Landeta closed the apartment door behind Louis. “Have a seat,” he said, moving into the living room.
It wasn’t a big place but its spareness made it look as if it were. The walls were all white, the wood floor left bare, the windows that looked out onto First Street were covered with white blinds. There was a beat-up black leather sofa and a couple of plain black wood tables. A black Ikea entertainment center dominated one wall, holding a TV and a good stereo system. A well-worn black Eames chair was positioned close in front of the TV and there was a sleek black desk with a black drafting table lamp hovering over it. There was nothing on the walls, no books, no plants, no knickknacks, nothing to relieve the black-and-white decor. No color anywhere in fact, except for the rows of albums, tapes, and compact disks carefully arranged on the shelves of the entertainment center.
The room was lit up like a hospital operating room, and it smelled of acrid cigarette smoke with an under note of lemon Renuzit. It was all bare-bones style, and as charmless as the man who lived in it.
Except for the music coming from the stereo. Louis recognized it immediately —- Clyde McPhatter singing “Let’s Try Again.”
“You want a drink? I got Diet Coke,” Landeta said. A second’s pause. “And I think there’s a beer in there somewhere.”
“Beer,” Louis said. He sat on the edge of the leather sofa, setting Frank’s books down on the coffee table next to a boomerang-shaped glass ashtray overflowing with butts. He heard Landeta moving around in the kitchen.
“I found out something interesting about Sophie,” Louis called out over the music. “She ran away from home when she was eighteen.”
No answer from the kitchen. Just sounds of drawers opening, clanking metal like spoons and knives.
“Sophie’s old man told me she ran off with Frank and that he used to come into his drugstore,” Louis said, raising his voice over the noise. “He said Frank was —-”
There was a sudden crash in the kitchen.
“Fucking motherfucking sonofabitch!” Landeta yelled.
Louis jumped up and went to the door. Landeta was standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding his left hand. A drawer lay on the floor, surrounded by knives, forks, spoons, and kitchen utensils.
Landeta’s face was red. So was his left hand, blood dripping onto the white tile. He stared at Louis.
“The fucking knife was in the drawer! I didn’t see the fucking knife in the drawer!”
Suddenly, Landeta drew back a foot and kicked the wooden drawer, sending it crashing against the refrigerator. Landeta just stood there, chest heaving, eyes closed. The bouncing blues of McPhatter’s “I Can’t Stand Up Alone” filtered in from the living room.
Louis took a step into the kitchen. “Hey, man, take it easy.”
Landeta was holding his hand, dripping blood. He seemed lost, glancing around the kitchen for something. He took a step then began groping around the white tile countertop for a towel. Louis could see the white towel, several feet from Landeta’s outstretched right hand.
“Goddamn it.”
Louis watched him. He was looking around, down at the floor, still holding his bloody hand.
What the hell was going on?
“Can I help?” Louis asked.
“The towel. Hand me the towel.”
Louis held out the towel. Landeta grabbed it and wrapped it around his finger. He walked slowly to the sink, picking his way over the spilled silverware, recoiling when he stepped on a fork tine. Louis watched in silence as Landeta turned on the faucet and held his bleeding hand under the water.
Landeta again pressed the towel to the cut, his back to Louis. He turned off the water, but didn’t move from the sink.
“What’s going on?” Louis asked.
It took Landeta a few seconds to answer. His voice was as rigid as the muscles in his shoulders.
“I can’t see,” he said.
“What?”
“I can’t see,” Landeta repeated. “I’m going blind.”
Louis felt himself tighten. Blind?
“You should have asked for the Diet Coke,” Landeta said. Louis’s eyes went from the green bottle of unopened Heineken on the counter to the mess of flatware on the floor. He bent down and picked up the bottle opener, holding it out to Landeta.
“Open it yourself,” Landeta said. He trudged out of the kitchen.
A moment later the music stopped. Louis set the opener on the counter next to the beer and followed Landeta back to the living room. Landeta was standing at the stereo. He went to the Eames chair and sat down, holding his towel-wrapped hand.
“You’re blind?” Louis asked.
“Going blind. There’s a difference.”