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Good Help is Hard to Find
by Nancy Kaminski
(c) April 1998
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It had been one of those shifts, full of fussy little tasks---do this
interview, fill out these forms, check in that evidence---and it
seemed to last forever. No one task took more than a half-hour, and
although Nick Knight had been continually busy, he felt like he had
accomplished absolutely nothing.
He greeted the end of his shift with relief and headed home, looking
forward to a lazy, paint-filled morning---just him, his easel, a
conveniently located bottle of cow, and the stereo. His mind filled in
the rest of the program: four hours working on his new canvas, and
then a nice hot bath, the sensual delight of his silk PJs, and a
restful day's sleep. He smiled in anticipation as he piloted the Caddy
homeward.
When Nick entered his loft, rosy-fingered Dawn was doing her best to
lighten the sky. Humming contentedly to himself, he stripped off his
leather jacket and tidily hung it up, unhooked his holster, draped it
over a chair, and strode to the windows, remote in hand.
He briefly admired the faint pinkish-gray tinge of the wintry morning
sky, for once not letting regret dampen his mood. Maybe I should work
with those colors today, he mused. He thumbed the button that would
close the window's protective steel shutter.
He was gazing absentmindedly at the burgeoning daylight, mentally
mixing paint, when it finally sank in that he wasn't hearing the usual
silken whir of the shutter's electric motor. Instead, it had made a
sort of strangled 'whir-clunk' sound. Frowning, he pressed the
remote's button again.
Whir-CLUNK. Whir-CLUNK. Whir-CLUNK.
Pressing the button repeatedly had no effect except to produce the
annoying sound. He shook the remote, as if that would somehow
encourage it to send the correct, anti-clunking signal.
Whir-CLUNK. Whir-CLUNK. Whir-CLUNK.
He aimed the remote at the next window.
Whir-CLUNK.
He tried to lower the shutters on the rest of his windows. Not one
would respond to the remote's signal.
Whir-CLUNK. Whir-CLUNK. Whir-CLUNK.
Nick glowered at the remote, then turned it over. He slid the battery
door open and stared at the copper-and-black double As, not unlike a
stranded motorist who opens the hood and stares at the engine, as if
sheer mental force of will could make a machine heal itself. He
jiggled the batteries, then tried again.
It didn't work, of course.
Gentle rosy-fingered Dawn was now beginning to look like Attila the
Sun. Apprehensively, Nick levitated to the top of the nearest window
and, holding the remote right next to the infrared receiver, pressed
the button.
Whir-CLUNK.
It sounded even more awful up close.
He stuck the remote in his pocket and, gripping the edge of the steel
shutter, tried to pull it down. To his dismay, he found that his
usually irresistible force couldn't budge this particular unmovable
object.
Just then the sun sent a well-aimed ray of gold between two buildings
and hit Nick squarely in the face. With an undignified screech he shot
upwards and backwards, executed an Immelmann that the Red Baron would
have admired, and landed on the balcony safely in the shadows.
"Oh, shoot!" he said. (Actually, he said something else in several
exotic languages, all of which had to do with unnatural acts with
close relatives or inanimate objects, but this is, in essence, what he
meant, and we shall leave it at that.---ed.)
Relentless as the rising tide, the sun painted the lower room with
golden light. It crept over the piano, the table with the priceless
archaeological knickknacks (one rare Olmec pottery dish holding a
handful of loonies, an unidentifiable key, and a New York subway
token), the Persian carpet, the black leather couch, the easel...
...and crept towards the kitchen---and the refrigerator and the
bottles of cow stored there. Nick came out of his bemused trance just
in time to flash downstairs to grab some sustenance before it was too
late and he became stranded upstairs, alone and hungry. He was only
smoking a little when he regained the safety of the upper floor.
He retreated resentfully into his windowless bedroom, his carefully
planned morning completely ruined by a bunch of unthinking, unfeeling,
uncaring electric motors. Imported electric motors. Expensive electric
motors, that were supposedly guaranteed against everything except
nuclear warfare or tidal wave, neither of which was reasonably
expected to occur in Toronto, at least not in this millenium.
And when he went into the storage room (the real reason why Nick lives
in a warehouse: lots of storage space for eight hundred years' worth
of knick-knacks.---ed.) to check the receipts for the motors, he found
the warranty had run out the previous year. (Nick was a stickler for
keeping records---he still had the receipt for a refrigerator he had
bought in 1946 neatly filed under "R" in the "Appliances" folder.---
ed.)
He was on his own on this one.
Sitting down on his bed, he picked up the phone and the Yellow Pages
and started dialing. This situation had to be fixed---and soon.
~~~~~
He was still on the phone three hours later. For some reason no
electrician in Metro Toronto was available any sooner than Monday next
week. It was just another manifestation of the unfairness of the
universe in general and towards him in particular that his shutters
had to fail during the week between Christmas and New Year, and that
his usually effective whammy just didn't work over the phone.
He wondered briefly if he should call Lacroix and ask him for his
electrician---surely no tradesman would refuse *him*---then shelved
the idea. The elder vampire (who was a firm believer in the efficacy
of heavy draperies) would only laugh at him, then broadcast cutting
monologues on CERK for weeks to come, all aimed at Nick, overly
elaborate solutions to simple problems, and the futility of depending
on modern technology for anything.
Nick cringed at the thought. It was bad enough being chased by the
ancient serpent down through the ages and across seven continents---
he didn't need to be snickered at at the same time.
While he was pondering his next move, he heard the elevator door
rumble open and quick, light footsteps enter the loft.
"Nick? Are you here?" Natalie's voice echoed through the high-
ceilinged loft.
Nick's mood lightened a bit. Maybe Nat, who was after all an
incredibly resourceful scientist, would have some useful ideas. He
exited his bedroom and edged cautiously along the rear wall of the
upper balcony. The sun reached halfway across the floor, and he could
barely see for the glare. "Up here, Nat."
Natalie craned her head up to look at him and said, "Nick, what are
you doing up there?" Then she observed, "The shutters are still up."
"Oh, thank you *very* much for pointing that out. I hadn't noticed,"
he said sarcastically. "Well! Somebody got up on the wrong side of the
coffin!"
Nick sighed and stifled his irritation. "Sorry, Nat, but the shutters
don't work, and I'm stuck up here for the day."
"Did you check the batteries in the remote?"
Nick's only answer was a pained look, thankfully invisible from Nat's
vantage point.
She looked around, spotted the remote where it had fallen out of
Nick's pocket during his recent aerial maneuvers, and picked it up.
She examined it briefly, then pointed it at the nearest window.
Whir-CLUNK.
"Hmmm. I see what you mean."
He explained plaintively, "There must be something wrong with the
motors. I'm trying to get an electrician, but they're all busy, or
taking the week off, or something." He edged a little further back
from the ribbon of sunlight on the floor. "Nat, would you come up
here? It's getting a little bright."
In answer she tripped lightly up the stairs.
"You're cheery this morning, and after a full night's work, too," Nick
observed sourly.
Nat held up a Thermos and smiled brightly. "New formula!"
He forced a smile. "Oh, good, but I've already eaten." He gestured
helplessly at the sunlight. "I'd put it in the fridge myself, but..."
"...That's okay, I'll do it. You can have it for dinner. Or breakfast.
Whatever. Be right back!"
After depositing the Thermos in the fridge (placing it conspicuously
in front of all the unlabeled green wine bottles), Nat rejoined Nick,
who by now had retreated again to his nice, dark bedroom and was
flipping desultorily through the Yellow Pages. She asked, "So, what
are you going to do?"
He sighed. "I don't know. No one can come out until next Monday at the
earliest. I don't want to spend the next," he counted on his fingers,
"six days lurking up here as soon as I come home from work. I don't
need that much sleep. And it's boring," he added, sounding just a bit
pathetic and sorry for himself.
"Well," Nat said reasonably, "Have you considered getting temporary
curtains?"
