SLAM!

My neighbor was driving me crazy. Donna, Beatrice and Bob, and Lucy had also complained numerous times, both to the offender himself and to management. Poor Rosalyn, who lived next door to me and consequently next door to him, had it worst of all. At 87, she deserved some peace. But with Sam in between us -or, as we had nicknamed him, "Slam"- peace was an elusive intangible. Which of course it is anyway. But that is besides the point.
Dee Dee, our ineffective manager, always listened to our grievances politely, nodding and taking notes while clucking the same worn-out assurance of "I'll take care of it." Then later that same day, often within the hour, Sam would strike again. And again. When confronted, his response was also pretty uniform. "Sorry," he'd say. "I forgot." Shortly afterwards, Sam would "forget" again.
Rhonda was inexplicably unbothered by the situation, or perhaps she just chose to ignore it. They say that the blind have heightened auxiliary senses, which was not desirable living across the hall from Sam. But Rhonda never said anything. Neither to my knowledge did Len, who lived across the hall from me. But Len was clearly hard of hearing, judging from the volume of his television whenever I passed his door. When I was inside my apartment, however, I wasn't disturbed by Len's television.
Sam had become my bete noir, so to speak. I realize that I may sound like the narrator of some Edgar Allan Poe story, but I had made up my mind: Sam had to go. And since Dee Dee’s measures were useless, eviction was not likely to be the means of Sam’s departure from Merry Manor Apartments.
I frequently passed Sam in the hallway, and had managed not to appear hostile, always at least nodding and uttering a brief hello (occasionally followed by muttered expletives the farther away from him I got). I decided one day to go the extra step and be nice. I made a sizeable batch of chicken salad, chock full of tasty ingredients like minced onions, chopped celery, a hint of parsley, and of course, a generous amount of mayonnaise. The fact that I had "carelessly" left a metal fork in the mayonnaise overnight was another matter.
I knocked boldly on Sam's door the following afternoon, carrying the rancid repast on a metal serving tray. After about 30 seconds the door popped open and Sam, clad in his underwear and rubbing his eyes, appeared. He blinked confusedly, waiting for me to speak first.
"Hi, Slam, uh, Sam," I stammered. "I made some chicken salad sandwiches for lunch, and I can't finish them all."
I handed him the tray, its contents of four diagonally-cut sandwiches on whole wheat bread covered gingerly in clear plastic wrap. Thanking me awkwardly, he accepted the tray, took a step back, and let the door swing shut. I seethed for a moment, then reassured myself that it wouldn't be long.
For two whole days I neither saw nor heard my annoying neighbor. I always suspected that he had no family, so he could be missing for a while without arousing any suspicion. Leaving my apartment to check the mail, I paused at Sam's door one Friday evening, lingering a moment with my nostrils in the air like a bloodhound. It was late October, and not very warm, so if. . . I suddenly withdrew in dreaded anticipation.
But an even worse feeling hit me when I looked down the hall and saw my intended victim, apparently hale and whole. He waved at me. "Thanks for those sandwiches," he said. "Delicious. I'll bring your tray over later." He then entered his apartment, closing the door in his usual manner. This was no ordinary menace, I told myself as the sound reverberated in my eardrums. I was dealing with Rasputin. Later that evening, at one, two and three o'clock a.m. to be precise, I heard Sam leaving, entering and leaving his apartment. Or maybe he was entering, leaving and entering. I'm sure that poor Rosalyn heard it, too, as well as the others.
Sam had insomnia Sunday night, which of course meant that most of the residents on the wing had insomnia, too. But far from jarring my senses this time, each auditory assault sharpened my focus and my resolve to silence Sam -forever. I remembered hearing that the CIA once tried to assassinate Fidel Castro by sending him an exploding cigar. Whether it was true or not was irrelevant. Sam was a cigarette smoker; often his presence in the hall was heralded by a hacking cough, which was followed by the inevitable noise. Once Sam had carelessly dropped a pack of his cigarettes on the floor in front of his door, and I couldn’t help noticing the unusual brand - Benson and Hedges Multi-Filter Kings. I nearly fell asleep at my desk while at work the next day, but figured out how to implement my latest plot.
The cost and the inconvenience would be significant, but I judged the rewards to be more so. My first stop was Krazy Kids Toy Store. I chose a location 30 miles away to be sure that I wasn’t recognized. Finding the aisle with water pistols, toy six-shooters, plastic light sabers and such, I looked both ways nervously before grabbing a cap gun and nine or 10 rounds of “ammunition.” That evening was anything but a “silent night,” and my plot still required several more steps before completion. But the promise of peace kept me patient. I wasn’t able to get to Smoker’s Paradise - located a discreet 50 miles from my home, until Friday, and although I had called ahead to verify that they carried Sam’s brand, the owner hadn’t informed me that he only sold by the carton. So I wound up forking over another $68 on Sam's account. "This had better work," I carelessly mumbled as I handed the larcenous owner three twenties and a ten. "Excuse me?" he replied. "Nothing," I grumbled. "Have a good night."
