S. Jackson

The doorbell rang at quarter-past one, part way through Days of Our Lives.

"What?" Mrs. Madaffari snapped, clicking the intercom buzzer. She was never in a good mood, though interrupting her daily soap opera marathon could quickly turn it into a bad mood. Her tenants - seventeen apartments worth - learned that quickly.

"Hi," the voice squeaked, mousy and a bit fuzzy. The system hadn't been upgraded since the 60s. "I was just walking by and saw that you have an empty suite."

"Yeah? So?"

"Could I see it, please?"

"Wait."

She turned off the TV, threw on a moth-eaten cardigan, and stomped downstairs making sure to lock her door on the way out. Probably another addict, she silently grumbled. Won't take them – never pay their rent, and leave the place a sty.

A woman was waiting outside the doors, pretty and young, with a baby on one hip and two suitcases at her feet. Single mom, Mrs. Madaffari guessed – but, then, this one was different. Her hair was healthy and shiny, her skin flawless and make up subtle, fancy wedding ring, clothes – Burberry? And on the child, too?

Witness protection, she decided. Mafia wife.

The suite was a third-floor walk-up; the suitcases hit every step with a think-thump, but the building had seen worse damage in its hundred-year history. It was on the fringes of the bad side of town, always had been, though not so deep that Mrs. Madaffari had to clean-up needles each day.

"So, what do you do, Miss?"

"I'm – I. Oh. I study English."

"A writer?" Mrs. Madaffari smirked. "You should talk to Jake in two-one. He's a writer, too. Went to Avalon Community College, even. Ever write a book?"

"No. Not yet."

"Need to go to school for that. They offer certificates now, you know. As soon as you get one the publishers just come screaming."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

The flat, 3-07, had two small bedrooms and came fully furnished; it had previously been let to a Spanish family, and still smelled a bit like tacos. The paint was faded, the carpet dirty, and the woman looked around as if wondering whether her baby would get lead poisoning if he gnawed on … anything. But it had large windows, and with a bit of love and elbow grease …

"This is Percy, by the way," she said, dropping the suitcases. "And I'm Sally Jackson."