Heathcliff actually had to speak with Mr. Domenic Greevey on the phone to set up an appointment time, eight o'clock, and for once the Nosferatu had the great pleasure of speaking with someone who's voice was nearly as offensive as his own.
He arrives by taxi, whose driver had agreed to take Mr. Staley to the low-rent district where the man peddles his neglected apartments for the generous gratuity of twenty dollars past fare. The man rented mostly to poor immigrants, who don't complain, at least not the illegal ones. The full spectrum of Sacramento's working poor find their way here, however, and it's the legal minority that has generated the manila folder stuffed with pink and yellow carbon copies he held in his hand. And he was here to strike a deal with the bastard.
But, after all, Heathcliff told himself as the cab sped away, I got at least a hundred more active files like this. All I'm doing is shuffling this one to the bottom of the pile. People will still be heard, still be helped, in the typically slow bureaucratic fashion, of course. Just not the people renting from Mr. Greevey. And, of course, I'll keep an eye on him, to see he doesn't become too lackadaisical in his maintenance.
He adjusts his navy blue tie, looks for any stray hairs or strings upon his dull grey jacket, and touches his hand to the Shadowed bottle of mace in his right pocket, which he had bought the day before, since you could never be too careful in a neighborhood like this. Then he walks up the entrance, passing the few people sitting on the porch with a polite "Hello." They stared back, no response, uncertain if he was five-o or not. He enters the building and finds the apartment Greevey had wanted to meet him at. He knocks on the door and waits.
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