Nick said patiently, "In case you haven't noticed, there aren't any
curtain rods. And there isn't anything you can hang curtains from
around the windows, or at least, nothing that would support that kind
of weight. I'd have to drill holes in the brick wall, and then I would
just have to get masons out to repair the bricks after the motors were
fixed. I don't want workmen crawling all over the place for the next
two months."
"It's not like you can't afford it, Nick. Get the curtains."
"No, I want an electrician to fix my motors." He was beginning to
sound mulish. He set his jaw.
Natalie frowned. When Nick was in this mood, there was no persuading
him---he was in full I'm-an-aristocrat-damn-the-peasants-bring-on-
the-cake mode. He knew what he wanted, and he wanted it now. No
substitutes accepted.
An idea insinuated itself into her head. Maybe... Hmmm, it might be
worth a shot. And it could be---amusing.
For just a moment she regretted her tendency to enjoy seeing Nick
squirm, but banished it from her mind. A minor bit of harmless
entertainment was the least he owed her, all things considered. She
said, "I have an idea."
Nick brightened. "What?"
She held up a hand. "Uh-uh, I don't want to make any promises until I
check this out. I'll call you later." She got up to leave, then
paused, a sly grin growing on her face. "Is there anything you want
from downstairs? Books, magazines, maybe the remote for the stereo so
you can turn it on real loud and listen from up here?"
"No!" He regained his composure with an effort and said, "I think I'll
go to bed. Talk to you later. And, uh, thanks."
Nat just grinned and left with an annoyingly cheery wave.
~~~~~
Nick didn't hear from Natalie until he was back on duty the next
evening. She phoned him and announced, "I found someone."
"Nat, you're a miracle worker! Who is it? When can he come?"
"Tomorrow morning, about nine. His name is Arthur Dobrowolski."
"That's great. How did you find him? I thought I called everyone in
Toronto."
There was a pause. "Well, he's not an electrician full time."
Nick became immediately wary. "So, what does he do the rest of the
time?"
Another pause. "Uh, he's a used car salesman." She paused yet again,
saving the worst point (or, from her standpoint, the best point) for
last. "And, uh, he's Schanke's cousin. I got his name from Myra."
There was silence on the line, during which Nick was glaring at
Schanke, who was sitting pretending to do some paperwork with a
blandly innocent expression on his face.
"No," Nick stated firmly. "Not for *my* electric motors. No."
"Oh, c'mon, Nick," Natalie wheedled, "he's the only guy in town who
can pay an emergency house call on short notice! Do you really want to
wait until next week? Do you want to spend all that time hiding in
your room, instead of playing the piano or painting or whatever?"
Nick fumed, drummed his fingers on his blotter, and considered his
options. Option One: he didn't hire Schanke's cousin, and he was stuck
up in his room like a grounded teenager until next week. Option Two:
he did hire Schanke's cousin, took his chances, and maybe, just maybe,
regained an unlife.
Neither option looked particularly appetizing. He cast around
desperately for Option Three, but it refused to show its face.
Oh, well. Live dangerously. He scowled at Schanke, who waggled his
eyebrows and smirked back at his annoyed partner.
"Okay, Nat, tell him to show up. But..." he gestured emphatically, the
effect of which was rather lost in a phone conversation, "there are
some rules. Number one, he has to be neat. No leaving stuff all over
the place. Two, he stays out of the fridge. Three, no smoking. And,
and..." Nick ran out of rules and once again made an eloquent, though
unappreciated, gesture.
"Great! I'll tell him. He'll be there bright and early, nine a.m.
Don't worry, your shutters will be zooming up and down in no time."
"Yeah. Sure," he said without conviction. A thought occurred to him.
"Nat, will you give him the access code when you call? I won't be able
to let him in at that hour---too much light down there by the
elevator. And tell him the code's supposed to be a secret!"
"Okey-dokey," Nat answered perkily. As he hung up the phone, Nick
thought to himself that she was enjoying this whole disaster just a
*little* too much, and gloomily returned to his work.
~~~~~
At nine the next morning Nick heard the elevator door grind open, and
footsteps come into the loft. There was a pause, then, "Geeze, Louise,
Donny wasn't kidding!"
Oh, great. Another amateur Martha Stewart to comment on his interior
decorating. Nick stood up from his bedroom chair, where he had been
reading, and went to the hallway. He called, "Mr. Dobrowolski? I'm up
here." He squinted into the glare of the morning sun but could only
see a large shadowy figure.
Tools clanked as a toolbox was set on the floor. Heavy feet clomped up
the stairs, and a large shadowy figure approached Nick. "Hey, Mr.
Knight, call me Artie. Nice to meet you. It's Nick, right? Donny's
told me a lot about you." The figure resolved itself into a burly,
dark-haired man in jeans, plaid shirt, and anorak. They shook hands,
now apparently on a first name basis.
"I'm glad you could come on short notice. Has Dr. Lambert told you the
problem?"
"She just said you have a problem with some electrics---something to
do with the windows." He looked around, apparently looking for some
manifestation of electrical distress.
"Yes." Nick described the calamity. When he was finished (having given
his standard 'sun allergy' excuse as the reason for having such
strange appliances as steel window shutters) Schanke's cousin
scratched his head and looked doubtful.
"Well, I'll poke around and see what I can find. Sounds like the whole
system shorted out." He went over to the railing and looked at the
windows. contemplating their height. "I'll have to go downstairs and
get my ladder."
"Fine. Whatever. I'm going to bed, now, so keep it down, will you?"
And with that graceless comment, Nick retreated back into his bedroom,
belatedly wondering if he should have put away all his priceless
knick-knacks. If Artie shared any Schanke genetic tendencies besides
the dark hair and brown eyes, they were in peril of being accidentally
rearranged in a less than gentle manner.
Oh well, too late now. He put it out of his mind and shut the door.
~~~~~
Nick's slumber was interrupted several times during the day by:
* Muted bouts of pounding. * The radio tuned to "Polka Time Toronto."
* The scent of a garlic-laden kielbasa on pumpernickel sandwich, with
mayo. * The sound of large feet clomping around on the roof.
His groggy brain was unable to assimilate these facts in any coherent
pattern, so he simply put the pillow over his head and tried to relive
a particular spring evening in Spain just before the beginning of the
Peninsular War. It had been peaceful, there had been very little
kielbasa, and absolutely no polkas.
~~~~~
Nick awoke at four that afternoon. He lay still, listening, but the
loft was quiet. Too quiet, he thought to himself, making a minor
cinematic jest to cover his instantly aroused anxiety. Shouldn't
Artie the Amateur Electrician still be here?
Or, he thought, daring to be optimistic, he fixed the shutters and
went home early. Yes, that must be it.
In a hopeful mood he padded barefoot and pajama-clad downstairs, to be
met with the sight of half his loft covered with paint-spattered
dropcloths. Bits and pieces of window mechanism were grouped in random
clumps on the dropcloths, presumably in some relation to the window
from which they came.
The shutters were obviously *not* going to work anytime soon.
"Oh, shoot," Nick muttered (see language usage comment above.---ed.).
Spying a piece of paper on the kitchen table, he edged towards it,
fearing the worst, as if that hasn't already happened, he added
grimly to himself.
The paper, the reverse side of a flyer for the Tree Doctor Tree
Trimming Service ("25 Years of Satisfied Patients!"), revealed these
cryptic words:
'You've got ice dams. Parts coming. Call me. A.D.' The phone number
was scribbled below.
Ice dams? What were ice dams? Some obscure arctic insect that feasted
on electrical wiring? In all his almost-eight hundred years, Nick had
never heard of ice dams.
Ice, yes. Icebergs (he shuddered, thinking of that ill-fated ocean
passage), yes. Ice cream, yes. Ice dams, no.
Sighing, he headed for the fridge and breakfast. Maybe Schanke would
know. He'd ask first, then make the call from work.
~~~~~
Nick was saved the embarrassment of revealing to his partner his
ignorance in the matter of ice dams. Natalie was sitting on the corner
of his desk fiddling with one of his pencils and fairly bouncing with
curiosity when he walked in.
