“What’s the story on the guy in 409?”
Spinkmeyer repeated four-oh-nine under his breath as though it was a foreign term.
“The apartment to the north of mine, Inky, Jesus. You’ve lived in this building for what, twelve years?”
“Oh, Pindleman. Yeah, he’s weird. Harmless, but weird.”
“He cooks fish constantly, and he’s like a hair under 100 years old, but he …
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