There's this guy I used to know. Devon, I think his name was. Harvey Devon. Lived in my building, apartment 501. The only person living on the fifth floor, had the place to himself. And there was this girl—there's always a girl, isn't there? Pretty little thing, she was. Blonde, legs that went to next week. I always saw her dressed in furs, and she wore these cute little sunglasses, even indoors. Well, she'd come and go, visit him every now and then. Well, often enough. Come to think of it, I saw her more than him. Guess they musta been in love or something. I never did get her name, though, we uh... I never really introduced myself.
Anyway, I don't remember ever speaking properly to Devon. We'd nod to each other, passing on the stairs, you know, common courtesy, but as far as I can recall, we never spoke. I only knew his name 'cos sometimes our mail would get mixed up. By mistake, see? So anyway, one day I got this letter. For Devon. Had a stamp from the courthouse on it. Figured it was important, like he was up for jury duty or something? I never even thought it could be one of those—what are they called—subpoenas? That's me, though. Always think the best of people. Something my mother taught me. “Pup,” she used to say—uh, that's what she called me: Puppy. Uh, “Pup,” she'd say, “you'll never get nowhere in life by thinking bad of people. Always take the best of someone, and that's what you remember them by, you hear?”
Uh, anyway... Yeah, it didn't enter my head that Devon could be some kinda criminal. I mean, I know in this city, it's common enough, especially in that neighbourhood. I remember the guy in the apartment below me was dealing. You could smell it, through the floorboards. I'd see him now and then in the alleys around Capel Street. He got busted a while back, I think. Hell, you probably led the raid yourself.
What? Oh, yeah. The murder. Yeah.
Anyway, this guy, Devon, got a letter from the courts, sent to my flat. I figured it must be important, seeing the official seals and stuff on it. So I brought it up to his flat myself. Now, this was late enough, I'd just come in from work.
My job? I work for the government. Nothing fancy. Just filing things, mostly. Actually, I've been looking to change lately. Not much fun there. I was thinking of being a journalist, you know? I mean, I'm not a bad writer. Got a story published once, you know. In that magazine, what's it called?
What? Oh. Sorry.
Yeah, so I go up to this guy Devon's apartment, 501. It must have been about six in the evening. I knocked on the door and nothing happened for a while, so I figured he must've been out. Then he opens the door. He's all bleary-eyed and groggy, like he's just out of bed. Works a night shift, I figured. That's why I don't see him around much. He was wearing this nice silk dressing-gown. Real expensive, like. I had a look in his apartment from the door. Full of nice stuff. Like, art and stuff? I meant to ask him where he got that dressing-gown. But then something caught my eye. There was this, uh, sword. Like, a decoration hanging on the wall. One of those Japanese jobs. Real nice. Probably expensive, too. Everything in that flat looked like it'd cost him an arm and a leg. Nothing tacky, either. All really classy stuff. Like, you know you see on TV, these rich guys who have, like, huge leather couches and porcelain statues of naked ladies and suits of armour and, like, real masculine stuff? None of this was like that. None of it show-offey. This was stuff this guy really liked, you could tell.
But, yeah, this sword. There it was, on the wall. The sword on top, and its cover... um, scabbard? Yeah, its scabbard hung beneath it. And there was this little chip in the sword. Tiny. I wouldn't have noticed it, except that the rest of the thing was so perfect. I thought it looked like it'd been used. Strange, I thought. Nobody uses swords like that anymore, do they? Unless he was into, like, martial arts? Or some kind of Japanese fencing instructor. Like my ma said, see the best in people.
Anyway, I must have been there looking for a while, cos he said something like “Whaddaya want?” and I told him I had this letter and he took it. Then the girl came, sorta brushed past me through the door, without a word, in her fur coat and her glasses. Didn't even look at me. Then Devon just shut the door. Seemed pissed off that I'd given him this letter.
And, uh, that was the last time I ever saw Harvey Devon. I went back downstairs to my flat, and soon enough I could hear all these sorta scrapings on the floor overhead. Things I'd never heard before. Seemed strange, though, since the flat above me was empty. Maybe a new tenant, I thought. If I listened hard enough—not that I'm, like, an eavesdropper or anything—but if I listened I could sorta hear something, um, whimpering? Yeah, like a puppy. Sounded like a puppy. But a human puppy, if that makes sense. Anyway, there was some more scratchings and scrapings, and then a thump, and muffled voices. I went about my business. Didn't like to pry. But I woke up the next morning and there were all these guys moving the stuff from Devon's apartment, all the paintings and the antiques and all that stuff he'd probably been collecting all his life. Looked for all hell like the guy was moving out.
Then I saw the girl again, just standing outside the door of the building, smoking a cigarette, like she hadn't a care. I went to her and I asked her if Devon was moving out, and she said the strangest thing to me, she said, “Yeah, he's going. Guess he ain't that young anymore, huh? But show a little faith, kid, there's magic in the night.” I'll never forget her saying that to me, never knew what she meant by it.
What? It's who? Springsteen? Really? Never liked him much. I like more older music, you know? Lighter stuff. Like, showtunes and stuff? Sinatra kinda tunes. You like Sinatra, Detective? I think he's great. Wish I could've gotten to see him live, you know, back in the day, when--
Oh, sorry.
Anyway, that's what she said to me, that Springsteen song. And these guys were loading all this nice stuff into a big van. Guess they were taking it with them. So, that was the last I ever heard of Harvey Devon. Until, of course, you come knocking at my door, telling me all this murder and torture and stuff. Honestly, I never heard a peep from this guy. Well, there was that sword, but as my mother told me, always think the best of people. She used to say— ah, but I've told you that one already, haven't I, Detective?
Now? I've got a place down in Mackintosh Park. Nice place, too. Not too dear. What's that? Oh, I dunno. Not long after Devon left. Four, five months? Yeah, around that.
Oh, it is? Oh. Well, thanks, Detective. It's how my ma raised me, I suppose. No problem. Anytime, glad to be of service to justice. Good-bye now.
* * *
Hey, babe. We should probably get outta here, before they catch on.
Yeah, same old crap. You know, I can't remember if that building even had a fifth floor. Heh. The cop made that one mistake that I love about cops: he told me I was an honest guy. Never even asked himself if I wasn't a pathological liar and just damn good at it.
Say, is that a new coat, babe? Real, as usual, yeah? What is it, mink? I love it.
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