Small Apartments Read Online Free PDF Page B

the breezeway.
    Franklin froze. He listened. He waited. He could feel his pulse pounding in his ears. Nothing happened.
    Franklin knew that if Mr. Allspice were to materialize from behind his apartment door, the jig most definitely would be up. He worked the outside door around Mr. Olivetti’s stiff elbow and pulled him onto the porch. Franklin, hands on knees, was panting. Five stone steps and twenty feet of sidewalk separated Mr. Olivetti and the trunk of Franklin’s Pontiac T1000. Franklin could not recall when he had been so winded. Good golly, thought Franklin, I’m having a hell of a time moving this fat bastard.
    From the sidewalk behind him Franklin heard the jingle of a dog’s collar. He could not bear to turn around but he looked anyhow. Across the street was a young man he did not recognize wearing a leather jacket with chains jangling around the shoulders, walking his Rottweiler. The dog walker was looking right at him but Franklin had no idea what he was able to see. He and Franklin locked eyes for an instant. Franklin nodded like a good neighbour. The dog, sniffing the ground and pulling the leash, tugged the dog walker forward a few steps. He turned the corner and headed north up Dewitt.
    Thank god nobody in this city gives a good goddamn what you’re up to anymore, he thought. Hey buddy, I have my dead landlord here wrapped in blankets. Want to have a looky-loo?
    The dog walker gave Franklin a powerful surge of adrenaline. He pulled the body to the edge of the porch and let Mr. Olivetti’s feet dangle over the first stone step. Franklin grabbed the red Radio Flyer wagon and placed it at the base of the steps. He pulled Mr. Olivetti by the feet down the steps (bumpitybump) and hoisted him face up onto the wagon. Franklin went around to the front of the wagon and began to pull it towards the street by the handle. The hard, plastic wheels ground against the cement and created an awful racket. (This was a bad idea. Bad idea.) Franklin started running backwards, pulling the wagon with both hands clenched firmly around the handle. Suddenly he heard the creak of flimsy metal and the arm and handle of the wagon snapped off in his hands.
    Franklin let out a girlish shriek and whipped the broken handle into the neighbour’s shrubs.
    He dashed to the rear of the wagon, grabbed two fistfuls of Mr. Olivetti’s flabby thighs, and started to run on the balls of his feet towards the Pontiac’s open trunk. The hard plastic tires roared against the pavement. The end of the sidewalk was not flush and the front tires slammed against the lip, sending Mr. Olivetti sailing ass over teakettle. Franklin found himself snarled in the green army blanket and shrieked again as he spun 360 degrees to see if anyone was witness to this morbid burlesque.
    Mr. Olivetti was on his back, smiling. Franklin squatted beside him (keep your back straight, lift with your legs) and slowly lifted Mr. Olivetti like a wounded dog.
    “Oof,” groaned Franklin as he rose to his feet. He waddled over the curb and deposited the body into the trunk, nearly falling in with it.
    Franklin slammed the trunk shut and the porch light popped on. He wheeled around in terror to see Mr. Allspice standing inside the breezeway in his blue-striped flannel pyjamas. Mr. Allspice stepped out onto the porch.
    “Why was the porch light off?”
    “Um (pant), I (pant), uh (pant),” Franklin struggled to catch his breath. His clothes were soaked in sweat. “I think it’s busted.”
    “It’s not busted, you fool,” said Mr. Allspice. “All I did was turn it on.”
    “Oh. Good job then,” said Franklin. “I think you fixed it.”
    Mr. Allspice moved another stride closer to the stone steps.
    “What is all the commotion out here?” asked Mr. Allspice.
    “I’m packing.”
    “Packing?” said Mr. Allspice. “At this hour? Are you leaving on a trip?”
    “I’m moving,” said Franklin. “I’m moving to, um … Switzerland.”
    “Oh, well that is good