Explored

I woke as I usually do, since I was a kid, on my back, my mind's eye in the sky. So constant awareness of my surroundings won't stir my subconscious and invade my dreams. Just the occasional bird or airplane, a passing satellite. Probably why I dreamt of flying so often.

Why I lived in a condo on the beach, nothing above me, little below me, an entire segment of my horizon uninhabited. It's so peaceful, for me.

First thing turn my head, check on Jillian. Sleeping, warm, resting heart rate, breathing fine. Empty sinuses, the clear air of the ocean helps, not allergic to much. She's gonna wake soon, have a wicked pee. Then she'll be hungry, her stomach empty and unsettled.

No infections; no fluids or swelling where they didn't belong. Other than her blister, reduced, drying up, be healed by tonight. If she wears thicker socks or sensible shoes today. Which she likely won't.

I looked a little longer than strictly necessary. To check on her well-being. Ok, perving on her. Firm breasts, lapping her chest as she lay on her side, adorably sexy-female, just enough tits to be a woman and not a girl. Those hips, firm, full, strong. Flat stomach, the secret between her legs, no secret to me.

Face I love, at peace in her sleep, slightly pouty upper lip, high cheekbones, broad forehead. That tongue, almost prehensile, so exciting when we kissed. Straight teeth, no cracks, no cavities. Eyes so perfect with clear fluid, velvety retina.

Idle, I thought of being a doctor again. It'd never seemed important before, lots of people smarter than me going that way. Medicine had not been kind to my family, letting my mother suffer, ignoring my father's depression.

Now I had people I cared about, deeply. Jillian, and now her family Khang and Phuong. Maybe my family if all went well between us.

A twinge of alarm over that, what was that about? A gut reaction I guess - getting close to someone meant risking the pain again. Since my folks had died I'd always thought I didn't want a family, not ever want to feel that again.

Maybe I could face it now. I'm not a child, I'll understand better, not feel so helpless. Is it worth it?

Yes! They were worth it. My mother and father had been worth it. I am stronger now; it hurt because I loved them; that was how the world works.

Nothing got erased by pain, all the good was still there. And it is good! Jillian is very much the center of my life. I'd been rootless, wandering, idle. Now I wanted to be her man like I wanted breath.

She's stirring. Enough lazing about! She's got to get off to work. I could help, make some coffee, put a bagel in the toaster.

...

As I heated the electric kettle I heard her shifting about, glanced to see she was up, no longer limping, heading in to pee.

Why did she work, anyway? We were rich, as much money as we cared to find. We could make thousands a day, just by beachcombing or walking the streets.

I guess I know why. Because I'm not a sure thing; this isn't a sure thing. She's been burned once, no all her life, by promises people didn't keep.

And because she's an adult, a caring person who wants to be involved in the world, to take part in important activities. To make a different to others by applying her skills and talents.

I found myself smiling, thinking of her enthusiasm, her kindness, her youthful energy.

"Hey big guy! Where are my shoes?" She'd come in with a blister last night, had kicked them off first thing. Glancing around the condo I spotted them behind the door.

"Street door! Behind the... yeah." She'd remembered, had gone to get them. Still, it felt nice to be able to find stuff for her. My one party trick.

She came into the kitchen carrying her shoes, took a hot cup from me, kissed me on the cheek, took that vital first sip. Shuddered, coffee going down rough on an empty stomach.

"Should I wear these again? Is my blister up to it?" She asked automatically, knowing I knew, liking that I knew. Depending on me for useful intel like that.

"How about I call a cab? Just this once. Give it one more day. Or wear those beach shoes..."

She scowled at the beach shoes, nodded. The toaster popped, she hooked one half with her pinky, set it on the counter.

"Finish getting dressed. I'll put some peanut butter on that."

Another peck on the cheek, she retreated to the stuffed chair with her shoes and coffee.

Peanut butter applied, thick like she wanted, then call the cab company. Ten minutes, perfect. She'd have taken half an hour walking anyway.

"Client coming in, no a lawyer, they hate being called clients!" She took too big a bite, chewed like a dog that'd eaten, well, peanut butter. Took a sip of coffee to melt it.

"You meeting with uh, customers already?"

