"So Mr. Largent, could you check to see if Fred's okay? It's not like him to be out a whole week without calling in."

"Yeah, sure." Charlie hung up the phone and sighed. One more thankless chore.

Charlie finished opening the mail. He logged the rents that dribbled in and prepared a deposit. Then he turned to the stack of bills, singled out the water and electric, and paid them before the deposit was devoured. He locked his desk, then his office, and walked up the stairs wondering what was going to go wrong next in his weary old building. Hey man, he thought, you're 35, and you own an apartment building. With a humongous mortgage. Life will be good someday. Someday. For now, it's one faithful foot above the other, up these creaky old stairs.

He knocked on Fred's door and waited. No answer. He knocked again, and waited. He got out his passkey, opened the door, and leaned his head in.

"Fred? Fred, you here? It's the landlord ..." Something felt wrong. Charlie edged down the hallway to the kitchen. He left the door open in case he had to call for help. Or worse.

Charlie stopped in his tracks when he saw a pair of legs lying on the kitchen floor. He approached with caution.

"Fred?"

Fred was lying face down on the floor, naked except for an undershirt. Fred's face was turned to the side, looking like he melted into the linoleum.

"Fred?" No answer. No movement. Nothing. Charlie didn't want to touch him.

A noise stabbed the silence. Charlie jumped, his hands balled into fists. He stared, wide-eyed, adrenaline flowing, heart pounding ... at the kitchen curtains flapping against the wall. Charlie smiled and shook his head. He relaxed his strong hands, hands that felt like hammers. He unflexed the rock-hard muscle of his arms, chest, and shoulders. He felt a chill now. The apartment was cold. Too cold. The kitchen window was wide open. Fall had changed to winter in Staten Island.

Charlie picked up the wall phone and dialed 911.

"I think I got a dead man here."

"Any signs of foul play?" The emergency operator, a Spanish woman, had a tough, no-nonsense voice.

Charlie looked around. "No. No blood or nothing. He's just laying on the kitchen floor."

"Let me verify the address. 147 Benziger Ave. Apartment 2 B. Frederick Johnson." Charlie gave his name and phone number, also. He was instructed not to disturb anything and wait for the police.

"Any idea how long that's gonna be? "

"No sir."

Charlie hung up the phone. He looked down at Fred's naked black butt. Great, Charlie thought. The son of a bitch dies owing me a month's rent and the last thing he does is moon me. He left the kitchen for a more pleasing sight than staring down a dead man's asshole.

The living room contained a warped wooden bookcase that was about to collapse from the weight of too many garage sale books. An old black and white portable tv sat on top of a broken old console tv. The second hand sofa had unmatched second hand end tables on each side. On top of one was a lamp with painted turtles crawling around the base. There were two second hand easy chairs with the stuffing leaking out. The color scheme was red, blue, green, and orange.

Charlie explored the rest of the apartment. Down the hallway, he stopped at the bathroom. Dirty laundry was piled in a corner. There was a hair brush with a few curly grey hairs poking out, a bushy bristled toothbrush, and a tube of toothpaste squeezed lifeless. Used bath towels were hanging off the shower rod. The tub and sink had thick soap scum rings around them.

He's pissing on my head, thought Charlie. It's going to take me a week to clean up this mess. I don't think he lifted a broom or a sponge since he moved in. A year and half. Man, what a lazy pig.

The bedroom was next. Clothes hanging off everything. A Salvation Army Thrift Store bed, unmade, with soiled sheets. Closet - Charlie didn't want to look. He already had the start of a headache. The dresser was pre-war. Which war, who knows.

There was a small leather bound book on the dresser. Charlie went over to get a closer look. The cover of the book was brown and cracked, the gold letters spelling Diary almost worn off. Charlie looked around to make sure he was alone, and then laughed to himself. Yeah right, he thought. He opened the book and read.

June 6, 1957. Buried Mom and Dad yesterday. Bought a diary. No one else to talk to.

That was all that was on the page. This guy didn't waste words, Charlie thought. He turned to the next page.

July 11, 1957. Montell tried to fuck me up the ass. Squeezed his balls until he cried. Happy 10th birthday at the Macon County Orphanage.

Charlie leafed through, stopping randomly.

December 12, 1961. Got laid. Becky White. Ugly but her pussy felt good.

June 14, 1965. Graduated Macon County High.

August 15, 1965. Drafted into Army. Next stop Viet Nam.

March 1, 1966. Smoked dope. Got high. Got laid. My first oriental. Ten dollars.

September 29, 1966. Bullet got me in the ...

