Chapter 5
“THAT DOG THAT’S NOT YOUR DOG is waiting for you on the front porch,” my landlady called through my bedroom door. It was 9 P.M., time for me to start thinking about heading to work.
My bedroom was located in the back ground level of a 120-year-old triple-decker. At first I’d been concerned about this. I would’ve preferred a second-or third-story unit, but those larger apartments were all taken and, frankly, out of my price range. It turned out, however, that my landlady, Frances Beals, was security savvy. She’d been born in this house, she’d told me the day of my interview. Good Irish Catholic family with eleven kids. Half the siblings were now scattered to other states; the other half were already dead.
Having lived her whole life in Cambridge, Frances wasn’t blind to its shortcomings. A university town, Cambridge featured an eclectic mix of multimillion-dollar grand old mansions and barely maintained brick apartment units. There were sprawling green spaces and quaint dining opportunities for upwardly mobile young families, as well as Laundromats, pizza joints, and trendy clothing stores for the college kids. Some of Cambridge’s residents, like Frances, came from families who’d lived here for generations. Most simply passed through for a summer or semester or four-year degree. Meaning the town offered interesting pockets of well-established security, surrounded by other pockets of petty crime, vagrant lifestyles, and drunken debauchery.
Before I could rent the room, I had to pass a two-hour interview with Frances, to determine which of these categories I fell into. When she ascertained I had no pets, no boyfriends, and most likely, no body piercings, I’d passed muster. My only requirement for her was a double-bolt lock on my door, and I asked permission to inspect all door and window locks on the lower level.
She seemed surprised by this request, then pleased. Like maybe that proved I had some common sense after all.
The most Frances and I had ever spoken was during the interview. I figured she was married once, because there was a wedding portrait on the mantel. Next to it was a picture of a baby, but Frances never mentioned kids and no family came for Christmas. Maybe that told its own story. I wondered, but I never asked.
By mutual agreement, Frances came and went through the front entrance, while I accessed my room via the rear, garden door. I tried to keep out of her way, which wasn’t too hard as I worked graveyard four nights a week, then slept till midday.
My room was small, but I liked the battered hardwood floors, the nine-foot ceilings, the historic bull’s-eye molding. A female professor had rented the room before me. She’d left behind an Ikea bookshelf filled with romance novels. So that’s what I did in my free time. I sat in my room and devoured Nora Roberts novels. I figured with everything I had going on in my life, I deserved at least a few hours a day with a happy ending.
Now I pulled on a bulky gray hooded sweatshirt, then reached under my pillow for my. 22. A year ago, I’d never so much as touched a handgun. I couldn’t have told a pistol from a revolver, a rimfire from a centerfire, a. 22 from a. 357 magnum.
Now, I gotta say, I’m a hell of a good shot.
A. 22’s not the best self-defense weapon in the world. Most people choose this gun as a “concealment” weapon—its small size and light weight make it easy to carry. Tuck it in your pocket or belt holster, or, as I’d been told, hang it from a chain around your neck like a true gang banger.