Students milled about the hallway in between open apartment doors from which loud rap music and the static hum of televisions bleated out. None of the students appeared to be over twenty and none of them appeared to be in a hurry to get anywhere-they all walked with a nonchalance that bordered on liquidity; it was as if they didn’t have spines like normal humans, particularly with the way their heads lolled back and forth without any seeming purpose.
A few looked at me with passing disregard, but I thought I saw at least two or three of the kids nod at Sugar.
“When was the last time you were up here?” I said.
“Couple days ago.”
“Just to see Brent?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Sugar said.
“Why don’t I believe you?”
“Man, I don’t know. Maybe cuz you’re all covert and shit?”
Maybe. But probably not.
On the walls, posters and flyers for various campus events were stapled haphazardly onto corkboards. Apparently Tuesday was Taco Tuesday at a local bar. Apparently Wednesday was Wicked Wednesday, also at a local bar. Thursdays, according to all of the flyers, were Thirsty Thursdays. There were also notices about opportunities to study abroad, to teach English in Korea and, oddly, to join the Marines. Looking around, I didn’t see a whole lot of candidates who’d be getting Semper Fi tattoos in the near future.
There were security cameras over the elevators, above the two vending machines and at either end of the hallway. Each moved a slow 180 degrees, essentially capturing every inch of space in the common areas. I didn’t know where this information was fed, but I suspected it went to the campus police. It wouldn’t be the sort of thing that was monitored unless a crime was committed, which meant I wanted to avoid committing any crimes… or allowing Sugar to commit any.
“Brent’s room is down that way,” Sugar said, pointing. “Third one on the right.” There were six rooms visible and five of them had wide-open doors, so it was obvious which room was Brent’s.
“The door normally closed?” I said.
“Naw, he’s a pretty open dude, usually,” Sugar said.
“How many times have you been here?”
“Half dozen? Usually real quick. Just pop in, trade product and I’m out.”
“So none of these people know you?”
“I keep to mine,” he said.
“Sugar, this is important.”
He looked both ways down the hall and then shrugged. “Not personally, you know? But a few times, I maybe hooked some people up on this floor. A head nod here or there, you know. But I’m not going to the big dance or anything. Not my scene, bro.”
“Wait here,” I said.
“You gonna go down there and kick his door in? He don’t know you.”
“Sugar,” I said, “if there’s something bad to see-like a body-you don’t want to be anywhere near it, okay? You also don’t need to be seen on camera.”
Sugar thought about this. “I’ll hang back,” he said.
I walked down the hall and peered into the other rooms as I went. In the first room, two young men sat motionless on beanbag chairs playing a video game, their jaws opened just enough to allow airflow. In the second, a young woman wearing only a bathing suit top and cut-off shorts walked in circles talking on her cell phone about someone named Lyle being an asshole, and in the final room before I got to 804, a young man and a young woman sat quietly-amid thumping rap music-reading. None of them bothered to even look my way as I walked by. No one is naturally as uninquisitive as someone who is twenty years old and likely drunk eighty-five percent of the time. All of the dorm rooms looked to have the same layout-a small living room and kitchenette with a bedroom and bathroom off to either the left or the right. It was, in fact, more Soviet on the inside than on the outside.
I got to Brent’s door and knocked loudly. There was no response. I knocked again, this time harder, and said, “Brent? Brent? It’s me. I’m here with Sugar.” Still nothing. I couldn’t hear any movement behind the door, but that was most likely due to the fact that it was a fairly high-grade fireproof door: stainless-steel hinge; frame made of zinc-coated steel sheeting; the door itself silicate aluminum, likely over a honeycomb board, which also made it nearly impossible to kick in.
He probably didn’t know it, but Brent Grayson was living in the perfect place to avoid getting murdered by gangsters and bookies.
I tried the door handle. Locked.
Normally, this would be a situation where I’d pick the lock and be in the room in just under ten seconds, but with the cameras and the sensitive nature of whatever might be behind the door, I figured acting like a normal person might serve me better.
I peered down the hall and saw that there was another open door on the other side of Brent’s room. There wasn’t any music coming from the door and I hadn’t seen anyone going in or out, so I decided to press my luck and look in. There was a young man sitting on a blue sofa tinkering around on the computer. He wore all black, including a black turtleneck, which seemed excessive in the heat of the Miami spring, but not as excessive as the white pancake makeup, black eyeliner and black nail polish he wore. Above the front door was a sign that said, WARNING: YOU ARE NOW ENTERING THE VAMPIRE LAIR, KING THOMAS PRESIDING.
If there was one person on the floor who might have an extra key, it would be the self-proclaimed vampire. Goth kids are always more responsible than the hard-drinking frat boy types, since they’re usually content to stay home listening to sad music and reading Camus. Brent seemed like a reasonable enough person, or at least smart enough to give his extra key to a person who never left his room.
“Excuse me,” I said.
“What?” the young man said without looking up.
“King Thomas, I presume?”
“You presume correct,” he said, eyes still fixed on the computer screen.
“I’m here to see my nephew Brent,” I said. “But his door is locked. You wouldn’t happen to have an extra key, would you? I’m supposed to leave him some money.”
King Thomas’ eyes flickered in my direction and then back to the computer. “You could leave the money with me,” he said.
“I could,” I said. “But I’m not going to.”
King Thomas sighed, as if the conversation we were having was such an existential weight on him that it hurt his soul, and then stood up and disappeared into another room. He reappeared moments later with a ring holding at least twenty-five keys. “Everyone always asks me to keep their extra keys,” he said.
“You seem very responsible,” I said.
“I’m not,” he said. He fumbled through the keys silently and then landed the one he wanted. “I slept through three classes this week. That’s not very responsible, is it?”
“Were you in prison?”
“No, I just couldn’t get up. You ever have days like that?”
“Yes,” I said.
“What do you do?”
“I get up.”
“I guess there’s no lecture notes in real life,” he said.
“Not that I’ve found,” I said.
King Thomas removed the key from the key ring and then seemed to ponder what his next move was going to be. “I haven’t seen Brent leave, so he might just be asleep.”
“I tried knocking on the door.”
“He takes that Ambien stuff,” King Thomas said. “Every Saturday. And I’m the vampire?” King Thomas stepped into the hall and looked down at Sugar. “Hey, Sugar.”
“What up, T-Dawg?” Sugar said. “How you been?”
“Chilling,” King Thomas said.
“You know each other?” I said to King Thomas.
“Yeah,” King Thomas said. “Are you with him?”
“Kind of,” I said.
“So you’re not really Brent’s uncle?”
“No, not really,” I said. “But I’m not here to hurt him. I’m here to help him. And, just to be clear, I don’t work with Sugar. He happens to be someone I know.”