In my youth I had assembled models, and had fairly steady hands as a result of putting together dozens of miniature Cessnas, F-14s and biplanes. So I was dexterous enough to scrape out the black powder from the little red plastic caps I had purchased at Krazy Kids, and insert as much as I could into a precisely-cut incision on the underside of several cigarettes. Using a damp cotton swab I sealed each cigarette, and carefully put all of them back. I then placed the gloves, used razor blades, needle, cotton and tweezers in a small trash bag, which I took outside to the garbage bin in the parking lot.
That I had made no provisions for replacing the torn cellophane required to complete my scheme was not an oversight. I had figured this out, too. Armed with a flashlight and a credit card, I stood by my door for two hours until I heard Sam leave, walk down the hall and get on the elevator. He hadn't even locked his door! I wasn't going to need the credit card. Entering his apartment swiftly and silently, I noticed that the lights were on. So much for the flashlight.
Quickly I scanned the tiny apartment until my eyes lit upon a pack of the unique cigarettes, lying on top of the kitchen table. Greedily I headed in that direction, holding the replacement pack in my hands, which were now trembling. Then it hit me: I wasn't wearing any gloves! I turned around and nearly tripped on a pair of old Converse sneakers when I heard Sam returning. Maybe he hadn't taken the elevator at all! A tremendous cough, followed by a resounding belch, announced that he was at the door. Panicking, I rushed into the bathroom, climbed into the tub and lied down, pulling the shower curtains shut. Then came the big sound. Sam was back.
I waited for another 90 minutes in my porcelain crib while Sam watched three syndicated sitcoms in a row. Finally the lights went out. 15 minutes later, the beast was asleep.
Sam's snoring approached the 50-decibel level, so I was relatively confident that a little noise wouldn't wake him. I climbed out of the bathtub, my back and neck throbbing. The flashlight -which it turned out I did need- was fairly small, and I was careful where I pointed it. With my free hand I flipped the top of the cigarette pack on the kitchen table open, and saw that half were gone. Lifting them off the table, I returned to my apartment once more, threw away Sam's original pack, and took out ten cigarettes from the decoy pack that I had purchased. Then examining the remaining smokes carefully to verify that they were the loaded ones, I donned a fresh pair of latex gloves, and wiped off the pack with a moist napkin. Returning to Sam's apartment one last time, I placed the pyrotechnic pack on the table, and slinked back to my quarters.
On Saturday morning at the crack of noon, I stumbled out of my apartment in search of caffeine and food. Since plotting Sam's demise had consumed most of the week's available shopping time, both my refrigerator and my kitchen cupboards were practically bare. After a quick trip to the nearby Seven-11, I was soon trudging back down the hallway to my apartment, with a medium coffee and chili dog in tow, when there he was.
Since I hadn't the chance to drink any of my coffee yet, I nearly bumped into Sam as he burst through his doorway with a flourish. . .and of course, a percussion accompaniment.
"Sam!" croaked Rosalyn's feeble voice from her adjacent apartment. "Cut it out!"
"Sorry!" he called out. Then to me he said "How ya doin'?"
I nodded. "All right, Sam." Trying not to give off any incriminating vibes, I added "And you?"
"Not too good," he rasped.
"What's wrong?" I asked, not giving a damn.
"I quit smoking this morning," he said. "Haven't had a cigarette since before I went to bed last night."
"What?" I blurted, completely forgetting all discretion. "You can't do that!"
I protested. "I mean, you still have half a pack left!" Idiot, I told myself.
But my verbal blunder went undetected. "I don't know how many I had left," Sam said. "I threw them away this morning." With that, he shuffled carelessly down the hallway, emitting a loud burp when he was about 40 feet away.
All that time and money wasted! Then I told myself that it was probably for the best. What would a little black powder meant for cap guns have done? Burned off his eyelashes? I had a better idea for taking care of Sam. And he himself would be an unwitting accessory.
Jim "Snake Eyes" Edelbert was a decent sort, for a member of the Green Demons Motorcycle Club. He was a little vulgar, didn't bathe much, and had two convictions, one for assault and one for attempted murder. Okay, maybe he wasn't such a decent sort, but was always decent to me whenever I patronized his uncle's hardware store, where Snake Eyes worked. This time, I needed an item not normally in stock.
"No, man, I don't deal in that shit," he answered immediately, shaking his head and holding his palms towards me for emphasis.
"Oh, come on, Snake," I replied. "You must know somebody who does."
For the first several minutes, Snake Eyes was adamant, telling me he didn't want "no trouble" and that he wasn't about to go back to prison. I assured him that I would never roll over on him.
"Besides," I added. "do you think I want to cross the Green Demons?"
This seemed to have a profound effect on the biker. After a 15-second pause, he replied, "What are you lookin' for? One o' these, maybe?" Reaching under the counter, he pulled out a .357 Magnum, which he carelessly, but unintentionally, pointed in my direction.