A knock on the front door of the apartment startled Charlie. He put the diary in the right front pocket of his work pants and pulled out his shirt to cover it.

Charlie walked back to the front door. Two cops were standing there in their street blues. Mutt and Jeff.

"Someone called about a body?" Mutt did the talking.

"Over there." Charlie pointed down the hallway.

"Who're you?"

"The landlord."

The cops walked in and looked around. Jeff got out his pad.

"Don't smell like someone died." Mutt sniffed. He stopped when he saw Fred in the kitchen. "Call it in." Jeff got on his walky talky.

Mutt checked the apartment and came back to the kitchen. "A real homemaker, huh?" He looked at Charlie and smiled.

"Yeah." Charlie was annoyed at the cop and couldn't figure out why. Fred was a tenant. A monthly check. He felt a weight in his front pocket. It's that screwy diary, he thought. Charlie went to the bedroom and pulled the blanket off the bed. He brought it back to the kitchen and covered Fred's nakedness.

Mutt looked at the window. "Cold kept him from stinkin'." Jeff nodded.

"What happens next?" Charlie asked.

"Coroner and his people will come, check stuff, fill out a report. Then take him to the morgue. He got any next of kin?"

"No."

"Friends?"

"None that I know of."

"Figures."

"Officer, do you have any idea how long before the Coroner gets here?"

Jeff spoke, finally. "He's got two before you. One's a natural, other's a homicide. Could be late afternoon or tonight, depending on forensics. Don't touch nothin' til they get here."

"Hey, I got work to do, and a wife and kids at home. I can't wait around all day and night."

"Do what you gotta do." Mutt shrugged. Jeff gave Charlie a paper to sign and the pair left.

Charlie shook his head. "It's a cold world, Fred." He looked down for an answer. "And I'm talking to a dead man."

Charlie went into the living room and sat on the sofa.

September 29, 1966. Bullet got me in the shoulder. Going home.

August 23, 1967. Started Brooklyn College. G.I. Bill.

Charlie leafed forward, hungry for something other than a phrase. He stopped when he reached a page with a whole paragraph on it.

June 9th, 1971. Graduated college. BA in Sociology. Want to help children. Got a job with the city welfare department. $9,500 a year. What can you expect from an ugly black orphan who can't sing or play ball.

Fred's writing became phrases again.

November 17, 1973. Shanta hung from a shower rod.

May 30, 1975. Michael tortured by his uncle. Died.

August 4, 1977. Got Carmelita a good home. Score one for the good guys.

Charlie leafed forward until he hit pay dirt again. Two paragraphs.

January 1, 1986. Asked Wilma to marry me. Start the new year out right. She said no. Not attracted to me. Wants a younger man. 18 years apart too much.

Probably for the best.

Charlie looked around the apartment, trying to imagine Fred's life if Wilma had said yes. There would be a woman's touch to this cold messy cave. There would be children running around. There would be life. He went back to the book, wondering what the last entry said.

July 11, 1997. Happy 50th birthday. Had gun in my mouth twice. Didn't pull trigger. Too stubborn.

Charlie closed the diary and looked around the apartment again. It was different now. It was a perfect reflection of its former occupant. Furniture nobody wanted, books nobody read, dust settling in on top of it all. The Coroner will take Fred away, bury him in a pauper's grave somewhere, with no headstone. I'll clean out his apartment and put his stuff out on the street for the garbage men.

In a month, nobody will ever know Fred lived. Except for this diary.

Charlie picked up the phone from the end table.

"Hello?" His wife's voice - the sound of home.

"Hi baby."

"Charles, what's wrong?" She could read him with two words.

"Tenant died. I'm waitin' for the Coroner."

Charlie explained the situation. As they were about to hang up, he stopped in mid-sentence.

"Rhonda ..."

"What?"

"I love you."

"Me, too, baby."

The Coroner came at seven o'clock. He was a balding white man nearing retirement age. Charlie left him alone to do his work. Two grunts came in with a stretcher. Charlie heard the sound of a long zipper. The grunts left with a body bag strapped to the stretcher.

The Coroner sat on one of the easy chairs, working on his report.

"Any idea what happened?" Charlie searched for a sign of compassion.

"Heart attack. Probably about a week ago." Like it was stock market report. The Coroner looked at his watch. "Mr. Largent, could you answer a few questions?"

"If I can."

"Any next of kin to notify?"

"No. He was an orphan."

"How about friends? Someone to make funeral preparations?"

Charlie thought about that. "You can put me down as one of his friends." Charlie placed his hand on his pocket, covering the diary he would always keep.

THE END