Page 183 - Labelle Gramercy, Detective

Slow Burn

attached to it. Quentin lost an investment as well as his liberty. But
white-collar crime committed by minors is relatively unknown
territory for the criminal justice system, and Quentin wasn’t sent up
for very long.”
We approached a large block of flats at 3175 West Avenue 29. I
spotted the Honda Civic. “I guess he’s at home.”
“The quints can’t afford to be out and about very much.”
The apartment house had the appearance of an impersonal
bivouac. Young people evidently came and went all the time, creating
no permanent sense of community. The landlord took advantage of
this and left the place in a fairly crummy condition. But youth was
indifferent to creature comforts, right?
Quentin Carbone’s room was on the fifth floor. The elevator
didn’t work, so we hiked up the stairs. A boy bounded past us, two
steps at a time. I was breathing hard when we got to Apartment 505,
but Labelle showed no effects of the climb. Maybe I should get down
to that gym with her before the sun comes up.
We knocked on the door and waited. The hall needed paint and a
new carpet. And a good airing out. A door slammed somewhere in
the building and raucous laughter echoed up the stairwell. Quentin
opened the door.
“No, I’ve already told you people I don’t have a bottle opener.”
He started to close the door but Labelle had her badge in his face and
her foot against the door.
“May we come in, Mr. Carbone? If not, we can talk out here.”
He let us in. In contrast to his brothers’ slovenly dens, his place
was neat as a pin. Small—a single room with bath—but clean. I
wondered if the rental were legal; I guessed a regular apartment had
been divided into two barely livable units. Across the room from a
broken-down bed Quentin’s meager belongings were arranged tidily
in clear plastic tubs stacked up as supports for a table-top. The
computer resting on that surface did not look new.
“Is this about the phone bill? I did pay part of it.”
“No,” said Labelle. “It’s about your uncle.”
“Oh.”
He had his hair parted just like the other four; I guess heredity
dictates the best place on one’s head to do that. His blue oxford-

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