She waved the bagel as she struggled into a shoe with the other hand. "Been meeting them since I showed up. Getting put on phones to learn the patter. No this guy is new, wants to make a deal with the boss, get some of his clients hooked up."

I nodded, totally in the dark. Well, as long as she knew.

She stood, tried the shoe, seemed all right. Finished the coffee, handed the cup to me, another peck, this time on the lips. Umm! Peanut butter!

"See you after work? I'm having lunch with Khang!" She'd called late last night, scoping out this Phuong session, what to expect.

"Sure! Have fun! Say Hi for me."

She was already at the door, just in time to hear the cab driver honk. "Bye!"

Sudden silence. Is seemed too still. Funny, last week this was what it sounded like all the time. I'm already missing her.

How to spend the day? I had come up with an idea. Now with Jillian in my life I could think of things to do so much easier. Days used to be a chore, something to be lived through. Now I filled them without any effort.

I had an old find to re-investigate. Long ago I spotted something interesting, but it was hard to get to, maybe dangerous. Today I'd do some research in the library, the courthouse, see what I could learn. I didn't need blueprints or pictures; I knew everything about the place inside and out. Except who it belonged to, whose old valuables I planned to filch. I wouldn't take something if I could return it instead.

The library was past downtown, in the old city center, same block as the courthouse. I'd looked up history that way before, which is how I knew about the old fort, the early days of the city founding.

Today I wanted some commercial history, a hotel from the early 1900's, the art-deco period. That had seen some fabulous fortunes come and go, great families build great monuments and then lose them.

The library had old local newspapers in a special collection. I didn't need to check them out, just 'read' them. Holding a modern paperback in front of me as a prop, I sat outside the special collections room, scanned the stacks methodically, found the right era.

It was a matter of looking for pictures I recognized, of the building or the block. I could run down a stack of newspapers like flipping through a book, the images flashing in my mind.

It took half an hour but in 1933 a new hotel was constructed, a full-page photograph of the front I recognized. The Richardson building! Bingo.

Squire Richardson was a builder's son who studied law, worked for the best families of the day. He married a Vanderbilt granddaughter or grandcousin, it wasn't clear. But they had money, and spent it building things. Family business after all.

Squire and Mrs. Richardson built the most stylish hotel of the day with a penthouse apartment reserved for themselves. All the fittings art-deco style, the latest art and wallpaper designs.

A little kid was standing near, book about bears in hand, watching me, an adult sitting on a chair fidgeting, shifting slightly in my seat to realign myself on each target cabinet of papers to get a better 'look'.

"Mister! The bathrooms are upstairs."

Ah. A do-gooder. Like me! Must encourage the youth. "Thank you. You are very observant. Did you know raccoons are related to bears?"

He nodded gravely, turned and ran off clutching his book.

Now I had a date. For a history of the building, its ownership and what hands it went through, off to the courthouse.

The building permit was an easy start. First permit at that address, filed by a Richardson's Corp, wholly owned by the Squire and his wife. 1933.

Tax records showed taxes paid through 1976, the year he died. Always the same owner. Ok. But maybe the corporation changed hands.

Corporation filings listed the couple until 1955, then just the squire. Why was that? Divorce? Any heirs on her side, perhaps from a remarriage?

Death records showed her dying that year, 1955, still Mrs. Richardson. So her name was taken off the corporation when she died. Dead end.

Did he remarry? Nope. Died a bachelor.

Who owns the building now? The city. They took it for taxes, 1980. How could that be? Surely a will would have settled ownership. Looking... no will filed. So died intestate. Funny how many lawyers died without a will!

So what happens to the property now? Back to building permits for clues, looking for redevelopment plans.

There, in 1988, a renovation plan filed by the city. Never executed. The hotel was obsolete, the rooms too small, no ensuite bathrooms, no air conditioning, no space between floors in an old brick building to install modern plumbing or piping.

Two years later, demolition as part of a riverfront project. How did that fare? Denied; environmental impact statement quashed it.

I felt confident now, that anything left in the shell of the building had no claimants. Still, I was curious about what the current plans were. Maybe something in the news, since 1988 when it came up in the public consciousness again.

Back to the library. Starting 1976, flip through thousands of pages quickly. There it is! Same old still shot from the year it opened, front view looking grand and impressive. The newspaper must have had that old picture in their files!