"Well? How'd it go?" she inquired.
Nick shook his head and sat down. "Not good," he said. Lowering his
voice as if imparting some scandalous information, he continued, "I
have ice dams."
"Oh, too bad. That can be a real mess." She shook her head in
commiseration at this apparent tragedy.
Nick looked at her. Did everyone in Toronto know what they were?
"Okay," he said at last, "I give up. What are ice dams?"
She raised her eyebrows in surprise. "You don't know?"
"No, I don't---I've never had them before. Want to klew me in?" (He
knew that for some reason Nat found his pronunciation of words with
'klew' in them amusing, so he threw that in just for the effect.)
She smiled.
Bingo, he thought to himself with satisfaction.
Natalie cleared her throat and assumed a lecturing tone. "Ice dams,"
she began, "happen when the temperature fluctuates above and below
freezing, so that the snow on your roof melts and then freezes again.
"When the snow melts and refreezes like that, it forms a sort of ice
ridge that blocks water from the next day's melting from running off
the roof. The water needs somewhere to go, though, so lots of times it
leaks into the roof and walls of your house, and you get water
damage." She looked at him sympathetically. "So your motors probably
had water leaking into them somehow, and they finally gave up. You
haven't seen any water on your walls, have you?"
"Nope." Nick shook his head.
"Hmm." She thoughtfully chewed on the pencil, much to Nick's
annoyance---he did *not* like gnawed pencils in his pencil mug. "Well,
the temperature *has* been just above freezing during the day and cold
at night these last two weeks---you've noticed how sloppy the streets
are. What I can't figure out is, how can you get ice dams on a flat
roof? This usually happens on slanted roofs. Haven't you looked up
there lately?"
"No, I don't usually look at my roof. Do you look at yours?" he
answered testily, as if she were accusing him of bad home ownership
skills.
"I live in an apartment, remember? It's not my roof," she pointed out.
"You, on the other hand, own that building---or at least, I assume you
do. You don't strike me as a renting kind of guy."
He sighed. "Yeah, it's mine. I didn't think I'd have to worry about
the roof for quite a while, though, since it was redone before I moved
in. It shouldn't be leaking like that." A vague feeling of guilt for
neglecting his roof began to seep into his being.
Nat looked at the ceiling, tapping the mutilated pencil on her teeth.
"Hmmm. I don't know what you have to do to prevent getting ice dams---
I remember my Dad going on and on about soffits and insulation when we
had them one year, but I have no idea what that all means." She stuck
the pencil decisively into the mug serving as Nick's pencil holder and
quoted with a grin, "'Dammit, Jim, I'm a doctor, not a roofer.'"
Nick looked at her blankly. "Who's Jim?"
She sighed. "Cultural allusion, Nick---didn't you watch TV in the
sixties? No, of course not. But to get back to your roof---what're you
going to do now?"
He produced the note Artie had left him and passed it to her. "Call
Artie, I guess. He seems to have things under control." He casually
fished the tooth-dented pencil out of his pencil holder and dropped it
in the wastebasket.
Nat noted the action and filed it away for further use. She put down
Artie's note, stood up and adjusted her skirt. "Better call him soon,
or he'll be in bed. Let me know what he says, okay? And good luck!"
"Thanks," Nick answered automatically. "I'll call him now." He waved
at her departing back absently as he picked up the phone and started
dialing.
~~~~~
Five minutes later he was arguing with Artie. "What do you mean, I
need a roofer? My motors are broken, not my roof!"
Artie answered patiently, "No, you don't need the roofer for the
motors. You need him for the *roof*."
Nick suppressed the urge to say, 'Well, duh!' like some snotty
teenager, and limited himself to a simple, "But *why*?"
"Because if you don't fix the roof, it'll leak again, and the motors
will short out again, and you'll be back in the same spot you are now.
Like I told you, the ice stopped up the drains in the parapet, and you
had standing water up there. It leaked through the roof and filtered
into the wall. And *that* wrecked your motors." He paused a moment for
a breath, then continued. "So you need more tar and gravel up there,
and later on when it's warm, you need to have it ripped up and
reinsulated so it doesn't happen again."
"And how long will that take?"
"The roof? Not long---but the motors are another matter. I ordered the
parts, see, but they have to come from Germany---those motors are
imported, you know. It'll be six weeks."
"WHAT?!?" Heads around the squad room popped up at Nick's involuntary
scream. Seeing the look on his face, they immediately busied
themselves with other things and studiously ignored him. "What do you
mean, *six weeks*?" he hissed in a quieter voice.
Artie sounded aggrieved at Nick's attitude. "Well, they don't use
regular parts, I mean, they're pretty fancy, y'know, eh? I suppose I
could try to rig something temporary in the meantime..."
"You do that," Nick snarled, "and I suppose you have someone to do the
roof? Another cousin?"
Arthur paused. "Well, yeah, as a matter of fact..." he said guardedly,
"my cousin Bob just happens to be in the roofing business..."
Nick threw up his hands. "Fine! Just fine! Have it done tomorrow!" And
with that he hung up and glared at his hapless partner, who had come
in and settled down at his desk during the phone conversation.
"Hiya, Nick," Schanke greeted him cheerfully. "How's it going? Hey,
isn't that Artie a great guy? So how's your shutter problem?" He
laughed when Nick's only response was a mumbled string of lurid
curses, and got up and clapped his partner on the shoulder. "C'mon,
let's get rolling. It'll look better in the morning."
~~~~~
It didn't look better in the morning. Or the next evening, when Nick
stumbled downstairs after a sleepless day listening to an
extraordinary cacophony of sounds coming from both above and below
him. Pounding, scraping, thumping, drilling, rumbling...an entire
thesaurus of noise had kept him awake all day, much to the detriment
of what was left of his temper.
He looked at the shambles of his loft. The dropcloths were now covered
with even more machinery---how could all of that come from those
compact motors?---as well as parts of the window frames. Oily smears
decorated the hardwood floor, although at least an unsuccessful
attempt had been made to clean them up.
Filled with apprehension, he went up to view his roof and immediately
regretted it. Gravel was heaped here and there in large piles; buckets
of black, sticky tar were scattered everywhere. The roof itself was
torn up in several places, the damage covered with tarps weighed down
by more buckets of sludge. It smelled like the La Brea tar pits.
Fuming, he stomped down the roof stairs and re-entered his trashed
home, to find yet another disaster waiting for him in the persona of
his two-thousand-year-old master. Standing amid the ruins of his
living room looking for all the world like a particularly severe art
critic, Lucien Lacroix was examining the debris with an air of
detached, slightly disdainful bemusement.
"What are you doing here?" Nick snarled, not in the mood to deal with
his overbearing sire just at that moment---not that he ever was in the
mood, but now was a worse time than usual.
Lacroix ignored the incivility and fastidiously picked his way through
the mess of dropcloths and dead machinery towards the staircase.
"Redecorating, Nicholas?" he inquired. "Or is this some new artistic
endeavor? I don't believe I recognize the style--- 'performance art,'
perhaps?" His gaze roamed over the carnage. "I can't say that I care
for it overmuch, although it is a refreshing change from your usual
sun-worshipping. So much more---depressing."
"I'm having repairs done," Nick answered shortly.
"Ah. Your window shutters, is it?"
"Yes."
Lacroix looked at the vast expanse of uncovered glass that made up so
much of Nick's southeastern exposure. "It would appear to be an
inconvenience. When will the repairs be completed?"
Nick gritted his teeth. "Soon."
"But not soon enough." He arched an expressive eyebrow. "That would
explain the frustration and ennui I have been sensing from you---your
daylight activities have been severely limited, have they not?"
"Lacroix, why are you here?" Nick asked again, fed up with the genteel
interrogation. It was his problem, dammit, why couldn't he just go
away and leave him to brood about his window shutters in peace?
"Why, to discover the source of your distress. You know I dislike
seeing my children suffer, Nicholas. Unless I've caused it, of
course," he added, almost as an afterthought.
