T Is for Trespass

conflict for one day, I decided to pay a visit to the Guffeys out in Colgate. Richard Compton had left a message the day before on my office machine, indicating that the Guffeys still hadn’t paid their rent. He’d gone into court Friday morning and filed a Complaint of Unlawful Detainer, which he wanted me to serve. “You can add it to your invoice. I’ve got the paperwork right here.”
    I might have argued the point, but he’d given me a lot of work of late, and Saturday is a good day for catching people at home. “I’ll swing by your house on the way out there,” I said.

19
    I fired up my trusty Mustang and made the detour to Compton’s house on the Upper East Side. Then I headed north on the 101. Deadbeats tend to be centrally located. Certain neighborhoods and certain enclaves, being run-down and cheap, apparently attract like-minded individuals. Perhaps some people, even those in the crudest circumstances, were still living beyond their means and therefore got sued, served, and summoned to court by those to whom they were indebted. I could imagine a population of the fiscally irresponsible exchanging tricks of the trade: promises, partial payments, talk of checks in the mail, bank errors, and lost envelopes. These were the people who imagined they were somehow exempt from accountability. Most matters that passed through my hands spoke of those who felt entitled to swindle and deceive. They cheated their employers, stiffed their landlords, and blew off their bills. Why not? Going after them took time and money and netted their creditors little. People without assets are bulletproof. You can threaten all you like, but there’s nothing to collect.
    I circled the four-building complex, checking the space in the carport assigned to Apartment 18. Empty. Either they’d sold their vehicle (assuming they had one to begin with) or they were out on a happy Saturday jaunt. I continued around the block and pulled up across the street from their apartment. I took a paperback mystery novel from my shoulder bag and found my place. I read in the peace and quiet of my car, glancing up at intervals to see if the Guffeys had come home.
    At 3:20, sure enough, I heard a car rattling and coughing like an old crop duster on approach. I looked up in time to see a banged-up Chevrolet sedan turn down the alleyway and into the Guffeys’ carport. The vehicle resembled many I’ve seen advertised by vintage-car nuts who buy and sell “classic” cars composed entirely of rust and dings. Dismantled, the parts were worth more than the whole. Jackie Guffey and a man I pegged as her husband came around the corner of the building with their arms loaded with bulging plastic bags from a nearby discount store. Their failure to pay their rent must have given them lots of extra cash to spend. I waited until they’d disappeared into the apartment and then I got out of my car.
    I crossed the street, climbed the stairs, and knocked on their door. Alas, no one deigned to respond. “Jackie? Are you in there?”
    After a moment, I heard a muffled “No.”
    I squinted at the door. “Is that Patty?”
    Silence.
    I said, “Is Grant home?”
    Silence.
    “Anyone?”
    I took out a roll of duct tape and affixed the notice of unlawful detainer to the front door. I knocked on the door again and said, “Mail’s here.”
    On my way home, I slid by the row of boxes outside the main post office and sent a second copy of the notice to the Guffeys by first-class mail.

    Monday morning, I woke early, feeling anxious and out of sorts. Henry’s quarrel with Charlotte had unsettled me. I lay on my back, covers pulled up to my chin, and stared up at the clear Plexiglas skylight above my bed. Still dark as pitch outside, but I could see a sprinkling of stars so I knew the sky was clear.
    I have a low tolerance for conflict. As an only child, I got along with myself very well, thanks. I was happy being in my room alone, where I could color in my coloring book, using the crayons from my 64-shade box with the sharpener built right in. Many coloring books were dumb, but my aunt made a point of purchasing the better specimens. I could also play with my teddy bear, whose mouth would lever open if you pressed a button under its chin. I’d feed the bear hard candy and then turn him over and undo the zipper in his back. I’d remove the candy from the little metal box that passed for a tummy and eat it myself. The bear never complained. This is still my notion