There was some kind of noise and Clay staggered out of bed blinking. It was one of those morning hours nobody except garbage men and street cleaners should ever see. In the early gray light Clay found to his surprise that a big guy had just let himself into the apartment. Clay could have sworn he’d set the dead-bolt. The big guy was middle-eastern looking and wore black leather gloves. “Good morning,” he said. “I am here about a gun.” He looked nothing like the guy who had shot Robert in the cemetery, but the gloves made Clay think that maybe death had come knocking. And me in my skivvies, he thought. “I’m sorry,” Clay said. “I don’t have any guns. I’m on probation. I’m not allowed.” On top of the building was a garden. Beans, melons, tomatoes, carefully tended. Clay’s boxes weren’t the best—he hadn’t done much gardening before this. But the days were long. He didn’t even eat most of the vegetables. He gave them away. Not out of charity so much as because he didn’t cook. A little garden of Eden up there in the LA sun. “It’s okay,” the man said. He put a hand on Clay’s shoulder and pushed him aside, firmly but without rancor. Methodically, he started in one corner of the kitchen and pulled open every drawer and emptied it onto the floor. The boxes of cereal and mac & cheese came out of the cupboard, along with cans of soup. He did the same thing with the closet. He unsnapped the mattress and turned it over on the floor. In the bathroom, Clay heard him lift the top off the tank of the toilet. All the time, the door stood open and Clay felt the sun on his bare calves. As long as the door is open, Clay thought, he’s not going to kill me. He didn’t know where the thought came from or even if it was true. “Sorry to have bothered you,” the man said, pleasant. Israeli, Clay thought, finally placing the accent. He walked past Clay and out. The apartment floor was covered in stuff—clothes, mattress, cushions. There was no place to sit down but where he was standing. But as his knees gave out, that’s what he did.
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