"Then LEAVE ME ALONE!" Nick shouted at his sire.
"Oh, very well," Lacroix sighed. And with that, he was gone. The faint
slam of the roof door floated down the stairs.
At least he didn't go through the skylight, Nick thought. With my
luck, the glass repair shops would all be closed for the winter.
He cast one more glance around the loft and grimaced. If he hadn't
known it was impossible, he could swear he was getting a headache. He
rubbed his forehead and sighed, and went to work. At least it'll be
quieter there.
~~~~~
Once again Nat was waiting for him at his desk. Her cheerful inquiry
died on her lips when she saw Nick's face. Noting his haggard
expression, she asked sympathetically, "Not going well, huh?"
Nick sat heavily in his chair and buried his face in his hands. After
a moment, he sighed, looked up at her and said, "I give up. I'm
leaving."
Nat was horrified. "Nick, no! Just because your windows don't work?
You can't leave me!"
Nick looked puzzled. "Leave you? No, I mean I'm going to check into a
hotel until this is cleared up. I can't stand it anymore...the noise,
the mess, Lacroix..." He got a phone book out of his bottom drawer. "A
suite at the King Edward will do, I think." He started looking up the
number.
She heaved a sigh of relief. For a moment she had thought her little
joke had pushed Nick over the edge. Instead, he was being pushed into
a four-star hotel with marble bathtubs, which was not much of a
hardship in her estimation. Then the rest of his statement sank in.
"Lacroix? What does he have to do with this?"
Nick picked up the phone. "Oh, he came over last night and had a few
choice things to say about the state of the loft," he said bitterly.
"The usual stuff. You'd think that radio show would keep him busy, but
oh, no, he has to come over and lecture me. Like I haven't heard it
all before..." His voice trailed off as he dialed the King Eddy's
number. "Hello? I need a suite for the next week or so..."
Nat tiptoes away while he made provisions for his immediate peace and
quiet. In this case, she thought, discretion was the better part of
valor. She just hoped Schanke's cousins could eventually put together
whatever it was they had taken apart.
~~~~~
After the end of a seemingly endless shift (even Schanke had tread
lightly around him after noting Nick's lack of sleep, frustration
level, and the number of snapped pencils on his blotter) Nick drove
back to the loft to retrieve the essentials for his stay at the King
Edward.
He braced himself in anticipation of the sight of his home in its
current state of disrepair as he rode the elevator upwards. When the
car rumbled to a halt, he took a deep breath and flung open the door
to see...
Tranquillity. The loft practically sparkled: the shutters were down,
surfaces gleamed with furniture polish, and a lamp glowed softly next
to the sofa. Not a chair, not a knickknack was out of place. Several
vases of fresh-cut flowers scented the room. There wasn't a dropcloth
or bit of machinery in sight.
Nick walked slowly around the room in a trance. How had this miracle
occurred? Had the Schanke clan, in a fit of remorse, descended en
masse on his home in a massive effort to turn chaos into order?
The roof! He hurried up the stairs to the roof and peeked out. The
former lunar landscape had been transformed into an almost Japanese
Zen garden-like expanse of smooth gravel. The feeling of happiness
that had started to blossom within Nick burst into full bloom. His
peace and quiet was restored---he was free! His home was his own
again! Strains of the Hallelujah Chorus ran through his mind as he
almost danced down the steps back into the loft.
Belatedly he noticed an envelope on the kitchen table, weighed down
with his window remote. Remembering the last time he had seen a
missive there, he approached it warily. He picked it up and read the
name on the return address: "The Night Crew."
Huh?
He opened the envelope to find a lengthy itemized invoice for the
repair and restoration of the loft. It was comprehensive and
expensive. It was also stamped 'PAID.'
Huh?
Then he noticed the note paperclipped to the back of the invoice. It
was written in a familiar hand, and read:
Nicholas, Hope you find the repairs satisfactory. I charged it to
your Citibank Visa account--- and signed the slip for you as well
(ha, ha). Ask for us the next time you need some help! By the way,
you got the 20
discount for first-time customers. This evens out the Battle of
Hastings thing, I think. Aristotle
Aristotle! What did he have to do with home repairs? Didn't he have
his hands full arranging new identities for relocating members of the
Community? And how did he get involved with Nick's shutter problem---
not that he minded, although Aristotle *would* have to bring up that
Hastings affair again. Nick scratched his head and picked up the
phone to call the master forger (and that was another thing---where
did he get off, forging Nick's name on a charge slip?)
When Aristotle answered, Nick came right to the point. "What's this
'Night Crew' outfit, Aristotle?"
"And hello to you, too, Nicholas. Have you tried out your shutters
yet?" Aristotle sounded pleased with himself.
"Just a minute." Nick put down the phone, picked up the window remote,
aimed it at the windows, and pressed the button. The shutters
obediently whirred and retracted, just like they were supposed to. In
fact, they seemed quieter than they had been before. Smiling, Nick
pressed the button again and they slid quietly down. He raised and
lowered them two more times, just to make sure.
He picked up the phone and said, "They're perfect."
"Of course they are---I bring across only the best."
Nick sputtered, "Bring across...?"
Aristotle sighed. "Nicholas, if you would just hang out with your own
kind, you'd know all about it. You don't think we spend all our time
down at the Raven talking about the past or plotting evil, do you?
Sometimes the talk drifts off to oh, say, plumbing problems and bad
light switches. Life is getting more and more complicated, you know.
For the last fifty years I've made a point of finding---
specialists---who could help out the Community with the more practical
aspects of modern life and bringing them across. I have two full-time
crews in Toronto alone---very talented children, I might add. And they
make a pretty profit, as well."
"I can well imagine, considering the size of the bill. And no, we're
not even for Hastings yet."
"Come now, Nicholas, I *did* provide very prompt service."
"I was almost staked with a pool cue because of you! Why you thought
it amusing to start singing the praises of Manchester United in a pub
full of Liverpool soccer hooligans is beyond me..."
Aristotle was unrepentant. "Well, it was funny. But all right, I'll
give you the twenty percent discount again, next time you want some
work done."
"And another thing, how did you find out about my problem?"
"Ask Lacroix." With that, Aristotle chuckled softly and hung up.
~~~~~
Damn! Indebted to Lacroix again! Oh, well, Nick supposed he should
just bite the proverbial bullet and get it over with. Reluctantly he
dialed Lacroix's number (as a matter of principle he refused to put it
on speed dial. That implied he *wanted* to talk to his sire).
The phone rang once, then Lacroix's silky tones came over the line.
"Hello, Nicholas."
"Hello, Lacroix. It seems I must thank you for arranging Aristotle's
little blue-collar enterprise to make my repairs. So---thank you."
Nick somehow choked the words out. "I could have managed, though."
Lacroix said gravely, "You're welcome, Nicholas. Although as for your
managing, that seemed to be in doubt. The tradesmen you hired seemed
somewhat inept. I took care of them, by the way."
"What did you do to them?!?" Nick suddenly had visions of Artie's and
his roofing cousin's bodies drained and floating somewhere in Lake
Ontario.
"Calm yourself, Nicholas, no harm has come to them, not that they
don't deserve it for their incompetence. They have been paid off and
dismissed, that is all. And I expect your check to reimburse me,
incidentally."
"Naturally." Nick paused, then couldn't resist adding, "You seem to be
having a good time arranging all this, Lacroix. Are you considering a
career change to general contractor?"
"Don't be insulting, Nicholas. I am *not* a tradesman." Nick could
just see the severe figure drawing himself up to his full height,
rather like Margaret Dumont in a snit.
"Still, you must admit you show a distinct talent," Nick said
cheerfully.
There was dead silence on the line. Nick imagined Lacroix was
summoning up all his patience. Either that or planning how to sabotage
his shutters in a more permanent way.
Finally, Lacroix spoke. "Rome may not have been built in a day,
Nicholas...but at least *we* knew where to find good help."
