Small Apartments by Chris Millis Page B

of him. He had never seen so many $100 bills. Franklin scanned the parking lot nervously to see if anyone was watching him.
    “There is also a slip of paper in there with a series of letters and numbers written on it. Don’t lose it, Chief. That is your new Swiss bank account. If I remember correctly, the balance is somewhere in the neighbourhood of 95,000 bucks. That’s a pretty nice neighbourhood. Nicer than Ashland and I’ll bet a lot nicer than that dump on Garner. I wish there could be more for you, but I have been indulging my vices for the last few years. All of my vices. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the money when I was alive, little brother, but it’s more fun this way. Besides, you would have made me feel guilty about how much fun I was having. You always had a knack for bringing me down. I hope you were able to get by these last four years without much money. I, for one, had a blast. A blast!
    “I’m dead now, Franklin. I’ve been dying for a while. They tell me I have a tumour in my brain the size of a racquetball. ‘Cancer of the noggin’ just like mom used to say. I knew I was dying long before they told me, before the headaches became too much for me to bear. A man knows when he’s dying.
    “Listen to me Franklin—I mean, Mr. Cardone. Get in your car—do you still have that Pontiac?—and drive straight to the airport. Start a new life. Go to Switzerland, little brother. Pack your big horn and buy a one-way ticket. This is my parting gift to you. But listen to me Franklin. This is your brother Bernard speaking to you from the other side. Go to Switzerland and be happy if that’s what you want. But if I can give you one piece of advice to make your remaining time on Earth more livable, it’s this: always remember that it doesn’t matter if you live in a small apartment or a mansion on a hill. It doesn’t matter if you live in a mental institution or on a beach in St. Croix. It’s all in your mind, Franklin. Happiness is a state of mind. Bon voyage, little brother. Go find your happiness.”
    The wheels in the tape turned mechanically for a few moments until the player clicked off. Franklin slouched back into a fog of disbelief. He looked into his own eyes staring back from his new passport photo: Cardone, Mario. Philadelphia, PA. He was Italian now, just like Mr. Olivetti. I have never owned a passport, he thought. It just never came up. Franklin’s eyes were raw and watery. A tear streaked down his face and he caught it on his cheek with a hundred-dollar bill.
    He was exhausted. So much about the last two days was just too much to absorb. And now the idea of waking up tomorrow in Switzerland was enough to make him lose sphincter control. That sonofabitch Bernard, he thought. He drummed his fingertips on the steering wheel then head-butted the centre of it. The horn blew.
    “Yo! Blow it out your ass, fatso,” said a high school kid as he walked with his date through the parking lot past Franklin’s car.
    It’s not safe to be sitting here, Franklin thought. He hustled everything back into the shoebox and started the engine. If I’m leaving tonight, thought Franklin, I have to do two things first: pack my alphorn, and let out my dog. He pulled out of the parking lot and headed south on Elmwood towards 100 Garner.

CHAPTER
18

    I NSIDE FRANKLIN’S STUDIO apartment at 100 Garner Street, Burt Walnut and three Buffalo Police officers sat waiting for Franklin’s return. It was dusk. The lights were off inside the apartment, but there was enough light coming through the window to see around the room. One officer sat on Franklin’s orange chair on the side of the table furthest from the window. The second officer sat by the door on a black metal folding chair he found leaning against the refrigerator—apparently intended for company. The third officer was reclined on one elbow on Franklin’s bed. Burt Walnut was seated on the couch, petting Franklin’s hound dog.
    The cops had told