became dealing with complaints about loud noises, awful odors, unsavory people.
Galt’s apartment was just inside the front door to the building on the ground floor, and he decided it was a safer place to keep his Harley than the garage. Though he ostensibly, and sporadically, worked as a bouncer, he once boasted to McNeil that he really got his money for gas, rent and beer (his only necessities) selling or brokering crank and dope deals to other bikers.
The man himself was a giant—a vulgar, terrifying Neanderthal with an enormous gut, a voluminous, unkempt beard and a shaved head. He dressed perennially in black—T-shirts and leathers, boots and chains. If he bathed at all . . . but no, he couldn’t have and smelled the way he did.
The only problem McNeil had with turnover in his building were the units adjacent to Galt’s—over the years, the average tenancy in these units—despite the great location, the cooperative landlord, the reasonable rents—was ten months.
Finally, one happy day eighteen months ago, Galt had suddenly disappeared. McNeil didn’t receive his rent check by the tenth of the month, which was the statutory grace period. He immediately served written notice and filed to evict. Under normal conditions, in San Francisco McNeil would have had to wait six months or more before any action would be taken on the filing, but the unprecedented support of every other tenant in the building—all of whom personally showed up for the hearing—convinced the judge that this was an extraordinary situation, and he ruled in McNeil’s favor.
When he opened the door to the apartment, even McNeil—who’d expected the worst—wasn’t prepared for the damage. The place was totaled. Eventually, it took a crew of four men forty-six days to restore the apartment to habitability. The removal of debris alone was a weeklong process. After that, it had to be cleaned, deodorized, cleaned again. McNeil had had to install new hardwood floors and drywall, new lights and fixtures, all new kitchen appliances. Finally, after the new paint was dry, when the work was all done at a cost to McNeil of thirty-one thousand dollars and change, he put it on the market for twenty-four hundred dollars a month, and had eleven qualified renters the first day.
Then Galt returned.
He hassled McNeil for a few months, came to his house a few times, once with some biker friends, scared everybody, made a big stink, eventually went away. And Rich had thought the nightmare was over at last.
But three weeks ago, after all this time, Galt had resurfaced, and in a guise beyond McNeil’s worst imaginings. According to the complaints, both civil and criminal, filed in the courts, Galt came home to shock and dismay that he had been put out of his castle.
Contrary to his landlord’s sworn statements, he had not abandoned the property. As Mr. McNeil well knew, he’d had to leave with his Harley on an emergency road trip to Kentucky to care for his dying mother. Before he left town, he had paid McNeil twelve hundred dollars in cash for three months’ rent in case he had to be gone that long. Upset, worried about his mother’s health, in a hurry to be back at her side, he had not concerned himself about a receipt for the transaction—he was a man of his word, and assumed McNeil was as well. They’d had a relationship for years. It never occurred to him that either one of them would cheat the other.
He was stunned upon his return to find that Rich McNeil had stolen his money, taken away his home, disposed of all his treasures. After all, Galt had been a solid, rent-paying tenant—he had never, not once, missed a rent payment! And now he was ruined, with no place he could afford to live in the city he loved.
McNeil had obviously been driven to this inhuman fraud by simple greed—after all, he stood to make, he was currently making, two thousand dollars more every month on Galt’s apartment alone. It was a horrible travesty.
So Galt,
Galt’s apartment was just inside the front door to the building on the ground floor, and he decided it was a safer place to keep his Harley than the garage. Though he ostensibly, and sporadically, worked as a bouncer, he once boasted to McNeil that he really got his money for gas, rent and beer (his only necessities) selling or brokering crank and dope deals to other bikers.
The man himself was a giant—a vulgar, terrifying Neanderthal with an enormous gut, a voluminous, unkempt beard and a shaved head. He dressed perennially in black—T-shirts and leathers, boots and chains. If he bathed at all . . . but no, he couldn’t have and smelled the way he did.
The only problem McNeil had with turnover in his building were the units adjacent to Galt’s—over the years, the average tenancy in these units—despite the great location, the cooperative landlord, the reasonable rents—was ten months.
Finally, one happy day eighteen months ago, Galt had suddenly disappeared. McNeil didn’t receive his rent check by the tenth of the month, which was the statutory grace period. He immediately served written notice and filed to evict. Under normal conditions, in San Francisco McNeil would have had to wait six months or more before any action would be taken on the filing, but the unprecedented support of every other tenant in the building—all of whom personally showed up for the hearing—convinced the judge that this was an extraordinary situation, and he ruled in McNeil’s favor.
When he opened the door to the apartment, even McNeil—who’d expected the worst—wasn’t prepared for the damage. The place was totaled. Eventually, it took a crew of four men forty-six days to restore the apartment to habitability. The removal of debris alone was a weeklong process. After that, it had to be cleaned, deodorized, cleaned again. McNeil had had to install new hardwood floors and drywall, new lights and fixtures, all new kitchen appliances. Finally, after the new paint was dry, when the work was all done at a cost to McNeil of thirty-one thousand dollars and change, he put it on the market for twenty-four hundred dollars a month, and had eleven qualified renters the first day.
Then Galt returned.
He hassled McNeil for a few months, came to his house a few times, once with some biker friends, scared everybody, made a big stink, eventually went away. And Rich had thought the nightmare was over at last.
But three weeks ago, after all this time, Galt had resurfaced, and in a guise beyond McNeil’s worst imaginings. According to the complaints, both civil and criminal, filed in the courts, Galt came home to shock and dismay that he had been put out of his castle.
Contrary to his landlord’s sworn statements, he had not abandoned the property. As Mr. McNeil well knew, he’d had to leave with his Harley on an emergency road trip to Kentucky to care for his dying mother. Before he left town, he had paid McNeil twelve hundred dollars in cash for three months’ rent in case he had to be gone that long. Upset, worried about his mother’s health, in a hurry to be back at her side, he had not concerned himself about a receipt for the transaction—he was a man of his word, and assumed McNeil was as well. They’d had a relationship for years. It never occurred to him that either one of them would cheat the other.
He was stunned upon his return to find that Rich McNeil had stolen his money, taken away his home, disposed of all his treasures. After all, Galt had been a solid, rent-paying tenant—he had never, not once, missed a rent payment! And now he was ruined, with no place he could afford to live in the city he loved.
McNeil had obviously been driven to this inhuman fraud by simple greed—after all, he stood to make, he was currently making, two thousand dollars more every month on Galt’s apartment alone. It was a horrible travesty.
So Galt,
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