Page 27 of Devil’s Disciples

While I was in mid-thought, there was a faint bang against the door. Then, another. And, another.

The door burst open.

Wearing skinny jeans, a tee shirt, and sneakers, a delicate man in his late twenties stood in the doorway. His product-infused bangs were situated high above his pale forehead, and pointing skyward.

When our eyes met, the corner of his mouth curled into a grin. “Oh. Wow. Are you the new manager?”

I smiled in return and straightened my posture. “I sure am.”

Donning a huge grin on his boyish face, he stepped inside and pushed the door ajar. “I’m Stephen Hinkle. I live in 2-A.”

“I’m Andy.” I looked him over, and wondered how much he weighed. Less than me, I decided. “Andy Winslow. What can I do for you?”

“There’s been some odd noises coming from upstairs.”

I felt if he continued to stand, that his bones may break from the stress. I gestured toward the empty chair in front of my desk. “What kind of noises?”

He looked the chair over, brushed the surface of the seat clean, and then sat down. “Strange ones. Drilling sounds. Pounding.” He crossed his legs. “And an awful scraping sound. You know, like when the construction guys were cutting the concrete sidewalks across the street.”

I was intrigued. Before I could comment, he continued.

“You weren’t here when they were doing that, so you probably don’t know what it sounds like. It’s nothing short of hideous.”

His fingernails were freshly manicured, and looked much better than mine. I hid my hands beneath the edge of my desk. “I can only imagine. Maybe the tenant above you is making something. Have you heard any odd noises before now?”

“When Preston lived here, there were always noises. Arguing, shouting, people coming and going throughout the night. But nothing like this. Since he left, it’s been quiet. At least until this week. I thought someone had moved in, but Michael and I knocked on the door. No one answered.”

I realized he lived below Preston-Todd’s former apartment, and found it odd that he heard anything from the unoccupied space – short of Baker’s hips slapping against my ass on Monday afternoon.

“That’s weird,” I said. “3-A is empty.”

“Well, something’s going on up there.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t from one of the other spaces?”

He looked at me as if I were foolish. “Quite. I went to Michael’s – he stays in 3B – and he said he heard it, too. He went with me to see if someone was in there.”

“But there wasn’t anyone there?”

“No.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“It started on Tuesday.” He counted on his fingers as he continued. “So, Tuesday, Wednesday, and then again last night.”

I removed a business card from my desk and wrote my cell phone number on the back. “I’ll go up there and look around.” I handed him the card. “If you hear it again tonight, you can call me on my cell. Don’t worry, I’ll get it resolved.”

He stood and slipped the card into his pocket.

“Is there anything else?” I asked

Before he could answer, the door flew open.

Dressed in a white tee shirt, jeans, and black leather boots, Baker stood in the opening. He raked his fingers through his hair, looked at Stephen, and then at me. “Bad time?”

“I was leaving,” Stephen stammered.

Baker sauntered toward the chair. Upon reaching it, he looked over his shoulder at Stephen. The air in the room thickened with tension. Then, without saying another word, Stephen left.