Ask the Parrot

11

With the sound off, the television set seemed to be saying that nothing much had happened. Parker gave Lindahl back his outer coat and boots, and then Lindahl went off to find some take-out food. “You don’t want any of that rabbit I got,” he said. “And neither do I, any more.”

“Fine,” Parker said.

Lindahl shrugged into his coat. “There’s nothing real close around here,” he said. “I’ll probably be an hour.”

Parker said, “If you run into anything I should know, call here.”

“You’re not going to answer the phone.” Lindahl looked startled.

“No, I’m not. But I’ll hear what you tell the answering machine.”

“Oh. Fine. Good.”

Lindahl left, and Parker went back to the kitchen where, first time through, he’d seen a drawer of tools. First taking the wad of four thousand in new cash from his pocket, he stuffed it deep into the bad-smelling garbage bag under the sink, washed his hands, and turned to the tool drawer. From it he selected a hammer, a Phillips-head screwdriver, a flathead screwdriver, a hacksaw, and a flashlight. He also took, from the bedroom, a right handed black leather glove. Then he left the converted garage, carrying everything, and walked over to the rear of the boarded-up house.

It was now almost seven in the evening, twilight, just enough illumination left in the sky to see what you were doing. The few houses he could see with lights in their windows looked darker than the rest of the world. No traffic moved out on the road, no sounds could be heard but the small movements of little animals.

Parker stopped at the rear door of the house to study what was here. The door was up two concrete steps from ground level, with filigree iron railings on both sides. A piece of half-inch plywood had been cut to fit between the railings, then screwed to the door frame on both sides and across the top. There were a total of fourteen Phillips-head screws, which would have been put in with a power drill, a tool Lindahl didn’t have.

The big question was what length screws they’d used. For half an inch of plywood, a one-inch screw would be plenty, but a guy with a power drill wouldn’t mind putting in longer screws, if they were handy.

Parker put on the glove, picked up the Phillips-head screwdriver from the concrete step where he’d laid all the tools, and went to work. The first screw didn’t want to budge, having been put in position here a long time ago. Two-handed, he gave it quick hard twists, and at last it unstuck and then turned as smoothly as if it had been oiled.

One-inch; good. Parker pocketed it and went on to the next.

Some of the screws were a little easier, some a little harder, but it all came out to the same; a quarter hour to remove all the screws. Then he pulled the plywood back, to show beyond it an ordinary kitchen door with four windowpanes in its upper half. The doorknob had been removed, because it would have stuck out in the way of the plywood.

The next step was to alter the screws to his own purpose. Turning the sheet of plywood sideways, he leaned it against the front of the railings and put all the screws back in place except for one low on the left side. He turned the screws in only partway, leaving less than a quarter inch of the head still jutting out. He then used the hacksaw to slice off all the screw points back flush to the wood before seating the screws completely into place as before. Now, when the plywood was in position, it would look the same as before, but a simple tug at the top would pull it free.

The screw he hadn’t put back he fixed into the upper middle of the plywood on the house side, turning it in only partway, so that it wouldn’t show on the outside. From inside the house, that would now be the handle to pull the plywood back into place.

Next was the door. He removed the glove, held it against the pane of glass nearest the missing knob, and hit it with the hammer. The muffled jingle of the breaking glass echoed mostly into the house. Knocking the last couple of shards out of the way, he reached in, found the knob still in place on the inside, turned it, and the door had not been locked; no reason to.

He pushed the door open and stepped in, feet crackling on the broken glass. Turning back, he picked up the plywood and moved it into position, guided by the iron railings that flanked the door. When he pulled the plywood upright against the wall by the screw he’d just added, it fit snugly into place, the shortened screws sliding into the previous holes just enough to hold.

Now the house. The plywood over all the doors and windows made the interior completely black. Switching on the flashlight, Parker saw the house had not been stripped. When the town fathers had sealed it up, they’d still hoped to find a buyer someday, so the plumbing was still here, and the electric fixtures, even the sink and a thirty-year-old refrigerator with its door propped open by a plastic milk box. The electricity and water had been switched off, but that was to be expected.

Parker moved through the dusty empty rooms and found nothing he didn’t expect to find. A coating of gray on the floorboards, walls faded to a dull noncolor, long cobwebs in the corners and around the blinded windows. No one had been in here since the plywood had been put up.

Back in the kitchen, he put the flashlight on the counter near the back door; if he had to come back, there wouldn’t be time to find some other light source.

There was nothing else here he needed to do or know. He left the house, pulled the door not quite shut, set the sheet of plywood in place, and went back to the converted garage to wait for dinner.