeur, Pullman went downstairs and around the back of his building, where he found the superintendent. He asked the man, “Who’s that young maintenance guy? The blond?”
    “Blond?” the heavyset janitor asked, pulling a strand of greasy hair off his forehead. He smelled of beer.
    “Yeah, the short guy.”
    “You said ‘blond.’ ”
    “Right, the one with blond hair,” Pullman said, frowning in frustration. “You understand who I mean?” The janitor was Anglo; there was no language barrier. Maybe he was just stupid.
    “I thought, you called somebody ‘the blonde,’ that meant a girl. Like ‘Look at the blonde.’ Nobody says that about a man. You don’t call a man ‘ the blond.’ ”
    “Yeah? Well, I don’t know about that. But he’s blond. And short. He was trimming the hedges and raking today. You know who I mean?”
    “Yeah, yeah. Him.”
    “What’s his name?”
    “I dunno. I didn’t hire him. I don’t do the grounds work. The board hired him.”
    “What’s his story?”
    “Story? He sweeps up, he rakes, he cuts the grass. That’s the story. Why?”
    “He works for a service?”
    “Yeah, a service. I guess.”
    “Is the company bonded?” Pullman asked.
    “He works for?”
    “Yeah, that company.”
    “I guess. I told you it was the board—”
    “Hired him. I know. So you don’t know anything about him.”
    “Why?”
    “Just curious.”
    The super waddled back to his apartment, frowning as if he’d been wrongly accused of something, and Pullman hurried back upstairs.
    At one a.m. Tammy returned. Looking as vibrant and sexy as when she’d left, she walked to her door and unlocked it. With a look over her shoulder, she stepped inside and slammed the door shut.
    She’d seemed a bit uneasy at the doorstep, Pullman decided, as if she’d seen or heard an intruder, and so he grabbed some binoculars and scanned the bushes. It didn’t seem that the peeper was back but he wasn’t going to take any chances. He stepped into the hallway and padded downstairs. He stood in the shadows near the stand of bushes where the voyeur had perched earlier to play his sick game.
    Flies buzzed,