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The elevator bounced to a stop and the door rumbled open and they turned toward 6B. The hallway still had the black-and-white checkered tile of the 1960s, and it smelled of someone's cooking -- garlic and fried potatoes. The superintendent had given them the key -- along with a deadline, Next Wednesday. Have the place cleared out for a new tenant.

The man beside him, an estate attorney, nodded slightly, feigning interest. He took off his hat -- it was stuffy, and he was sweating -- and watched the numbers light up on the brass panel. This was his third appointment of the day. One more, and he could go home to dinner.

"I can't believe this elevator still works," Dominguez said. "It must be, like, from the last century."

"Um-hmm," the man said, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. "Then it shouldn't take long."

Dominguez pressed the elevator button and the door rumbled closed. An inner porthole lined up with an exterior porthole. The car jerked upward, and through the meshed glass he watched the lobby disappear.

"Eddie didn't have much," Dominguez said.

"I dunno. You check in that bedroom thing?"

"Wow…" Dominguez said, upon opening the door and entering the kitchen. "Pretty tidy for an old guy." The sink was clean. The counters were wiped. Lord knows, he thought, his place was never this neat.

"Yeah. You know, I only been here once myself. I really only knew Eddie through work."

"Financial papers?" the man asked. "Bank statements? Jewelry?"

Dominguez leaned over the table and glanced out the kitchen window. He saw the old carousel. He looked at his watch. Speaking of work, he thought to himself.

"The bureau?"

Dominguez thought of Eddie wearing jewelry and he almost laughed. He realized how much he missed the old man, how strange it was not having him at the pier, barking orders, watching everything like a mother hawk. They hadn't even cleared out his locker. No one had the heart. They just left his stuff at the shop, where it was, as if he were coming back tomorrow.

The attorney opened the top drawer of the bedroom bureau. He pushed aside the pairs of socks, neatly rolled, one inside the other, and the underwear, white boxer shorts, stacked by the waistbands. Tucked beneath them was an old leather-bound box, a serious-looking thing. He flipped it open in hopes of a quick find. He frowned. Nothing important. No bank statements. No insurance policies. Just a black bow tie, a Chinese restaurant menu, an old deck of cards, a letter with an army medal, and a faded Polaroid of a man by a birthday cake, surrounded by children.

He emerged with a stack of envelopes taken from a kitchen drawer, some from a local bank, some from the Veterans Administration. The attorney fingered through them and, without looking up, said, "That'll do." He pulled out one bank statement and made a mental note of the balance. Then, as often happened with these visits, he silently congratulated himself on his own portfolio of stocks, bonds, and a vested retirement plan. It sure beat ending up like this poor slob, with little to show but a tidy kitchen.

"Hey," Dominguez called from the other room, "is this what you need?"