Paul was late. Strauss wondered if he should worry. But then, a jiggle of keys. The apartment door stuck for a moment, warped from years of humidity, followed by a muffled obscenity and a swift kick. It flew open.
Strauss barely evaded the business end of an army surplus boot. Undeterred, he stood to the side, and waited. His roommate was always grumpy when he came home. He just needed a minute.
Paul flicked on the kitchen light. It did nothing to improve his appearance. Ashen with toothpick limbs and spider tattoos spread across taut skin like gangrene, he could easily be mistaken for a corpse. A dim bulb glinted briefly off an eyebrow piercing as he opened the refrigerator. The top shelf had rows of yogurt cups lined up, from banana to vanilla. Perfectly ordered bottles of flavored mineral waters lined the second. Not to be outdone, the bottom shelf overflowed with cheeses, grouped by country of origin. And the vegetable crisper always contained the same thing, one eggplant. Every Tuesday he tossed it and replaced it with a new one.
Strauss’s eyes misted up. He loved this guy.
Paul took a yogurt and carefully peeled the foil label from the top. He rolled it into a thin cigar, placed it into a plastic sandwich bag, sealed it, and then dropped it in the trash. He sank into a leather recliner, unbuttoning the collar of his convenience store uniform with his free hand. It was the only furniture in the small living room other than a large plasma TV. He flipped through the stations and noticed Strauss by the door. He pulled off a boot and made a halfhearted attempt to hit him. It swung wide. Paul sighed and settled back into his chair. He made no attempt to get the boot back.
Strauss edged closer to watch the news with his roomie. An impossibly blond reporter with a mole on her chin stood in an Insta-Mart parking lot. She pointed at a lone red tennis shoe on the asphalt. “No one witnessed the kidnapping of store manager Dewey Smith. If anyone has any information of his whereabouts you are encouraged to call the crime line.” The picture flashed back to a news anchor behind a desk scratching his nose. He looked startled to see the camera focused on him. He looked at his notes and asked, “Barbie, is there any evidence that this was a robbery gone bad?”
Barbie flashed a plastic smile. “Investigators are looking into all possibilities. They were able to discern quite quickly that nothing was stolen since, as they state, 'This is the most organized store they have ever seen.' ''
Paul smiled.
Interesting. Paul's boss had gone missing. How sad for him.
Strauss got a whiff of something rank, something familiar. It was stronger near the air vent. He approached Paul with his hand clamped over his nose and pointed at the vent. “You don't smell that?” he asked.
The look Paul gave him could best be described as disgusted bafflement. Strauss saw him eye his other boot and took the hint. If his roomie wouldn't help then he'd just have to investigate on his own.
He headed for the laundry room in the basement. His friend Stu was on the stairwell. He was gnawing on a chicken wing and scratching his butt. Not the classiest guy but a decent sort.
Stu smiled, wiping grease from his chin. “What’s up?”
“I thought I smelled something interesting in the basement.”
Stu's ears perked up. “You mean, other than the usual?”
“It smells fresh.”
“Oooohhhh. Lead the way.”
Strauss and Stu crept into the laundry room. A sickening odor immediately assaulted them. And it was stifling hot, the thermostat stuck on ninety. Not for the first time Strauss realized that their super really sucked. But then, they counted on that.
“Whoa.” Stu buried his face in his armpit, notable since Stu was known to bathe in trash heaps. Then, steeling himself, he headed for the utility closet. His toenails clicked on the cement floor.
“Dude, you really need a pedi,” Strauss said.
Stu stopped in his tracks and looked over his shoulder. “And you need to spend less time with your weirdos. My toes are fine.”
Strauss shrugged. “I'm just saying.”
“Whatever.” Stu looked in the utility closet, his tail curled at the tip. “Well, here it is.”
Strauss looked over his shoulder. A body was stuffed in the main air duct that led from the central air to the rest of the building. Feet dangled from the opening. One had a dingy white sock and the other a red tennis shoe, laces flapping under a blast of hot air.
Stu’s whiskers splayed out like an anemone across his snout. “What kind of moron would stash a body here?”
Footsteps echoed in the stairwell. Paul walked in; a black tennis shoe in his hand. He saw Strauss and Stu next to the body. His lips pulled back, baring square brown teeth. He lunged forward with the shoe raised over his head. They scattered and watched from the relative safety of the exit. Still scowling, Paul reached for the shoeless foot dangling from the vent. Ah. Strauss understood. The symmetry was off. It must have been driving Paul insane that his feet were unbalanced. The black shoe was a little small but he managed to squeeze it onto Dewey's foot. He left the laundry room, giving Strauss and Stu the finger as he passed them.
“Someone’s going to notice the smell,” Stu said. “Then the police can have him.”
Strauss sat back on his haunches. “They won't if they can't find the body.”
“Spider Boy tried to flatten us and you want to bail him out?”
“Yes.”
“That's it?” Stu said. “You like this creep?”
“I do.” Strauss headed out the door. “Get the others to move the body.”
Stu cursed under his breath. It would be a long morning.
Strauss scampered up the stairs. He wanted this relationship to work out. His last roommate had been a chain-smoking slob, and worst of all, subsisted on TV dinners and cheap beer. The horror of it all.
The apartment door was closed so he entered through the kitchen window. His nose perked up. Slices of Swiss and Gouda were lined up in neat little stacks on the cutting board. Strauss watched Paul take a piece of Gouda and place it carefully in a rat trap. He set it in front of the cubbyhole in the living room wall that Strauss called home.
His whiskers quivered. The bastard. He watched Paul set the remaining traps. When he was done, he went back to the cutting board and saw Strauss perched on the window ledge. Their eyes met, one soulless and the other with shattered benevolence. Paul grabbed the knife as Strauss leapt forward and let out a piercing screech. The air shook under a wave of fur, tiny claws, and pointy teeth, erupting from every nook and shadow. They carried Paul to the basement, to the secret concealed behind the walls, a dark place for those who hate rats.
Strauss made a mental note to bring it up in the next HOA meeting. They were running out of space and needed to expand their tunnels. Keeping one's neighborhood clean and friendly was a never-ending task.
But for the moment, he sat in Paul's recliner and popped a morsel of Swiss into his mouth. He was going to miss the cheese.
