Shallow Graves

Tuesdays and Fridays, in the a.m. Otherwise, it’s locked, it stays locked.“
    “Thanks.“
    We moved down the hall and under the light. Ooch reached for the knob on the right-hand door. “This here’s the boiler
    room.“
    He opened the metal door. Judging from the odor that enveloped us, it was also where the tenants put their trash before Tuesdays and Fridays. There was an unlit bulb socketed in the ceiling and dim outlines on every wall. I found the switch and got a view of old but clean oil tank, oil burner, hot water heater, even an over-and-under washer/dryer.
    Flick, sniff/sniff. “I tell them not to put their garbage in here, smell gets into the laundry when they do, but nobody listens.“
    I nodded and turned off the light.
    The other door off the hall was ajar. “This here’s my place.“
    Ooch led me into a small foyer, closet facing us and the acrid tang of liniment all around us. To the right was the living room, to the left and through a partially closed door was the corner of a bed. I stepped to the right.
    The daylight window on the Falmouth Street wall was just to the left of the little front door leading into the basement unit. The lintel was low, low enough that even Ooch at around five six would have to cringe to get under it. The window let in some sun, but not much, giving the posters on the other walls a shadowy look, like the boiler room before I’d turned on the switch.
    “Those are from my collection,“ said Ooch, pride filling his voice.
    It was pretty impressive, even if the posters weren’t framed but just pinned at the corners with thumbtacks. The cardboard was yellowing on all of them, the wild-West-style tintype a little hard to read until you got used to the shape of the capital letters. Among the headliners were a few guys you’d know even without following the fight game. Rocky Marciano, Floyd Patterson, Benny Kid Paret. The ones on the undercard you’d have to be from the area or a real fan to recognize. I saw “Carmine ‘Ooch’ Danucci“ on only two, near the bottom of both.
    “Every coupla months, I take a few down, put a few up. Like a museum does with their pictures there.“
    I looked a little closer at the two with Ooch’s name on them. They were yellower than the rest and didn’t appear to be rotated” by the curator. Ooch’s collection focused just on boxing but not just on Italian-American boxers. I thought about the posters in Joseph Danucci’s den and wondered if this style of decoration! ran in the family. I could see brother Vincent with polo players! and yachtsmen in his place.
    The rest of the furnishings weren’t much. Couch, two mismatched chairs, low coffee table. Except for a new Zenith TV, everything looked older than the hills. There was no dining f table and only a bowling alley kitchen.
    I said, “Bedroom?“ I
    The broken nose cut through the air as he indicated the back of the apartment. Bedcover tousled between a tall, solid bureau and a wobbly nightstand. Open door to the bathroom, a couple of towels on hooks. Clothes hung or heaped, maybe depending on whether they were clean or dirty. Counting the air ducts, no more than five hundred square feet of living space in the whole apartment.
    Flick, sniff/sniff. “Okay?“
    I wasn’t sure which question he was asking me. “Nice place. A Quiet.“
    “I like it quiet. Had enough noise in the ring there.“
    We left the apartment, Ooch closing the door to his place and shaking the knob to be sure it was secure. As we climbed the stairs to the first floor, he jingled some keys in his pocket, pulling them out and concentrating on them as he put his shoulder into a café-style door at the top.
    “Where do you wanna go next?“
    Coming into the building’s first-floor foyer with him, I noticed the inner door was still propped open, the area for mailboxes and a small table just before the inner surface of the outside door.
    I said, “Let’s try the front door. Can you step outside, show me how the door opens?“
    Ooch looked at me as though I belonged in kindergarten, but went to the front door. Just a spring lock as he turned the handle and went outside. The door closed pretty quietly.
    A few seconds later, Ooch opened it with a key and came back inside. “Okay?“
    “Who has keys to the front door?“
    “The front door? The bum come up the fire escape.“
    “Who has keys?“
    Ooch stopped, then began ticking off names on his fingers. “Sinead, she’s got one. Tina had one. A