Finis
Nancy Kaminski
nancykam@mediaone.net
Good Help is Hard to Find
by Nancy Kaminski
(c) April 1998
===============================
It had been one of those shifts, full of fussy little tasks---do this
interview, fill out these forms, check in that evidence---and it
seemed to last forever. No one task took more than a half-hour, and
although Nick Knight had been continually busy, he felt like he had
accomplished absolutely nothing.
He greeted the end of his shift with relief and headed home, looking
forward to a lazy, paint-filled morning---just him, his easel, a
conveniently located bottle of cow, and the stereo. His mind filled in
the rest of the program: four hours working on his new canvas, and
then a nice hot bath, the sensual delight of his silk PJs, and a
restful day's sleep. He smiled in anticipation as he piloted the Caddy
homeward.
When Nick entered his loft, rosy-fingered Dawn was doing her best to
lighten the sky. Humming contentedly to himself, he stripped off his
leather jacket and tidily hung it up, unhooked his holster, draped it
over a chair, and strode to the windows, remote in hand.
He briefly admired the faint pinkish-gray tinge of the wintry morning
sky, for once not letting regret dampen his mood. Maybe I should work
with those colors today, he mused. He thumbed the button that would
close the window's protective steel shutter.
He was gazing absentmindedly at the burgeoning daylight, mentally
mixing paint, when it finally sank in that he wasn't hearing the usual
silken whir of the shutter's electric motor. Instead, it had made a
sort of strangled 'whir-clunk' sound. Frowning, he pressed the
remote's button again.
Whir-CLUNK. Whir-CLUNK. Whir-CLUNK.
Pressing the button repeatedly had no effect except to produce the
annoying sound. He shook the remote, as if that would somehow
encourage it to send the correct, anti-clunking signal.
Whir-CLUNK. Whir-CLUNK. Whir-CLUNK.
He aimed the remote at the next window.
Whir-CLUNK.
He tried to lower the shutters on the rest of his windows. Not one
would respond to the remote's signal.
Whir-CLUNK. Whir-CLUNK. Whir-CLUNK.
Nick glowered at the remote, then turned it over. He slid the battery
door open and stared at the copper-and-black double As, not unlike a
stranded motorist who opens the hood and stares at the engine, as if
sheer mental force of will could make a machine heal itself. He
jiggled the batteries, then tried again.
It didn't work, of course.
Gentle rosy-fingered Dawn was now beginning to look like Attila the
Sun. Apprehensively, Nick levitated to the top of the nearest window
and, holding the remote right next to the infrared receiver, pressed
the button.
Whir-CLUNK.
It sounded even more awful up close.
He stuck the remote in his pocket and, gripping the edge of the steel
shutter, tried to pull it down. To his dismay, he found that his
usually irresistible force couldn't budge this particular unmovable
object.
Just then the sun sent a well-aimed ray of gold between two buildings
and hit Nick squarely in the face. With an undignified screech he shot
upwards and backwards, executed an Immelmann that the Red Baron would
have admired, and landed on the balcony safely in the shadows.
"Oh, shoot!" he said. (Actually, he said something else in several
exotic languages, all of which had to do with unnatural acts with
close relatives or inanimate objects, but this is, in essence, what he
meant, and we shall leave it at that.---ed.)
Relentless as the rising tide, the sun painted the lower room with
golden light. It crept over the piano, the table with the priceless
archaeological knickknacks (one rare Olmec pottery dish holding a
handful of loonies, an unidentifiable key, and a New York subway
token), the Persian carpet, the black leather couch, the easel...
...and crept towards the kitchen---and the refrigerator and the
bottles of cow stored there. Nick came out of his bemused trance just
in time to flash downstairs to grab some sustenance before it was too
late and he became stranded upstairs, alone and hungry. He was only
smoking a little when he regained the safety of the upper floor.
He retreated resentfully into his windowless bedroom, his carefully
planned morning completely ruined by a bunch of unthinking, unfeeling,
uncaring electric motors. Imported electric motors. Expensive electric
motors, that were supposedly guaranteed against everything except
nuclear warfare or tidal wave, neither of which was reasonably
expected to occur in Toronto, at least not in this millenium.
And when he went into the storage room (the real reason why Nick lives
in a warehouse: lots of storage space for eight hundred years' worth
of knick-knacks.---ed.) to check the receipts for the motors, he found
the warranty had run out the previous year. (Nick was a stickler for
keeping records---he still had the receipt for a refrigerator he had
bought in 1946 neatly filed under "R" in the "Appliances" folder.---
ed.)
He was on his own on this one.
Sitting down on his bed, he picked up the phone and the Yellow Pages
and started dialing. This situation had to be fixed---and soon.
~~~~~
He was still on the phone three hours later. For some reason no
electrician in Metro Toronto was available any sooner than Monday next
week. It was just another manifestation of the unfairness of the
universe in general and towards him in particular that his shutters
had to fail during the week between Christmas and New Year, and that
his usually effective whammy just didn't work over the phone.
He wondered briefly if he should call Lacroix and ask him for his
electrician---surely no tradesman would refuse *him*---then shelved
the idea. The elder vampire (who was a firm believer in the efficacy
of heavy draperies) would only laugh at him, then broadcast cutting
monologues on CERK for weeks to come, all aimed at Nick, overly
elaborate solutions to simple problems, and the futility of depending
on modern technology for anything.
Nick cringed at the thought. It was bad enough being chased by the
ancient serpent down through the ages and across seven continents---
he didn't need to be snickered at at the same time.
While he was pondering his next move, he heard the elevator door
rumble open and quick, light footsteps enter the loft.
"Nick? Are you here?" Natalie's voice echoed through the high-
ceilinged loft.
Nick's mood lightened a bit. Maybe Nat, who was after all an
incredibly resourceful scientist, would have some useful ideas. He
exited his bedroom and edged cautiously along the rear wall of the
upper balcony. The sun reached halfway across the floor, and he could
barely see for the glare. "Up here, Nat."
Natalie craned her head up to look at him and said, "Nick, what are
you doing up there?" Then she observed, "The shutters are still up."
"Oh, thank you *very* much for pointing that out. I hadn't noticed,"
he said sarcastically. "Well! Somebody got up on the wrong side of the
coffin!"
Nick sighed and stifled his irritation. "Sorry, Nat, but the shutters
don't work, and I'm stuck up here for the day."
"Did you check the batteries in the remote?"
Nick's only answer was a pained look, thankfully invisible from Nat's
vantage point.
She looked around, spotted the remote where it had fallen out of
Nick's pocket during his recent aerial maneuvers, and picked it up.
She examined it briefly, then pointed it at the nearest window.
Whir-CLUNK.
"Hmmm. I see what you mean."
He explained plaintively, "There must be something wrong with the
motors. I'm trying to get an electrician, but they're all busy, or
taking the week off, or something." He edged a little further back
from the ribbon of sunlight on the floor. "Nat, would you come up
here? It's getting a little bright."
In answer she tripped lightly up the stairs.
"You're cheery this morning, and after a full night's work, too," Nick
observed sourly.
Nat held up a Thermos and smiled brightly. "New formula!"
He forced a smile. "Oh, good, but I've already eaten." He gestured
helplessly at the sunlight. "I'd put it in the fridge myself, but..."
"...That's okay, I'll do it. You can have it for dinner. Or breakfast.
Whatever. Be right back!"
After depositing the Thermos in the fridge (placing it conspicuously
in front of all the unlabeled green wine bottles), Nat rejoined Nick,
who by now had retreated again to his nice, dark bedroom and was
flipping desultorily through the Yellow Pages. She asked, "So, what
are you going to do?"
He sighed. "I don't know. No one can come out until next Monday at the
earliest. I don't want to spend the next," he counted on his fingers,
"six days lurking up here as soon as I come home from work. I don't
need that much sleep. And it's boring," he added, sounding just a bit
pathetic and sorry for himself.
"Well," Nat said reasonably, "Have you considered getting temporary
curtains?"
