Small Apartments Read Free Page B

of Franklin’s life would have improved immediately if Mr. Allspice was to suddenly disappear. Mr. Olivetti was a once-a-month problem. Mr. Allspice was a miserable bastard and an everyday pain-in-the-ass. That was a moot point now though, with a dead Mr. Olivetti sprawled out on Franklin’s kitchenette floor.
    Franklin was fat, but not stupid. He did not want to go to jail for murdering Mr. Olivetti. He had to get rid of the body. He meditated silently on his orange chair. Disposing of the body properly is where most criminals mess up and get caught. Wow, I am a criminal now, thought Franklin. I’m a wanted man. Franklin decided it would be best to brainstorm. He removed a fresh yellow legal pad from the crisper and began a list. He thought it would be fun to play Devil’s Advocate, so beside each idea he jotted down why it might not work.
    1.)
Dump him in the Buffalo or Niagara River.
How can I be sure I won’t be seen? The bodies always wash up eventually
.
    2.)
Bury him.
Where? I don’t own a shovel. It’s a lot of physical labour and I am not in the best of shape
.
    3.)
Burn him.
Again, where? Won’t the smell be too noticeable? Still, though, not the worst option
.
    4.)
Cut him up.
Not a chance. I don’t have the stomach or the proper tools
.
    5.)
Make it look like suicide.
Not bad. Must look convincing, though
.
    6.)
Car accident, ie: put him in his truck and roll him off a cliff.
What cliff? I live in the city
.
    Franklin saw some potential in these ideas. Maybe a combination of two or three of them would be just the ticket. He went to his window and looked west down Garner to Dewitt and then east to Grant Street. Mr. Olivetti’s tan 1994 Chevy S-10 was parked on the same side of the street, three doors down.
    Summer was ending and the days were getting shorter and cooler. Franklin knew he could expect it to be dark around 8 o’clock. He looked at his watch: 6:15. Franklin leaned over and squeezed Mr. Olivetti’s bare, left bicep. His skin was clammy and cold and his muscles were beginning to stiffen. It was just over eight hours since Franklin murdered his landlord.
    The body had to go tonight, and as far as Franklin was concerned, it could not get dark fast enough.
    It occurred to Franklin that the only dead person he had ever seen up close was his mother. In her casket she looked like a wax mannequin moulded to resemble his mother, he thought. She had, as she called it, “cancer of the noggin” and died twenty-six years ago on Franklin’s fifteenth birthday. Bernard was twenty-two years old and had just been accepted into graduate school at the University of Buffalo. Franklin could not ever recall seeing his mother healthy. She had no energy for playing the game of life; it seemed she decided early on that she was destined to lose it. He remembered placing a postcard depicting the Swiss Alps in her hand after the wake, before they sealed her casket forever. Those snow-tipped mountains were Franklin’s vision of Heaven.
    Franklin and Bernard had never known their father, not even his first name. Their mother forbade them to speak of him and they obeyed. For all Franklin knew, or cared, his father lived next door to him on Garner. It would not surprise him if his father were someone like Mr. Olivetti. Or Mr. Olivetti, himself.
    My mother’s death face was more serene than Mr. Olivetti’s, thought Franklin. The landlord’s frozen stare and garish grin unnerved Franklin. He reached down and closed Mr. Olivetti’s eyes with a sweep of his hand. He reached into Mr. Olivetti’s trouser pocket and pulled out the keys to his Chevy.
    Franklin had decided on some plans of action. He would wait until dark, carry Mr. Olivetti out to his truck and dump him in the back underneath the cap. He had not yet decided whether to roll the truck into the Niagara River with Mr. Olivetti in the driver’s seat, set the truck on fire and push it off a cliff, or choose a third option he had not yet thought of. He would