Chapter 1.5
Thomas always paid his rent on the roof, another of his little rituals—this one started by his landlord, who shared an appreciation for beer, conversation, and OTs. The roof was accessible from a fire escape near the back of the building. It had recently been painted and inspected, some of the welds reinforced to keep it up to code.
Three folding chairs lay near the front corner of the roof under a vinyl tarp. Thomas opened all of them and pulled over a plastic milk crate to serve as a table in the middle. He’d lugged a small cooler with him. Reaching in, he pulled out three cans of beer, set them on the milk crate, and then brought out a box of whole wheat crackers.
He sat back and waited. He liked coming here. The city smelled different, and the sounds were muted, echoing oddly and not unpleasantly against the short canyons created by the buildings of Haight-Ashbury.
The landlord arrived just as the cans were fully beaded with condensation.
“Zaxil!” Thomas waved him over.
Zaxil Mandala, or Z-man, as he preferred to be called, had recently turned twenty-one but could pass for fourteen and grumbled that he was carded everywhere. He snapped up one of the beers and plopped down on a folding chair, running his thumb through the water beads before popping the tab. He was short, skinny, with flawless ebony skin, and inky hair shaved so close it looked like a swim cap. That he wore baggy blue jeans and a Transformers sweatshirt added to his youthful image. Zaxil had inherited this building from his grandfather.
“Tom, this looks expensive.” He held the can to his face. “Gubna’s Oskar Blues. Some micro-brewed thing. How can you buy this expensive shit when you’re two months behind on me?”
Thomas pulled a cashier’s check out of his pocket and passed it over.
Zaxil’s eyes widened and he nearly spilled the beer.
“The two months back rent I owe you, interest on that, plus four more months. That’ll take me to March, right?”
Zaxil let out a low whistle, kissed the check, and stuffed it in his front jean’s pocket. “Who died?”
Thomas raised an eyebrow.
“Who died and favored you in their will?”
Thomas laughed. “A case, Zaxil. I have an ex-football player for a client and—”
“Ooooooh! That dead guy you was tellin’ me about?”
“Emanuel Holder.”
“A ghoul, right?”
Thomas nodded. Zaxil knew a lot of OT terminology, whether because he picked it up on the Internet or on the street, Thomas had never bothered to ask. It pleased him, though, that the young landlord didn’t show the prejudice held by a lot of other folks in the city.
“Mind if Pete joins us?”
Thomas nudged the third beer. “I planned on it.”
Zaxil took a pull from his can. “Yo, Pete! Got a can of good stuff today. How about you come and have a drink?”
There was a grating sound, stone against stone, and the gargoyle sculpture on the top corner of the building separated itself from the rest of the trim, stretched, and climbed over the ledge to join them. The creature was about three feet tall, hence why it was not terribly noticeable from street level. Save for the stubby wings, which could not possibly sustain its granite form in flight, it resembled a goblin from the Dungeons & Dragons game.
“It’s still nice and cold, Pete,” Thomas said, pointing at the third beer.
“Thanks, Mr. Brock.” The gargoyle’s voice sounded like gravel being spread on a road. Thomas had to concentrate to pick out the words, and marveled that Zaxil appeared to have no such difficulty. “Nice night, Mr. Brock.” The gargoyle padded over and eased himself onto the folding chair, the metal groaning from the stone creature’s weight. “But I like Miller,” Pete said. “Or Bud.”
“Try it,” Thomas coaxed.
The gargoyle tipped the can up and drained it in one go. He brought the can down so he could read the label. Thomas wasn’t sure how the gargoyle could read, as his stone eyes were solid and never moved.
“A microbrew, eh? Spicy. I like this. It’s a do-over.” The gargoyle reached for the box of crackers and dug his claw in.
Thomas had met the gargoyle before he signed the lease. Zaxil had told Thomas the gargoyle’s name was Permythius, but that Zaxil always called the creature Pete. It had been a condition of the lease that Thomas respect Pete, and it was why he’d paid ahead on his rent today … to protect Pete. Maintaining the building, maintained the gargoyle.
“This’ll keep the wolves from my door a little longer,” Zaxil said, patting his pocket. “Pete-my-pal, this place is secure at least until March.”
The gargoyle nodded and stuffed his mouth with another handful of wheat crackers.
Thomas wondered if Pete ever eliminated what he ate and drank. Thomas had found no waste or gravel on the roof. Maybe he’d ask some day. Not today, though.
“They been after you again, Zaxil?” Thomas drank a little of the beer. “That Arnold fellow and his friends?”
The gargoyle looked concerned. “Z-man, don’t you let them get this building.”
Zaxil finished his beer and crumpled the can. He set it in the cooler and reached for a second, stopped, and instead passed it to Pete. “They called yesterday and upped the offer. Made it tempting, Pete-my-pal.” He winked at the gargoyle. “But I won’t let them get this place.”
The gargoyle filled his stony lungs and let out a sigh of relief so great that it wobbled the box of crackers. Usually he breathed so slightly Thomas couldn’t see his chest rise and fall. “They’ll kill me, you know, Z-man.”
“I know.” The young landlord’s face was instantly glum. “They want to tear this building down, and the one next to it to put up bright and shiny condos. They bought the other one a few weeks ago.”
“But we won’t let that happen,” Thomas said. He couldn’t imagine the neighborhood without this building—without his building. “This Holder case is just the start. I’ll get some good publicity off this, more clients, more money.”
“And I can pay all the bills,” Zaxil said. Though he’d inherited the building and owned it outright, he still had to pay property taxes and all the other fees and utility bills that came along with owning real estate in San Francisco. Keeping the structure up had been costly, too, because of the building’s age.
Thomas knew Zaxil had blown through most of his inheritance on the building and paying for upgrades required because of codes. It had been vacant for nearly a year before Thomas moved in. Now it was Thomas’s money that kept the building—and thereby Pete who was physically part of it—going.
The creature had to remain in contact with the building to survive, and would be slain if the building were to be demolished. Thomas knew Pete once had a companion, but it was lost to one quake or another. Pete would not discuss any of the particulars.
Thomas and Zaxil both passed on a second beer, leaving the remainder for Pete, who made quick work of them.
“Seriously good, Z-man, Mr. Brock,” the gargoyle pronounced. “Seriously, buy this again.” He finished the box of crackers, eased himself out of the chair, then politely folded it and laid it down against the ledge. “And if you want to come up with some more money, you better go downstairs, Mr. Brock. A car keeps circling the block. Maybe the driver needs a good attorney.”
He gave Thomas a salute and climbed back to his post, the sound of stone grating against stone echoing around them.