The article was about a historic old building, failed attempts to get it preserved, plans to demolish it, delayed. The paper was sympathetic to the history angle, but resigned to it's loss because of its age and condition.

Interesting interview with an old lady, last housekeeper of the squire, discovered his body when he died, now (then!) in her 90s. She claimed he had no heir, no relatives. Pretty much a recluse since his wife died; she had apparently been the social one in the couple. Fancy parties for 50 people in an elaborate dining room with crystal chandeliers! I 'saw' that room, it was larger than my condo!

She said he'd got dotty at the end, said he'd leave the building to charity, some nature group though he'd never left the city in his life.

Huh. When she left the penthouse the last time to take the elevator down, she'd dropped her key through the letter box in the elevator lobby. She didn't want to be blamed for theft. Took some flak from the lawyers about that.

I don't remember 'seeing' that. Pretty small, easy to miss or forget.

The end of the article showed previously unpublished pictures of the sleek private elevator entry hall. It took a key to operate! Fancy for the day. Also the chandeliers, a cartouche bed in the master bedroom (I remember that).

All-electric kitchen with modern appliances, installed in the 50s. Parquet floors. All that was still there, far as I remembered.

The article ended with a summary of demolition accomplished to date - stripping the fixtures from lower floors, mostly brass, removing the fancy elevator, boarding up to keep squatters away.

I had what I needed. I could proceed, see if I still thought I could gain entrance. Take some pictures for Jill; she was interested in stuff like this! And she'd shoot me if I went up there and didn't have anything to show.

The building was the second on the right after crossing the old bridge. I stood in the street and considered my options.

It was empty at this point, no squatters but plenty of rodents. Two doors had been forced at some time, one on the side, one in back. Trash, squatter debris everywhere. Stairs at the side intact, navigable up two floors.

From there the building had a stepped design, the upper floors smaller than the base. I'd have to cross the floor, out a window to the roof of the lower part and up the fire escape on the other side.

Enter a window at the top, cross over again, and a final fire escape to a window in the penthouse. I figure I could force that window, no problem.

I went. All the while scanning for weak floors, loose plaster, rusty bolts ready to fail on iron staircases, anything that might kill me.

Crossing inside the old hotel could have been creepy, narrow dark hallways, trash and holes in walls. I knew nobody was going to jump out at me, so that helped. Couldn't get lost; I could 'see' the entire blueprint from anywhere.

The plan went well until the final fire escape. I had seen the door but ignored the old brass padlock. No matter, with some forcing I got it open with my picks. Brass weathers pretty well; if it'd been anything else it would be seized with rust.

The final obstacle, double French door style windows. No obstacle at all. Just slip my pick between and raise the latch.

The fire escape ended under an overhang so the weather had substantially been repelled, only a little water staining on the floor inside. All was still, dusty, dry as a tomb. Everything like the day he died but dustier.

Looking around, orienting myself, I saw I was in the apartment proper. The elevator shaft was empty as the article said. Elevator approached from a small lobby outside the apartment entryway, to control access during the day I guess, with a sturdy locking exterior door between.

And indeed below the mail slot, a strange brass key. I went and fetched it, tried it on the apartment door - it fit.

The elevator lobby was still and dark. Creepy. I could see it without going there, but it isn't the same as being there. I don't sense the stale air, the dust in my nose, the total lack of air movement. I re-locked the door and left the key where I'd found it, in honor of the housekeeper.

Take pictures of all, for Jill.

The kitchen was still, the electric refrigerator motor having burned out probably decades ago, running for years unattended. Inside - sludge, and I knew I would never open that refrigerator. The smell must be epic.

One light still burned in the pantry, a strange bulb of antique design. They don't make them like they used to. Moths had eaten every last morsel of flour, rice, cereal, leaving nasty crumpled boxes and cartons. Different smell, grainy, mothy.

The dining room, a ballroom really, half the entire floor. Chandeliers as reported, giant upside-down trees of crystal shapes. A label on the brass hanger of one - 'Swarovski'? The next - 'Lalique'. Must be immigrants, the installers? What a job - hanging half a ton of glass from a brass skeleton on a ceiling 20 feet overhead. Must have taken days.

