Chapter 13.

(Frank O'Brien. Friday, October 13th, 1978. Cleveland Heights, Ohio)

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Corny’s floor proved seedier than Frank expected. The hallway stank of mold, and ground-in dirt stained the threadbare carpet.

A shudder climbed his spine.

Disgusting.

Struggling to get his bearings in the dim light, Frank glanced around and halted, appraising. Despite the grime, the building had great bones, her walls real plaster of Paris, with swanky but long-neglected crown molding. And the door frames—and thus, he imagined, the window frames—looked like painted over oak, hiding the beautiful woodgrain.

He grimaced.

What a waste. They don’t raise buildings like this anymore, yet the asshole slumlord owner let it rot. Criminal negligence. What a mess… How can these people live like this?

Powerless to fix the mess, Frank returned to his quest for room three-oh-three, his shoulders slumping, annoyed by another sign of criminal neglect: every door he passed had missing digits.

The fuck. I can’t zero-in on three-oh-three without numbers pointing the way.

Angered, Frank ground his molars, cursing the slumlord. But he halted, tilting his ear towards music that drifted past a dinged-up green door halfway down the hall. He grinned. While the signage may suck, Frank trusted people to help where dumb dead things, like door numbers, failed. Even the destitute seldom failed him.

Thus resolved, he walked to the music, knocking.

The door inched open, and a gaunt, yellow-skinned black man with a wild Afro glanced through the safety-chained opening. “As-salaam-alaykum,” the man said, his chest puffed, rooster-like, challenging.

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Frank recognized him, but couldn’t recollect how. He wanted to ask, but the dude’s surly demeanor made that precarious. Besides, the guy seemed high as a kite, his pupils shrunk to pin-prick-size despite the low light, so Frank began asking about Corny. “Sorry to bother you, but—”

The guy cut off Frank with a clipped, scratchy tenor. “Tell the Sultan I’ll have his money later. And I KINDLY ask his ‘highness’ to quit sending dimwitted, neckless thugs to shake me down. His tired bullshit beats down a brother’s patience something fierce.”

Hot steel shot up Frank’s backbone. Enough, he thought, digging in his heels and squaring. A day’s worth of pent vitriol threatened to burst forth, white-hot, but he caught his tongue and breathed deep, steadying himself, to reel in his temper. As Dale Carnegie said, you catch more flies with honey than vinegar.

A beat later, he said, with as much honey as he could muster, “Relax, boss. I’m just looking for a buddy of mine. Cornelius Keyes. Know him? Older guy, uses a cane?”

“Hell yeah, I know Bad Leg.” The man relaxed, his arms falling to his sides, the stench of sweat, urine, and boiled vinegar billowing off him. “Sorry, dude. I... thought… Anyway, I apologize.” With a sheepish slump of his shoulders, he unchained the door, poked his head out, and pointed to Frank’s left. “Third door on the right, past the hall leading to the elevator.”

“Thanks,” Frank said, his nose curling at the overpowering stench wafting through the gaping door.

His face relaxing to a half-smile, the guy said, “Don’t mention it.”

Frank turned, nodding farewell, and sauntered to Corny’s door. Where he found a pleasant surprise: though the numbers had fallen off his door, Corny taped index cards with his name and room number in precise block letters. Frank nodded, appreciative. He liked precision. With a simple and futile gesture, Corny had created an island of order in this dump, no mean feat.

Frank knocked. Inside the apartment, someone stirred. “One second,” Corny said, and he walked towards Frank, his cane tapping with each step. The green door swung open, revealing a middle-aged black man dressed in a snappy red and black cardigan and a straw hat that, despite the apparent incongruity, worked well together.

A warm grin spread over Corny’s dark-brown face. “Well, glory be, if it ain’t 'Construction' Frank, from downtown.” He pointed to Frank’s hand. “And swinging more than a hammer. I see it burning, but it ain’t hurt bad, though. You can bank that. But you a real Superman, Franky. I mean, like motherfucking Ali. The Thriller in Manilla. Truth, justice, and the American Way. Justice. And freedom. Riders, I mean….” He drifted off, a satisfied look on his face. “Leastways, my shining tells me, and she righteous.”

Frank grinned at Corny’s disjointed rambling, bemused. “Your what?”

“My shining. My gift, second sight. Tells me you broke a villain’s nose. But never mind that.” Corny opened the door, the pleasant perfume of onions, pork, and pipe tobacco wafting into the hall, and pivoted on his cane to motion Frank in. “Come in, set a spell.”

Frank followed him in, feeling whimsical. Though Corny was nuttier than a fruitcake, for whatever reason he liked the goof, bone-deep, no lie.