"Whoa!" I yelled, jumping back a step or two. "That's a cannon."
Snake Eyes grinned. "Sorry," he said, putting the ponderous firearm away. "I can get you a .38, which still has enough punch." His face grew serious. "Have you ever fired a gun before?" he asked.
I had. For a while I owned a .22 caliber and went to a shooting range a bunch of times with a friend of mine. I sold the gun a few years back, but I figured that I could still handle a piece. And three or four times my Uncle Barney had taken me hunting with him, and let me fire his shotgun. Of course I never hit anything.
Snake Eyes smirked. "You owned a .22?"
"That's right," I answered. "Can you get me something that doesn't make too much noise, but just enough?" I asked.
Snake Eyes leaned towards me conspiratorially. "How much noise do you want it to make?"
Snake Eyes had established that there were to be no phone calls. So I paid another visit to Handy Hardware exactly one week later. Snake Eyes was waiting on a customer, a 30-something woman with two little boys, when he made eye contact with me and nodded slightly. After the lady and her kids left, I handed Snake Eyes a plain white envelope with ten 20-dollar bills inside, and he gave me a brown paper bag stapled shut at the top.
Arriving home 15 minutes later, I made sure that my door was locked and bolted before tearing open my deadly package like it was a Christmas present. Instantly, a wicked grin spread across my face. A jet black .25 caliber Beretta. Putting on a fresh pair of latex gloves, I popped out the magazine and saw that there were six bullets. Flipping open the top, I noticed that there was one in the chamber, too. A spasm wracked my whole body at the sudden slamming of a door; whose it was needless to speculate. Then realizing that the gun hadn't accidentally discharged, I carefully put everything back in place and stashed the bundle under my pillow. That night, I slept like the dead.
I waited for nearly five hours after I came home from work before I heard the prolonged cough, followed by the slam.
I peeked at my watch. 10:13. I blinked and the minute hand had moved down to the numeral four. Deciding that I had waited long enough, I exited my apartment as noiselessly as I could, and with the newly-acquired firearm tucked in the right front pocket of my slacks, I knocked softly on Sam's door with my left hand. Slowly the door swung open, creaking ominously. Sam stood before me, looking about as alert as a drunken zombie. He straightened up suddenly when I yanked the Beretta out of my pocket and aimed. Sam's eyes widened just before I put a bullet in between them.
The report was louder than I thought, but not too loud. As Sam's lifeless body tumbled backwards onto the dirty beige carpeting, I heard Rosalyn shout, "Sam, don't slam the goddamn door!"
"He won't, Rosalyn," I whispered, as my hand caught and closed the heavy portal quietly. "He won't."
The east wing of the sixth floor of Merry Manor Apartments was abuzz the next morning with the crackle of walkie-talkies and brief, official-sounding chatter. "No, I didn't hear anything unusual," Rosalyn was saying, truthfully, of course. I lazily sipped my morning coffee, not at all worried about the consequences of my actions. Who would find out? Who would care? The only reason that Sam's body had been discovered so soon was that Tyrone, the building superintendent, had stopped by to fix a leaky faucet in Sam's bathroom. When I left for work, I took the stairs instead of the elevator, avoiding the police and neighbors who had gathered in front of Sam's apartment. Entering the stairwell, I gently shut the door behind me.
Later that day, I got off of the elevator and started towards my apartment. I didn't notice the two uniformed policemen as I turned the corner from the sixth floor lobby to the east wing. There was a third man in a brown corduroy jacket and tan slacks. He stood with both hands in his pockets, as if waiting for someone. Greeting me with a cool stare, he said "Blaine Haverhill?"
I froze.
"You left before we got a chance to talk to you this morning," he said.
"I was in a hurry," I answered. "I had to get to work."
The detective nodded. "You weren't curious to know what happened, what with all of the cops, flashing lights and crime scene tape?"
"I think he knows what happened, Will," one of the uniforms said.
"Yeah," the detective replied. "I think so, too."
The two uniforms started towards me, the closer one with his hand on the butt of his pistol. His partner grabbed me, spun me around, and pushed me up against the wall. I felt the cold steel of handcuffs snap around my wrists, and heard the sharp clicking sound.
"You're under arrest," he informed me. "for the murder of Sam Porter. You have the right to remain-"
"Wait a minute!" I yelled. "You can't be serious!"
"Will" pointed to a black plastic dome near the ceiling, one of two at either end of the east wing. Strangely, I had never noticed them before.
"Cameras," he explained. To which he added, "You're going to the slammer, pal."
I guess that his choice of words was what set me off. "No!" I screamed. "Not the slammer! Not the slammer!"
I've been here two weeks now, in protective custody until my trial. Maybe I'll plead temporary insanity, and try to get a few of my neighbors to testify as character witnesses. At least Rosalyn should be willing. Thanks to me, she can get plenty of peace and quiet now.
© May 16, 2012 by Allan M. Heller