Small Apartments by Chris Millis Page A

thought. He turned the key so he could roll down the automatic window and light a cigarette. The city cops will be here soon, thought Burt. But with any luck, fatso will be here sooner.

CHAPTER
17

    F RANKLIN HAD NOT been inside a bowling alley in more than fifteen years. He used to complain when Bernard dragged him along with his girlfriends, then one day Bernard stopped asking. Franklin did not like the smell of bowling alleys. And he did not like the concept of communal shoes. “Buy your own shoes,” Bernard would say. Franklin just had no interest in the game.
    There were four people on the lanes, two sets of couples. Elmwood Bowl boasted twenty-five lanes on its marquee. Bowling alleys are enormous buildings, thought Franklin. That’s probably why they are always so cold. He looked at the numbers on the first bank of lockers he came to, they were all in the 300s. He found locker 131 and turned the key. There was never a doubt.
    Inside the locker was a Nike shoebox. He lifted the cover and found a hand-held tape recorder with a Post-It note on it that said, “Play me first,” an Altoids breath mint tin, and a folded, brown 9 x 12 catalogue envelope which contained something thick. The box was heavy. He tucked it under his arm and headed out to his car. As he passed the counter, he tossed the miniature key in front of the clerk.
    The old clerk was reading the sports section of the Buffalo News. He looked at the key, looked at Franklin, and returned to reading.
    Franklin sat behind the wheel of his Pontiac T1000 and placed the shoebox on the passenger seat. He removed the tape recorder and pressed “play.”
    “… those crazy bastards, they would have bitten off their fingers if I didn’t stop them.” Franklin stopped the tape. Bernard had forgotten to rewind. He rewound to the beginning, pressed play, and set the tape recorder on the dashboard.
    “Hello Franklin, it’s your brother Bernard. I’m dead! It’s OK though, I don’t mind. Good job finding the locker Franklin—ve-ry cle-ver. I always said you were special. Y’know Franklin, I’m glad I’m dead because now I can tell you my story.
    “I’m a crook, Franklin—a big one. I embezzled hundreds of thousands of dollars from Weiner and Fish. Over the years I just skimmed a little off the top of each client’s billable hours. I called it Bernard’s Share. It’s amazing how fast it added up. So why didn’t I take the money and run? Why not relocate to some tropical beach and surround myself with luscious strumpets? Because, Franklin, I love Buffalo! It’s a great town! Just kidding. About Buffalo, not the money.
    “The truth is, Franklin, I really am nuts. I lived out my final days in a mental institution because I’m fucking crazy! I was in absolute Heaven. I loved the people. I loved the food. I loved the medication. I wouldn’t have been happier anywhere else in the world. It was like you and Switzerland, Franklin. Would anything make you happier than waking up every morning and knowing you are in Switzerland? The mental hospital was my Switzerland.
    “Seems crazy, huh? It is! Don’t fool yourself, little brother, we are all crazy. Everybody has his crazy secrets. Most people spend all day, every day, hiding their crazy secret from the world. Open up the breath mint tin.”
    Franklin popped open the Altoids breath mint tin. It was filled with fingernails of all sizes.
    “How about that, little brother? There must be hundreds of them in there. I collected them from the other mental patients. I told them it was my hobby. My hobby! Those crazy bastards, they would have bitten off their fingers if I didn’t stop them.
    “So, now we get to the good part, little brother. Open up that envelope. There is $10,000 in there and a passport with your picture in it. Give it a look. Looks just like you, only skinnier I bet. Happy Birthday Mr. Mario Cardone of Philadelphia, PA!”
    Franklin could not believe his eyes. He fanned the bills out in front