Nick said patiently, "In case you haven't noticed, there aren't any
curtain rods. And there isn't anything you can hang curtains from
around the windows, or at least, nothing that would support that kind
of weight. I'd have to drill holes in the brick wall, and then I would
just have to get masons out to repair the bricks after the motors were
fixed. I don't want workmen crawling all over the place for the next
two months."
"It's not like you can't afford it, Nick. Get the curtains."
"No, I want an electrician to fix my motors." He was beginning to
sound mulish. He set his jaw.
Natalie frowned. When Nick was in this mood, there was no persuading
him---he was in full I'm-an-aristocrat-damn-the-peasants-bring-on-
the-cake mode. He knew what he wanted, and he wanted it now. No
substitutes accepted.
An idea insinuated itself into her head. Maybe... Hmmm, it might be
worth a shot. And it could be---amusing.
For just a moment she regretted her tendency to enjoy seeing Nick
squirm, but banished it from her mind. A minor bit of harmless
entertainment was the least he owed her, all things considered. She
said, "I have an idea."
Nick brightened. "What?"
She held up a hand. "Uh-uh, I don't want to make any promises until I
check this out. I'll call you later." She got up to leave, then
paused, a sly grin growing on her face. "Is there anything you want
from downstairs? Books, magazines, maybe the remote for the stereo so
you can turn it on real loud and listen from up here?"
"No!" He regained his composure with an effort and said, "I think I'll
go to bed. Talk to you later. And, uh, thanks."
Nat just grinned and left with an annoyingly cheery wave.
~~~~~
Nick didn't hear from Natalie until he was back on duty the next
evening. She phoned him and announced, "I found someone."
"Nat, you're a miracle worker! Who is it? When can he come?"
"Tomorrow morning, about nine. His name is Arthur Dobrowolski."
"That's great. How did you find him? I thought I called everyone in
Toronto."
There was a pause. "Well, he's not an electrician full time."
Nick became immediately wary. "So, what does he do the rest of the
time?"
Another pause. "Uh, he's a used car salesman." She paused yet again,
saving the worst point (or, from her standpoint, the best point) for
last. "And, uh, he's Schanke's cousin. I got his name from Myra."
There was silence on the line, during which Nick was glaring at
Schanke, who was sitting pretending to do some paperwork with a
blandly innocent expression on his face.
"No," Nick stated firmly. "Not for *my* electric motors. No."
"Oh, c'mon, Nick," Natalie wheedled, "he's the only guy in town who
can pay an emergency house call on short notice! Do you really want to
wait until next week? Do you want to spend all that time hiding in
your room, instead of playing the piano or painting or whatever?"
Nick fumed, drummed his fingers on his blotter, and considered his
options. Option One: he didn't hire Schanke's cousin, and he was stuck
up in his room like a grounded teenager until next week. Option Two:
he did hire Schanke's cousin, took his chances, and maybe, just maybe,
regained an unlife.
Neither option looked particularly appetizing. He cast around
desperately for Option Three, but it refused to show its face.
Oh, well. Live dangerously. He scowled at Schanke, who waggled his
eyebrows and smirked back at his annoyed partner.
"Okay, Nat, tell him to show up. But..." he gestured emphatically, the
effect of which was rather lost in a phone conversation, "there are
some rules. Number one, he has to be neat. No leaving stuff all over
the place. Two, he stays out of the fridge. Three, no smoking. And,
and..." Nick ran out of rules and once again made an eloquent, though
unappreciated, gesture.
"Great! I'll tell him. He'll be there bright and early, nine a.m.
Don't worry, your shutters will be zooming up and down in no time."
"Yeah. Sure," he said without conviction. A thought occurred to him.
"Nat, will you give him the access code when you call? I won't be able
to let him in at that hour---too much light down there by the
elevator. And tell him the code's supposed to be a secret!"
"Okey-dokey," Nat answered perkily. As he hung up the phone, Nick
thought to himself that she was enjoying this whole disaster just a
*little* too much, and gloomily returned to his work.
~~~~~
At nine the next morning Nick heard the elevator door grind open, and
footsteps come into the loft. There was a pause, then, "Geeze, Louise,
Donny wasn't kidding!"
Oh, great. Another amateur Martha Stewart to comment on his interior
decorating. Nick stood up from his bedroom chair, where he had been
reading, and went to the hallway. He called, "Mr. Dobrowolski? I'm up
here." He squinted into the glare of the morning sun but could only
see a large shadowy figure.
Tools clanked as a toolbox was set on the floor. Heavy feet clomped up
the stairs, and a large shadowy figure approached Nick. "Hey, Mr.
Knight, call me Artie. Nice to meet you. It's Nick, right? Donny's
told me a lot about you." The figure resolved itself into a burly,
dark-haired man in jeans, plaid shirt, and anorak. They shook hands,
now apparently on a first name basis.
"I'm glad you could come on short notice. Has Dr. Lambert told you the
problem?"
"She just said you have a problem with some electrics---something to
do with the windows." He looked around, apparently looking for some
manifestation of electrical distress.
"Yes." Nick described the calamity. When he was finished (having given
his standard 'sun allergy' excuse as the reason for having such
strange appliances as steel window shutters) Schanke's cousin
scratched his head and looked doubtful.
"Well, I'll poke around and see what I can find. Sounds like the whole
system shorted out." He went over to the railing and looked at the
windows. contemplating their height. "I'll have to go downstairs and
get my ladder."
"Fine. Whatever. I'm going to bed, now, so keep it down, will you?"
And with that graceless comment, Nick retreated back into his bedroom,
belatedly wondering if he should have put away all his priceless
knick-knacks. If Artie shared any Schanke genetic tendencies besides
the dark hair and brown eyes, they were in peril of being accidentally
rearranged in a less than gentle manner.
Oh well, too late now. He put it out of his mind and shut the door.
~~~~~
Nick's slumber was interrupted several times during the day by:
* Muted bouts of pounding. * The radio tuned to "Polka Time Toronto."
* The scent of a garlic-laden kielbasa on pumpernickel sandwich, with
mayo. * The sound of large feet clomping around on the roof.
His groggy brain was unable to assimilate these facts in any coherent
pattern, so he simply put the pillow over his head and tried to relive
a particular spring evening in Spain just before the beginning of the
Peninsular War. It had been peaceful, there had been very little
kielbasa, and absolutely no polkas.
~~~~~
Nick awoke at four that afternoon. He lay still, listening, but the
loft was quiet. Too quiet, he thought to himself, making a minor
cinematic jest to cover his instantly aroused anxiety. Shouldn't
Artie the Amateur Electrician still be here?
Or, he thought, daring to be optimistic, he fixed the shutters and
went home early. Yes, that must be it.
In a hopeful mood he padded barefoot and pajama-clad downstairs, to be
met with the sight of half his loft covered with paint-spattered
dropcloths. Bits and pieces of window mechanism were grouped in random
clumps on the dropcloths, presumably in some relation to the window
from which they came.
The shutters were obviously *not* going to work anytime soon.
"Oh, shoot," Nick muttered (see language usage comment above.---ed.).
Spying a piece of paper on the kitchen table, he edged towards it,
fearing the worst, as if that hasn't already happened, he added
grimly to himself.
The paper, the reverse side of a flyer for the Tree Doctor Tree
Trimming Service ("25 Years of Satisfied Patients!"), revealed these
cryptic words:
'You've got ice dams. Parts coming. Call me. A.D.' The phone number
was scribbled below.
Ice dams? What were ice dams? Some obscure arctic insect that feasted
on electrical wiring? In all his almost-eight hundred years, Nick had
never heard of ice dams.
Ice, yes. Icebergs (he shuddered, thinking of that ill-fated ocean
passage), yes. Ice cream, yes. Ice dams, no.
Sighing, he headed for the fridge and breakfast. Maybe Schanke would
know. He'd ask first, then make the call from work.
~~~~~
Nick was saved the embarrassment of revealing to his partner his
ignorance in the matter of ice dams. Natalie was sitting on the corner
of his desk fiddling with one of his pencils and fairly bouncing with
curiosity when he walked in.
