This is a Cal Brink Files short story. Visit here for more short stories and to pre-order Notice of Assignment. Release date is October 27.
Recently
Cal knocked again. Three times. Louder.
In his left hand was his airplane-grade aluminum Maglite with two D-cell batteries that added some weight. His personal nightstick. The cool of late morning was still in the air. With his phone in his left front pocket and one earbud in his left ear, he said, “No answer. No noise. I am going in.”
Mallory remained silent while sitting in an office twenty-four miles away. This was the routine when Cal would visit vacant homes where trouble was suspected. Mallory was Cal’s safety net in case things didn’t go well. She could dispatch help in the form of Oscar and his crew who were just a couple miles away working on a tenant turn. Or, in one serious situation a couple months back, call in the lights and sirens of the guys with badges.
Just twenty minutes earlier Mallory had called Cal. “Where are you?”
“Raytown.”
“Do you have time to go by Northern Avenue?”
“I could make it happen. Why?”
“I just hung up with a neighbor. Same guy that kept an eye on Oscar when he was rehabbing the house. Says he saw someone in the house last night. He’s convinced of it,” Mallory said.
Cal had met the neighbor before. “He’s sure?”
Every neighborhood had a self-appointed guardian. Cal loved knowing who they were because they became unpaid watchers of the homes he cared for as a property manager. These same watchers could also become a problem themselves when they were disapproving of the contractors or tenants. Many watchers felt they had a say in who would be allowed in their neighborhood. This street’s watcher had felt it necessary to keep an eye on Oscar and his guys, Cal’s most trusted team. Oscar was a Black man.
“No,” Mallory said. “But he thought you’d want to know.”
Cal turned the key in the front door and yelled, “Realtor!” as he stepped in. The glass storm door closed behind him and he locked it from the inside. As he listened for any hint of noise, he turned back to the pea-green house across the street with the black front door and gave a wave. Though he couldn’t see the seventy-something white homeowner, Cal knew that the nosy neighbor would be watching.
Standing inside the front door on newly refurbished maple-wood floors, Cal breathed in the notes of the home like sommeliers breathe in a freshly opened bottle of Côtes du Rhône: paint, floors, carpet and that perfume house cleaners use. But there was an extra odor that spoiled the experience: weed.
“Definitely someone here,” Cal whispered through his earbud.
Mallory immediately responded, “Sending Oscar and his guys.”
Cal switched the Maglite to his right hand. “Realtor,” he announced again before heading into the dining area. The squatter treated the home as shelter and garbage can. In the living room, there were McDonald’s bags crunched up in the corner. Entering the kitchen, Cal saw a glass pipe—full of residue—on the counter, cigarette ashes in the sink, and an empty package of cigs on the stove. Cal reached for the patio door. It was still secure. The door to the basement was closed. He opened the door for a quick glance. The lights were off. Cal shut the door.
“Heading to the bedrooms,” he announced loudly. With no pictures or furnishings in the home, his voice echoed.
The home, an 1,110-square-foot robin’s-egg-blue ranch with a yellow door, was one of the newest homes in the portfolio of Cal’s property management company. He had started the company back in the Great Recession to serve his real estate investor clients. This owner, new to real estate investing, was not going to be pleased that he had just spent $42,000 and—before he could get a tenant—already had trouble.
He stopped at the bathroom and looked in. The toilet seat was up and the bowl unflushed.
Couldn’t even be bothered to flush the deuce.
Otherwise, the subway-tiled bathroom was as it should be.
Cal took three more steps toward the first bedroom on the left and prepared to swing the Maglite as he turned to enter. Nothing. The closet door was open enough that Cal knew it was empty.
Reentering the hallway, Cal turned left to the end of the hall. On his left was the second bedroom; on the right was the master. His senses told him to ignore the second bedroom. He turned into the master and saw nothing. He walked to the back wall and slowly peered into the half-bath. Nothing but a roach in the sink. Not a cockroach. The smell of weed was heaviest here.
A very slight creaking noise whipped Cal’s head around. Not a step. Not a bang. It sounded like wood being stressed.
From above.
Cal walked to the master bedroom’s closet doors. One was slightly ajar. The other fully closed. Raising his right hand with the Maglite, Cal used his left hand to open the left closet door—quickly.
No one was there.
Inside all he saw was an old, rusted two-step ladder. Cal remembered seeing it in the basement when he first toured the home. Above the ladder was the attic entrance, a two-foot-by-two-foot ceiling door panel that was firmly closed.
Below the stepladder were three pieces of gray attic insulation, the itchy kind that gets blown into attics. There was another piece on the second step of the ladder.
