Toby?” he demanded, his usual affable tone sharp now with irritation.
Toby waved his clipboard, the untidy sheaf of multipart forms fastened to it flapping like a paper hen. “We got a little inspection business here to take care of, pal. Or did you forget?”
“I didn’t forget anything. You’re not supposed to be here until next week.” Barry took a few steps toward the man, his stance challenging. “You’d better not have been wandering on my property without my permission.”
“Relax, I just got here. But I need to move up the schedule, know what I mean?”
“I’ve got someone with me right now. It’s not a good time. Understand?”
Darla glanced from an obviously ticked-off Barry to the glib newcomer, who bore an uncanny likeness to one of those artist renditions of an alien. His small, pinched features appeared to have slid south toward his receding chin, leaving a broad expanse of forehead to fend for itself. The lopsided effect was enhanced by the way he’d scraped back his collar-length, surfer-blond hair—a home-bleach job if Darla had ever seen one—into a single frizzy tail that looked more porcupine than equine. As for his personality, Darla had known him for less than a minute and already found his company distasteful.
Unfortunately, if the man was indeed a city inspector, then Barry likely had to put up with his rudeness in order to keep his job site running.
“Tell you what, pal,” came Toby’s nasal reply. “I’ll give you until Monday. Fair enough?”
“Monday,” Barry agreed, his expression stiff. “Until then, stay the hell off my property.”
“That’s what I get for being a pushover,” the man complained with a grin, giving Darla a wink. “You’d think I’d get a thank-you every so often, but no . . .”
Tucking his clipboard under his armpit, the man sauntered his way to a battered white two-door parked quite illegally and on the wrong side of the road. He climbed inside; then, with mocking wave, he pulled out into traffic accompanied by the blare of horns from those drivers he’d just cut off.
“And I thought retail was a tough business,” Darla observed in an ironic tone that, per her intent, earned a reluctant smile from her companion.
“Yeah, dealing with the city is always a good time. But if we want a certificate of occupancy, we’re stuck with him.” Then, in an obvious effort to recapture the earlier bantering mood, he added, “But don’t let Toby scare you off about taking the nickel tour inside.”
He gestured Darla up the steps. After fiddling with his key in the knob, Barry pried open the front door and, to the accompaniment of squealing hinges, ushered her inside. Darla halted a few steps past the threshold and gazed about her in bemused disbelief.
This is better?
On her last visit, the rooms had stood empty, forlornly stripped to their plaster, with fixtures removed and wires hanging like pointy tentacles from open outlets. Now, large sections of plaster were missing, revealing the original studs and wood supports and what appeared to be new electrical wiring running through the recesses. A pile of two-by-fours temporarily blocked the only other door, located beyond the foyer and at the end of a short hall. Not that this last inconvenience particularly mattered, for she knew from her previous visit that the rear door opened onto a miniscule enclosed courtyard. And, unlike the brownstones on her block, the homes on this street had no alley behind them, an alley being something of a rarity in Brooklyn, as Darla had been surprised to learn.
As for the stained carpeting and torn linoleum—doubtless courtesy of previous remodels that had gone for practicality rather than aesthetics—that floor covering had been ripped up to reveal the original wood beneath. In some areas, all that remained was the subflooring, or nothing at all.
She recalled Barry previously telling her that they’d turned off the electricity at the box while they were redoing the wiring. As a result, heavy black extension cords snaked along the floors and up the stairway, posing tripping hazards for the unwary. To make up for the missing light fixtures, a scattering of portable lights—some heavy-duty contractor floor lamps, and others the cheap clamp-on style with the big aluminum shades—sat in corners or clung to exposed studs. At the moment, however, none were turned on, so the only illumination inside the place came from the open door and the man-sized gaps in the ceiling where portions of the second-story flooring had been sawed out.