The shaggy-haired Harold Winston was in his usual workday outfit of bib overalls while crew-cut Garcia was in his dark suit, white shirt, and conservative tie. A study in contrasts. She wondered what in the world the two men had to talk about, and then it occurred to her: Harry was gossiping with Garcia about the bums in the basement. Her boss didn’t need to be reminded of that mess, and she quickened her pace. She got to her door as Harry was piling on the excuses for the busted front door. “So then I told the association folks that all the hardware around here is shit, the doors are shit, the windows are shit, and they’d better start looking at replacing—” Harry halted his diatribe as she came up to the pair. She looked at Harry and smiled a tight smile. “What about my dishwasher, Harry? Is that shit, too? When you gonna fix that?” He tugged on his beard. “Just waiting on the parts, Miss Saint Clare.” “Sure you are.” Harry pointed to Garcia. “This gentleman showed me his badge and asked me to let him inside.