"Well? How'd it go?" she inquired.
Nick shook his head and sat down. "Not good," he said. Lowering his
voice as if imparting some scandalous information, he continued, "I
have ice dams."
"Oh, too bad. That can be a real mess." She shook her head in
commiseration at this apparent tragedy.
Nick looked at her. Did everyone in Toronto know what they were?
"Okay," he said at last, "I give up. What are ice dams?"
She raised her eyebrows in surprise. "You don't know?"
"No, I don't---I've never had them before. Want to klew me in?" (He
knew that for some reason Nat found his pronunciation of words with
'klew' in them amusing, so he threw that in just for the effect.)
She smiled.
Bingo, he thought to himself with satisfaction.
Natalie cleared her throat and assumed a lecturing tone. "Ice dams,"
she began, "happen when the temperature fluctuates above and below
freezing, so that the snow on your roof melts and then freezes again.
"When the snow melts and refreezes like that, it forms a sort of ice
ridge that blocks water from the next day's melting from running off
the roof. The water needs somewhere to go, though, so lots of times it
leaks into the roof and walls of your house, and you get water
damage." She looked at him sympathetically. "So your motors probably
had water leaking into them somehow, and they finally gave up. You
haven't seen any water on your walls, have you?"
"Nope." Nick shook his head.
"Hmm." She thoughtfully chewed on the pencil, much to Nick's
annoyance---he did *not* like gnawed pencils in his pencil mug. "Well,
the temperature *has* been just above freezing during the day and cold
at night these last two weeks---you've noticed how sloppy the streets
are. What I can't figure out is, how can you get ice dams on a flat
roof? This usually happens on slanted roofs. Haven't you looked up
there lately?"
"No, I don't usually look at my roof. Do you look at yours?" he
answered testily, as if she were accusing him of bad home ownership
skills.
"I live in an apartment, remember? It's not my roof," she pointed out.
"You, on the other hand, own that building---or at least, I assume you
do. You don't strike me as a renting kind of guy."
He sighed. "Yeah, it's mine. I didn't think I'd have to worry about
the roof for quite a while, though, since it was redone before I moved
in. It shouldn't be leaking like that." A vague feeling of guilt for
neglecting his roof began to seep into his being.
Nat looked at the ceiling, tapping the mutilated pencil on her teeth.
"Hmmm. I don't know what you have to do to prevent getting ice dams---
I remember my Dad going on and on about soffits and insulation when we
had them one year, but I have no idea what that all means." She stuck
the pencil decisively into the mug serving as Nick's pencil holder and
quoted with a grin, "'Dammit, Jim, I'm a doctor, not a roofer.'"
Nick looked at her blankly. "Who's Jim?"
She sighed. "Cultural allusion, Nick---didn't you watch TV in the
sixties? No, of course not. But to get back to your roof---what're you
going to do now?"
He produced the note Artie had left him and passed it to her. "Call
Artie, I guess. He seems to have things under control." He casually
fished the tooth-dented pencil out of his pencil holder and dropped it
in the wastebasket.
Nat noted the action and filed it away for further use. She put down
Artie's note, stood up and adjusted her skirt. "Better call him soon,
or he'll be in bed. Let me know what he says, okay? And good luck!"
"Thanks," Nick answered automatically. "I'll call him now." He waved
at her departing back absently as he picked up the phone and started
dialing.
~~~~~
Five minutes later he was arguing with Artie. "What do you mean, I
need a roofer? My motors are broken, not my roof!"
Artie answered patiently, "No, you don't need the roofer for the
motors. You need him for the *roof*."
Nick suppressed the urge to say, 'Well, duh!' like some snotty
teenager, and limited himself to a simple, "But *why*?"
"Because if you don't fix the roof, it'll leak again, and the motors
will short out again, and you'll be back in the same spot you are now.
Like I told you, the ice stopped up the drains in the parapet, and you
had standing water up there. It leaked through the roof and filtered
into the wall. And *that* wrecked your motors." He paused a moment for
a breath, then continued. "So you need more tar and gravel up there,
and later on when it's warm, you need to have it ripped up and
reinsulated so it doesn't happen again."
"And how long will that take?"
"The roof? Not long---but the motors are another matter. I ordered the
parts, see, but they have to come from Germany---those motors are
imported, you know. It'll be six weeks."
"WHAT?!?" Heads around the squad room popped up at Nick's involuntary
scream. Seeing the look on his face, they immediately busied
themselves with other things and studiously ignored him. "What do you
mean, *six weeks*?" he hissed in a quieter voice.
Artie sounded aggrieved at Nick's attitude. "Well, they don't use
regular parts, I mean, they're pretty fancy, y'know, eh? I suppose I
could try to rig something temporary in the meantime..."
"You do that," Nick snarled, "and I suppose you have someone to do the
roof? Another cousin?"
Arthur paused. "Well, yeah, as a matter of fact..." he said guardedly,
"my cousin Bob just happens to be in the roofing business..."
Nick threw up his hands. "Fine! Just fine! Have it done tomorrow!" And
with that he hung up and glared at his hapless partner, who had come
in and settled down at his desk during the phone conversation.
"Hiya, Nick," Schanke greeted him cheerfully. "How's it going? Hey,
isn't that Artie a great guy? So how's your shutter problem?" He
laughed when Nick's only response was a mumbled string of lurid
curses, and got up and clapped his partner on the shoulder. "C'mon,
let's get rolling. It'll look better in the morning."
~~~~~
It didn't look better in the morning. Or the next evening, when Nick
stumbled downstairs after a sleepless day listening to an
extraordinary cacophony of sounds coming from both above and below
him. Pounding, scraping, thumping, drilling, rumbling...an entire
thesaurus of noise had kept him awake all day, much to the detriment
of what was left of his temper.
He looked at the shambles of his loft. The dropcloths were now covered
with even more machinery---how could all of that come from those
compact motors?---as well as parts of the window frames. Oily smears
decorated the hardwood floor, although at least an unsuccessful
attempt had been made to clean them up.
Filled with apprehension, he went up to view his roof and immediately
regretted it. Gravel was heaped here and there in large piles; buckets
of black, sticky tar were scattered everywhere. The roof itself was
torn up in several places, the damage covered with tarps weighed down
by more buckets of sludge. It smelled like the La Brea tar pits.
Fuming, he stomped down the roof stairs and re-entered his trashed
home, to find yet another disaster waiting for him in the persona of
his two-thousand-year-old master. Standing amid the ruins of his
living room looking for all the world like a particularly severe art
critic, Lucien Lacroix was examining the debris with an air of
detached, slightly disdainful bemusement.
"What are you doing here?" Nick snarled, not in the mood to deal with
his overbearing sire just at that moment---not that he ever was in the
mood, but now was a worse time than usual.
Lacroix ignored the incivility and fastidiously picked his way through
the mess of dropcloths and dead machinery towards the staircase.
"Redecorating, Nicholas?" he inquired. "Or is this some new artistic
endeavor? I don't believe I recognize the style--- 'performance art,'
perhaps?" His gaze roamed over the carnage. "I can't say that I care
for it overmuch, although it is a refreshing change from your usual
sun-worshipping. So much more---depressing."
"I'm having repairs done," Nick answered shortly.
"Ah. Your window shutters, is it?"
"Yes."
Lacroix looked at the vast expanse of uncovered glass that made up so
much of Nick's southeastern exposure. "It would appear to be an
inconvenience. When will the repairs be completed?"
Nick gritted his teeth. "Soon."
"But not soon enough." He arched an expressive eyebrow. "That would
explain the frustration and ennui I have been sensing from you---your
daylight activities have been severely limited, have they not?"
"Lacroix, why are you here?" Nick asked again, fed up with the genteel
interrogation. It was his problem, dammit, why couldn't he just go
away and leave him to brood about his window shutters in peace?
"Why, to discover the source of your distress. You know I dislike
seeing my children suffer, Nicholas. Unless I've caused it, of
course," he added, almost as an afterthought.
