In Loving Memory, Frank Warren

Chapter 7: Firsts

Peering out the cab window Frank asked again if this was the right place.  The driver assured him it was the only place in the whole city matching the address Dean had given him.  Frowning to himself, Frank paid the man from inside the cab.  He did not want to flash cash around in this neighborhood, not even a twenty.

Stepping out of the cab, Frank headed for the building the driver had pointed out as Dean's.  It was run-down, low-end, and distinctly not classy.  There was no way Dean belonged in this part of town.  Surely the address was wrong.  The building had no lobby, The Whispering Arms was in a class of its own, this place had rows of buttons and a speaker beside the front door.

Scanning the names Frank found three proclaiming to be 'Smith'.  Great.  Couldn't have a unique last name, could he?  Tugging the paper with the address on it from his pocket, Frank saw he had written down the apartment number.  Yes, each of the buttons had numbers next to them as well.  What a relief.  After choosing the 'Smith' at the correct apartment a buzzing sounded out of the speaker.

"Who is it?" Dean's voice demanded in a static growl.

"Pizza delivery," Frank replied.  "Especially if you forgot to put on a shirt."

"You're asking for it." A louder buzz followed by a click announced the unlocking of the door.  Frank pulled it open.  Inside the air did not feel air conditioned.  He suspected each unit had individual heater or air conditioners, neither building-wide.  Figured.  All of the older buildings in this area were no doubt the same, this might be one of the nicer ones.

"Up here!"

Frank peered up at the source of the voice to see Dean waving at him from a terrace two floors up.  With a smile and a wave, he headed for the stairs.  There was no elevator.  No wonder Dean stayed in shape. 

Upon reaching the second floor Frank panted with the effort.  Odd.  He did not used to be this out of shape.

"Water," he gasped.

"Coming up." Dean held open the door for him, locking it securely behind them, before rushing down a short hallway.  With nothing in this bland entry to capture his attention, Frank followed.  Running water came from straight ahead.  Frank walked into an intimate kitchen where Dean filled a glass with water.

"It's not The Whispering Arms," Dean stated, "but it's home." He shut off the water.  "Here ya go.  Any idea what you'd like to eat?"

'Out' was Frank's real answer.  Any place outside of this neighborhood.  "You should know what's good here.  What do you want?"

"Pizza is usually safe but there is a fabulous Italian place right around the corner who delivers." The hopeful look on such a gorgeous face was one Frank could not turn down.

"Sounds great."

"Lasagna or spaghetti?  Both are their specialties," Dean offered, pulling out his treasured cell phone.

"Either.  Whatever you're having." Frank's eyes roved through the cramped apartment.  Some of the furniture was old, perhaps antiques, while the others were worn nearly to the point of uselessness.  Bright colored blankets, soft and luxurious to the touch, draped over the couch to hide its shabby appearance. 

The few pictures hanging on the wall drew Frank's attention.  He had a weakness for photos.  One was of a little boy sitting in his mother's lap.  It was faded and in an old plastic frame threatening to fall apart.  The framed photo beside it was more recent, the same woman only older with Dean seated beside her, both beaming at the camera with identical smiles.