Dev Conrad - 03 - Blindside by Ed Gorman Page A

had faded it into a color I couldn’t identify. That somebody had once stove in the bottom fourth of it with a few savage kicks hadn’t helped the appearance either. Nor had the fact that the long chrome handle had been secured in place with a variety of tape over the years. The most recent was sturdy fiber tape. It seemed to be doing the job.
    The fridge was wedged tight between a small stove on one side and the sink on the other. We wouldn’t be able to wiggle it out. We’d have to pull it out straight on. That wouldn’t be easy. I remembered from last night that there wasn’t much inside so emptying the contents wouldn’t help.
    â€˜Sh-h-h.’
    Then I heard them, too.
    Footsteps. He was creeping up this time; an appropriate word. He was going to surprise her with greasy l-o-v-e. Valentine’s Day had come early this year.
    He knocked softly with a few knuckles. The apartment was tiny enough that we could hear him clearly even from here. I guess he was under the impression he was whispering.
    â€˜I got a little surprise for you, babe.’
    She rolled her Goth eyes and gave him the finger. She strode to the door. ‘I’m cramping real bad right now. Just please wait for me downstairs, okay?’
    â€˜Y’know, me’n the old lady do it sometimes when it’s her time of the month.’
    â€˜Please just do what I say. Please.’
    â€˜I can barely control myself. You’ll never forget it. I promise ya.’
    Again she gave him the finger. What the hell, I gave him the finger, too.
    Then the cavalry arrived in the form of a ringing phone downstairs. He must have left his door open because you could hear the ringing throughout the building.
    â€˜Shit. The owner of this pigsty said he’d call me.’
    â€˜Better answer it. Could be important. Maybe he wants to give you a raise.’
    Or fire your ass, I thought unkindly.
    â€˜Yeah, shit.’
    This time he took the stairs fast, swearing all the way.
    â€˜We’d better get moving,’ I said.
    I tried seizing the refrigerator by placing my hands on either side of it. It was heavier than it looked. The problem was that I couldn’t angle it sideways even a few inches to help move it out of its slot. At best there was a half-inch on either side. Useless.
    I assumed Pierce Rollins would be back soon.
    Jenny came in. She’d been listening at the front door.
    â€˜I’m going to get in the sink and see if I can get enough leverage to push it out a ways. You go back to the door.’
    I crawled up into the sink. Three inches separated the back of the refrigerator from the wall. I stood up and shoved my right arm to the center of the thrumming machine. I pushed. It moved maybe an inch. But it moved. I wondered why it would move with relative ease from this end but not from the other.
    I hopped down and then got on my hands and knees so I could see underneath the front of the refrigerator. The big machine had been set on small wheels for easy moving. The trouble was that somebody had put small wooden blocks in front of the wheels at midpoint, I guessed as some kind of precaution. Nobody wanted a runaway refrigerator, the stuff of a sci-fi movie. So I reached back through a century of dust and grime and probably rat shit to dislodge the small encumbrances that had made my job so difficult.
    I washed my hands in the sink before I went back to work.
    No problem this time. I extracted the Kelvinator and left it standing in the center of the kitchenette. It nearly filled the place. I had to slide around it to find room enough to kneel down and search for the trapdoor.
    And there it was. Ancient brittle linoleum covered the three-by-three outline of it. A small rusted handle sat in the center of it. It was like lifting a lid to check on a pot roast.
    A rat toilet was what I found inside. The dried kernels of fecal matter formed an inch-thick bed on the wooden floor of the hidey-hole. And lying