"Then LEAVE ME ALONE!" Nick shouted at his sire.
"Oh, very well," Lacroix sighed. And with that, he was gone. The faint
slam of the roof door floated down the stairs.
At least he didn't go through the skylight, Nick thought. With my
luck, the glass repair shops would all be closed for the winter.
He cast one more glance around the loft and grimaced. If he hadn't
known it was impossible, he could swear he was getting a headache. He
rubbed his forehead and sighed, and went to work. At least it'll be
quieter there.
~~~~~
Once again Nat was waiting for him at his desk. Her cheerful inquiry
died on her lips when she saw Nick's face. Noting his haggard
expression, she asked sympathetically, "Not going well, huh?"
Nick sat heavily in his chair and buried his face in his hands. After
a moment, he sighed, looked up at her and said, "I give up. I'm
leaving."
Nat was horrified. "Nick, no! Just because your windows don't work?
You can't leave me!"
Nick looked puzzled. "Leave you? No, I mean I'm going to check into a
hotel until this is cleared up. I can't stand it anymore...the noise,
the mess, Lacroix..." He got a phone book out of his bottom drawer. "A
suite at the King Edward will do, I think." He started looking up the
number.
She heaved a sigh of relief. For a moment she had thought her little
joke had pushed Nick over the edge. Instead, he was being pushed into
a four-star hotel with marble bathtubs, which was not much of a
hardship in her estimation. Then the rest of his statement sank in.
"Lacroix? What does he have to do with this?"
Nick picked up the phone. "Oh, he came over last night and had a few
choice things to say about the state of the loft," he said bitterly.
"The usual stuff. You'd think that radio show would keep him busy, but
oh, no, he has to come over and lecture me. Like I haven't heard it
all before..." His voice trailed off as he dialed the King Eddy's
number. "Hello? I need a suite for the next week or so..."
Nat tiptoes away while he made provisions for his immediate peace and
quiet. In this case, she thought, discretion was the better part of
valor. She just hoped Schanke's cousins could eventually put together
whatever it was they had taken apart.
~~~~~
After the end of a seemingly endless shift (even Schanke had tread
lightly around him after noting Nick's lack of sleep, frustration
level, and the number of snapped pencils on his blotter) Nick drove
back to the loft to retrieve the essentials for his stay at the King
Edward.
He braced himself in anticipation of the sight of his home in its
current state of disrepair as he rode the elevator upwards. When the
car rumbled to a halt, he took a deep breath and flung open the door
to see...
Tranquillity. The loft practically sparkled: the shutters were down,
surfaces gleamed with furniture polish, and a lamp glowed softly next
to the sofa. Not a chair, not a knickknack was out of place. Several
vases of fresh-cut flowers scented the room. There wasn't a dropcloth
or bit of machinery in sight.
Nick walked slowly around the room in a trance. How had this miracle
occurred? Had the Schanke clan, in a fit of remorse, descended en
masse on his home in a massive effort to turn chaos into order?
The roof! He hurried up the stairs to the roof and peeked out. The
former lunar landscape had been transformed into an almost Japanese
Zen garden-like expanse of smooth gravel. The feeling of happiness
that had started to blossom within Nick burst into full bloom. His
peace and quiet was restored---he was free! His home was his own
again! Strains of the Hallelujah Chorus ran through his mind as he
almost danced down the steps back into the loft.
Belatedly he noticed an envelope on the kitchen table, weighed down
with his window remote. Remembering the last time he had seen a
missive there, he approached it warily. He picked it up and read the
name on the return address: "The Night Crew."
Huh?
He opened the envelope to find a lengthy itemized invoice for the
repair and restoration of the loft. It was comprehensive and
expensive. It was also stamped 'PAID.'
Huh?
Then he noticed the note paperclipped to the back of the invoice. It
was written in a familiar hand, and read:
Nicholas, Hope you find the repairs satisfactory. I charged it to
your Citibank Visa account--- and signed the slip for you as well
(ha, ha). Ask for us the next time you need some help! By the way,
you got the 20
discount for first-time customers. This evens out the Battle of
Hastings thing, I think. Aristotle
Aristotle! What did he have to do with home repairs? Didn't he have
his hands full arranging new identities for relocating members of the
Community? And how did he get involved with Nick's shutter problem---
not that he minded, although Aristotle *would* have to bring up that
Hastings affair again. Nick scratched his head and picked up the
phone to call the master forger (and that was another thing---where
did he get off, forging Nick's name on a charge slip?)
When Aristotle answered, Nick came right to the point. "What's this
'Night Crew' outfit, Aristotle?"
"And hello to you, too, Nicholas. Have you tried out your shutters
yet?" Aristotle sounded pleased with himself.
"Just a minute." Nick put down the phone, picked up the window remote,
aimed it at the windows, and pressed the button. The shutters
obediently whirred and retracted, just like they were supposed to. In
fact, they seemed quieter than they had been before. Smiling, Nick
pressed the button again and they slid quietly down. He raised and
lowered them two more times, just to make sure.
He picked up the phone and said, "They're perfect."
"Of course they are---I bring across only the best."
Nick sputtered, "Bring across...?"
Aristotle sighed. "Nicholas, if you would just hang out with your own
kind, you'd know all about it. You don't think we spend all our time
down at the Raven talking about the past or plotting evil, do you?
Sometimes the talk drifts off to oh, say, plumbing problems and bad
light switches. Life is getting more and more complicated, you know.
For the last fifty years I've made a point of finding---
specialists---who could help out the Community with the more practical
aspects of modern life and bringing them across. I have two full-time
crews in Toronto alone---very talented children, I might add. And they
make a pretty profit, as well."
"I can well imagine, considering the size of the bill. And no, we're
not even for Hastings yet."
"Come now, Nicholas, I *did* provide very prompt service."
"I was almost staked with a pool cue because of you! Why you thought
it amusing to start singing the praises of Manchester United in a pub
full of Liverpool soccer hooligans is beyond me..."
Aristotle was unrepentant. "Well, it was funny. But all right, I'll
give you the twenty percent discount again, next time you want some
work done."
"And another thing, how did you find out about my problem?"
"Ask Lacroix." With that, Aristotle chuckled softly and hung up.
~~~~~
Damn! Indebted to Lacroix again! Oh, well, Nick supposed he should
just bite the proverbial bullet and get it over with. Reluctantly he
dialed Lacroix's number (as a matter of principle he refused to put it
on speed dial. That implied he *wanted* to talk to his sire).
The phone rang once, then Lacroix's silky tones came over the line.
"Hello, Nicholas."
"Hello, Lacroix. It seems I must thank you for arranging Aristotle's
little blue-collar enterprise to make my repairs. So---thank you."
Nick somehow choked the words out. "I could have managed, though."
Lacroix said gravely, "You're welcome, Nicholas. Although as for your
managing, that seemed to be in doubt. The tradesmen you hired seemed
somewhat inept. I took care of them, by the way."
"What did you do to them?!?" Nick suddenly had visions of Artie's and
his roofing cousin's bodies drained and floating somewhere in Lake
Ontario.
"Calm yourself, Nicholas, no harm has come to them, not that they
don't deserve it for their incompetence. They have been paid off and
dismissed, that is all. And I expect your check to reimburse me,
incidentally."
"Naturally." Nick paused, then couldn't resist adding, "You seem to be
having a good time arranging all this, Lacroix. Are you considering a
career change to general contractor?"
"Don't be insulting, Nicholas. I am *not* a tradesman." Nick could
just see the severe figure drawing himself up to his full height,
rather like Margaret Dumont in a snit.
"Still, you must admit you show a distinct talent," Nick said
cheerfully.
There was dead silence on the line. Nick imagined Lacroix was
summoning up all his patience. Either that or planning how to sabotage
his shutters in a more permanent way.
Finally, Lacroix spoke. "Rome may not have been built in a day,
Nicholas...but at least *we* knew where to find good help."
Finis
Nancy Kaminski
nancykam@mediaone.net