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the second-floor window, a third flight ending in a landing outside the j third-floor window. Mau Tim Dani’s apartment. There were no bars on any of the back windows either. Christ, these folks were asking for it.
    Somebody nine feet tall probably could reach and pull down the raised, last flight of fire escape. The green trash cans were ribbed plastic and looked sturdy enough to support my weight.
    I had just positioned the second can under the escape when the basement door opened.
    A man dressed in droopy pants and a strappy T-shirt put one foot over the threshold, keeping the other inside the door. Maybe five six, he had the face of a pug from the club fights at union halls in Dorchester . Both eyebrows had divots missing, and the nose detoured more than once on its way to his mouth. The left ear was cauliflowered, the right loppy, like the Velveteen Rabbit. His hair was black, thinning unevenly at the crown, scrufly around the sides. Pushing fifty, his head flicked right, like he was ducking a punch, and he sniffed twice in quick succession through his nose.
    “Whaddaya think you’re doing?“
    “You the superintendent?“
    “Who wants to know?“
    “John Cuddy.“ I reached into a pocket for my ID. “I tried the buzzer and knocked.“
    He brought the other foot outside and stood in front of me.
    I handed him the holder, open. He stretched out his arms and studied it.
    “I’m a private investigator, Mr....?“
    He looked up from the ID, then down again, although there was no picture on it to compare against me.
    “Whaddaya want from me?“
    I extended my hand for the holder, which he gave back carefully. “I represent the company that insured the life of the woman who died here.“
    “The...?“
    “She was a model. Mau Tim Dani?“
    This time he winced before flick, sniff/sniff. “I don’t know nothing about that. Nothing.“
    “That’s okay. I’d appreciate your letting me see the apartment, though.“
    “What for?“
    “She was killed there, Mr....“
    “Don’t mister me, pal. Okay?“
    Not my best start ever. “Okay. You got a first name?“
    “Yeah. Carmine.“
    “All right. Carmine—“
    “But everybody calls me Ooch.“
    “Ooch?“
    “Yeah. From when I was in the ring. The other guy’d hit me, everybody went ‘Ooch! You see that shot?’ “
    I laughed politely. “You fight, you’re going to get hit, right?“
    “You can take it from me.“
    “So, can I get a look at the place?“
    Flick, sniff/sniff. “No way.“
    “I have a letter here from the company.“
    “I don’t know from no letter. The owners told me nobody gets in without they say it’s okay.“
    “You let the police in, didn’t you?“
    “No. The others let them in. I wasn’t here.“
    “Where were you?“
    “Over to the gym. They was going to have a party up there.“ He gestured toward the elevated first floor. “They get loud, the music, you know? I get itchy, gets too loud down there.“ He gestured back toward the basement door.
    “Where do you work out?“
    “The Y. Over by Northeastern. Ain’t too many real gyms left.“ “What time you get over there?“
    He shrugged. “I worked out, is all.“
    “Then came back here?“
    “Uh-unh. Had a few beers along the way. Didn’t want to get back till they was all out for dinner.“
    “I thought there was supposed to be a party?“
    “Yeah, but Sinead, she said Tina and them were going out to eat after. So I could come back then, it wouldn’t be loud no more.“
    “Tina?“
    “Huh?“
    “Who’s Tina?“
    “Tina’s...“ Flick, sniff/sniff. “Tina’s dead.“
    “I thought her name was Mau Tim?“
    “That’s what she called herself, for the modeling and all.“
    “What was her real name?“
    “Tina. Whaddaya, deaf or something?“
    I smiled. “How can I get in touch with the owner?“
    Ooch stopped. “I’ll call them, let them know you were § asking.“
    I reached into my side pocket, found a business card. “You 1 can call me there.