the courtyard of the Alhambra Lakes was the fried remains of what must have been a full gardenscape of palm trees, shrubbery, and flowers once upon a time… and at dead center, a square pool with a worn-out fountain that feebly projected a single, spent spout of water up to about three feet above the surface of the pool. On the second and third floors wide slabs of concrete projected from the interior walls all the way around the square, creating a walkway, an outsized catwalk, as it were, and a back porch for every apartment on the floor. An open stairway connected all three levels in case you didn’t want to take the elevator they had passed on the way in.
“We’ll take the elevator up to the top,” said John Smith, describing a great loop in the air with his forefinger, “and work our way down to the second floor and then down here to the courtyard, okay?”
They had the elevator to themselves on the way up. At the top, the third floor, they stepped out onto the walkway… and into a loud, noxious mechanical noise. On the far side a brown-skinned maintenance man in coveralls was cleaning the catwalk with an industrial vacuum cleaner. From somewhere below came the clinking clacking tintinnabulation of a couple of aluminum walkers. Nearby… the too-loud yawps of TV sets within the apartments… but no tenants were out in the noonday sun on this floor. John Smith went slowly past the apartments on this side, and Nestor followed, holding the “sonar audiometric monitor”… ::::::What am I—a native bearer?:::::: Somewhere within an apartment a television show was turned on so loud, you could hear every word… “But he’s been her gastroenterologist for five years!” says the unmistakably soapopera voice of a young woman. “And now he falls in love with her?—while spreading her cheeks for a colonoscopy? Oh, men”—she begins loading every word with sobs—“Men—men—mennn-uh-uh-uh-uh—they lead an entirely separate life below the beh-eh-he-ehlt!” Beside the door, on the floor of the catwalk, was a cast-iron frog, painted light green. It was only about a foot high, but it was also about a foot wide and fifteen inches long… which made it look enormous and heavy. On either side of the door was a small window. John Smith and Nestor made a point of not being nosy and looking in. The next apartment was identical, except that the program bellowing inside for all it was worth was some comedy show with the most annoying laugh track Nestor had ever heard… and beside the door was a two-foot-high cast-iron caveman with arms and shoulders like a gorilla’s. It looked heavier than the frog. At the next apartment… God almighty!… a what?—Discovery Channel show?—a bunch of lions roaring, not just one but what did they call them?—a “pride”? Must be turned up to the max, because between the lions and the industrial vacuum cleaner Nestor felt like the noise out here in this active adults pile of bricks had him paralyzed… Beside this door, a big pot of red geraniums, a regular mass of red geraniums… that turned out to be fakes.
John Smith had to get close to Nestor to make himself heard. “Keep an eye on those… things by the doors, whatever they are”—he pointed toward the flowerpot—“for something that says ‘artist,’ okay?”
Nestor nodded. He was already fed up with taking orders from John Smith. Who did he think he had become all of a sudden, the great detective?
They checked out two more apartments. Same thing… John Smith came up close to Nestor again and said, “I’ve never heard TV sets on that loud. What are they—deaf?”
“They’re on aluminum walkers, for God’s sake,” said Nestor. “If they’re not deaf, who is?” He didn’t say it with a smile. He could tell John Smith had no idea at all where the overtone of reproof had come from. So then Nestor felt guilty.
It was so loud out here on this catwalk that neither Nestor nor John Smith realized that two figures were coming up behind them until they were almost upon them… two old ladies. One seemed terribly small. Her back was humped so far over her walker, her eyes were at about the level of Nestor’s rib cage… and so rheumy, they constantly leaked tears. Her remaining hair had been dyed blond and teased up into little puffs of spun cilia meant to give the impression of thick hair, but Nestor could see right through them to