Oak tables like a mess hall, in lines. Must be fifty oak chairs, goofy art-deco design, hexagonal backs with legs like folding chairs but not. Who thought up this stuff?

In the bedroom, those cartouche beds shaped like a pair of large throat lozenges. One bed unmade, stains on the mattress - did he die there? A heart medicine bottle stood on the nightstand, empty. Perhaps that's what killed him - running out of digitalis. Also on the nightstand - a key like the one on the floor in the entryway. Lastly a crystal glass water set, long dried up.

Suits in the closet, pressed and hung, hopelessly out of date, almost Victorian in style. A small man! No larger than Khang.

Enough exploring; I was here for a reason. The office, in a corner room for the light I suppose. On the desk and in it, no paper dated later than the 1960's. He died more than a decade after. Retired? Apparently not long after his wife died. No heart for it I guess.

Plush carpet, large geometric pattern hard to look at, still so thick I almost lose my shoes in it.

And my goal: a safe behind a dusty painting, cleverly hidden. Painting by some Sonia Dela... the signature obscured by time and dust. Strange geometric wedges and arcs, like some crazy parquet floor. Not my taste. Swing it open, and there it is!

Cracking a safe is, for me, opening a safe. Locks are child's play. Especially a safe with a dial. Just turn left until the discs reset, then right-left-right aligning each disc with the retainer bar. Turn the handle - click! Heave it open rusty as hell, dusty, it came free with a screee! whoosh! like opening Tut's tomb.

Inside, just as I'd seen, a stack of papers, a small box. In the box - my goal.

First a necklace, segmented, big black spool beads interspersed with silver spacers. A huge flat oblong green stone the size of the palm of my hand, set with a spray of silver rectangular inlay. Like buildings seen from above, in perspective. Too simple for my taste; primitive, slab like.

And a cocktail ring. My prize.

A cabochon emerald, big, round. In a platinum setting engraved with hatch marks, pointy ovalish mount set throughout with small diamonds in an old cut. The whole effect was of an eye.

I've been looking at that ring for years, wondering about it. The eye motif caught my imagination. My thing, eyes.

Is it too big? Too gaudy? It could be adjusted for fit - the band was very small, people were smaller back then. But how would I know what size? Ask her sister, of course.

And that emerald! Had to be 9 or 10 carats. Not perfect but good, deep color and fascinating depth. Pretty, fancy, but was it nice enough?

Pocket the ring. Glance at the papers. Some legal document. Hey! Last Will and Testament.

Now we're talking. No lawyer ever came to check for a will? Ah! No key! His key was here; the housekeeper key was in the entryway. Probably had been the wife's key. No other keys, no children. So no lawyer could gain entrance, or be allowed to force entry without a will first. Catch-22.

Folks, never lock up your will! Secure it in a public place, not a bank box, certainly not a safe. Maybe with your lawyer, or in a desk drawer, so it can be easily found when needed.

Glancing through the will, past the boilerplate to the bequests. The building was to be left to the Sierra Club! Were they around then?

Or should have been left. Nobody ever saw this. There were no other particular bequests. Something about a trust fund, but his money was likely long gone, to lawyers and such.

Personal effects like this ring were destined for the wrecking ball. The building and land but not the contents belonged to the Sierra Club.

I have no issue with taking the ring with me.

Take a picture of the will in the safe, then the safe in the room. For authenticity. Then take the will, pocket it, deal with it later.

Taking the ring. The necklace? Hm. Give it to Khang? I owed her so much. Why not. It might be her style. Pocket that.

Leave the safe door ajar, the painting swung wide. Easier for the next person, should there ever be a next person.

Back out the French windows, jiggle to get the latch to fall. Down, relock the fire escape, keep anybody from getting hurt, an attractive nuisance.

In the street I took one last look. Maybe this all would be demolished soon. Feels melancholy, all that history, those lives, just dust and abandoned detritus. Sigh.

...

Jillian

My second day, early, the boss in her office, nobody else there yet.

"Jill! Just in time. Mr. Gunderson is heading over, be here any minute. Coffee?"

She had a little coffeemaker, some paper cups. Why not? Schmoozing with the boss.

Before I had time to more than take a sip, somebody comes into the outer office, fancy suit, shoes so shiny it's blinding, just balling along like he owns the place. Into the boss' office, no knock just barge right in I guess!