Assuming the squatter was right above him in the attic, Cal announced to Mallory, “I guess there is no one here on the main level but crickets. I’m going to check the basement.”
“Already on it. He’ll be there shortly,” Mallory responded.
“Crickets” was their code word. Anytime the word was spoken, there was something wrong and Cal needed help.
Cal could hear Mallory speaking on another phone. “Oscar, there is definitely someone in the house. Hurry.”
These idiots, Cal thought about the unknown squatter. He hoped it was just the one.
Walking out of the master bedroom and down the hall, Cal turned into the kitchen and opened, then closed, the basement door as loudly as possible. Next, he stood as quietly as possible against the door frame.
Glancing out the back window, he mentally noted the dilapidated swing set still needed to be removed. Safety hazard.
“One minute till they arrive,” Mallory said.
Right on cue, Cal heard the attic entry panel move, followed by the loud creaking of the stepladder and the thud of a heavy foot hitting the floor. Clumsy steps could be heard from around the corner as a younger white man came sprinting down the hallway.
Cal pushed himself off the door frame—Maglite in hand—and calmly walked out of the kitchen and into the dining room, forcing the squatter to veer toward the open front door. The rail-thin, scraggly-haired Ichabod of a man glanced at Cal, took a wide corner, and headed to the front door. With a full head of steam, he simultaneously reached for the storm door handle with his right hand and pushed the door with his left. He crashed into the glass door—partially dislodging the door and frame—and bounced backward to the floor with a reddened face and, possibly, a broken nose.
Cal walked over to the man lying face-up on the floor and smiled at the squatter.
“We need to talk.”
The screech of brakes could be heard outside as Oscar’s dark red Chevy pickup came to a stop and three guys jumped out and headed to the door. Cal reached over and flipped the lock on the storm door to unlock it.
Cal leaned down to the man who looked to be in his mid-twenties, but he had lived hard years. A toxic mix of body odor, urine, blood, and weed filled Cal’s nose. The man started to get up. Using his flashlight like a baton, Cal pointed the butt end into the chest of the squatter, and he went right back down to the ground.
“We don’t appreciate you breaking into our house,” Cal said.
The squatter said nothing.
“Would you prefer I call the police? Or should I handle this myself?” Cal asked as he tapped the flashlight on the man’s chest.
Again, there was no answer.
“These men walking in the door are going to help you relocate. They are also going to help you to understand that breaking into any houses with our signs out front probably won’t be a good idea in the future.” Cal stood back up.
“Are you kidding me? Dude, you broke my nose,” the squatter protested.
“No. You lost a fight with a storm door. Based on the damage you did, any cop would believe that. That’s unfortunate for you,” Cal said as Oscar yanked on the front storm door.
The metal door frame pulled farther from the house. Oscar managed to keep the storm door and frame balanced while he spoke something in Spanish to one of his men. That guy headed back to the truck for his tools.
After giving instructions to a second man, Oscar walked through the door.
“We’re gonna have to replace that,” Oscar grumbled as he stared at the man on the floor.
“Oscar, can you and one of your guys give this man a ride downtown and help him find a shelter or something?”
The squatter sat up as the blood from his nose flowed down his chin—his shirt already drenched and becoming a less effective rag. “This is assault, man. You can’t kidnap me.”
“Relax,” Oscar said. “We are going to take you downtown, real gentlemanly-like. Help you find help. Be real nice this one time. But my guys here won’t like it if you come back. You got me?”
“Screw you, man.”
Oscar smiled. “C’mon, Ramon. Get him up and out to the truck. I’ll be right along.”
Ramon, a muscular Hispanic man, pulled the squatter up by his armpits and walked him out the door. The squatter kept asking Ramon, “Can I get my pipe?”
“You okay?” Oscar asked Cal.
“Yeah. Front and back entries were locked. That probably means one of the hopper windows isn’t secure. We’ll have to fix that.”
“We’ll get it done today.”
“Overall, very little damage done. I’m going to open all the windows and try to get rid of that weed smell. Then I’m going to go across the street and thank the neighbor,” Cal said. “You will come back and secure the place before dark?”
As both men walked out the front door, Cal said, “I hate being a heavy, but it seems the only way to get these guys to understand.”
“Yep. We’ll convince him.”
Mallory spoke up in Cal’s ear. “Cal, I don’t want to hear any of this.” She hung up.
A Chris Writes, LLC Publication
Not legal advice / not professional guidance / do not imitate tactics
Fictionalized/composite/altered details + no identification intended
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