The Inspector Closed Our Hall Before The Last Seam Was Sewn

I had seven stitches left when the county truck stopped outside.

The curtain lay across my knees. A child had caught its hem on a chair during our Saturday picture show. I had matched the old blue thread and kept each stitch the same length.

I was sixty-six, a Jewish American man with a bent nose, silver curls, and thick glasses that made my brown eyes look larger.

For thirty-nine years, I had worked as a projectionist. In retirement, I kept the Lantern Room running on the unincorporated edge of Savannah, where the city address reached farther than the city limits.

We had eighty-six seats, a little stage, and a roof that clicked before rain. I cleaned the lens, booked old films, and mended what people used.

Travis Morrow came through the door without wiping his boots.

Travis Morrow was a broad white man of forty-eight, with sandy hair, a square red face, and boots polished dark as wet roof tar.

He carried a red notice and a clipboard.

"You operated with the sprinkler supply shut," he said.

"We haven't had an audience since Saturday. The certified test was yesterday."

"I know when the test was."

He put a photograph on my sewing table. It showed the wheel on our water control valve turned shut.

"Found it yesterday afternoon," he said. "After your engineer left."

"Then somebody changed it after she left."

He looked at my thread and needle.

"Or somebody wanted to stop a leak without paying for repairs."

The report called it deliberate interference by the tenant caretaker. My name sat beside those words.

"What leak?" I asked.

"You can explain that at enforcement."

He taped the red notice inside our front window. No public use. No film club. No Tuesday lunch for the women who brought their own soup.

"I'd like another engineer to look at this."

His voice grew louder.

"You want a second opinion on a closed valve? Keep pushing and I'll ask for a full investigation of everything you've touched."

I set my needle in the cloth.

"Give me a copy of your report."

He tore one free so hard the corner stayed on his pad.

"Ask Ada what this place is worth empty," he said. "She might thank you for making a sensible exit."

Ada Bell owned the building. She was also my business partner in the film program. I paid her $1,250 monthly under a lease with four years left, and she took fifteen percent of ticket income for managing bookings.

We had once agreed that a room mattered more when people could afford to enter it.

While I read his report by the window, he waited at the ticket counter. Then Morrow left without asking to see our records.

That told me something.

Our alarm panel was old, though its tested parts worked. Beside its screen, a small printer put every event on paper. Power changes. Door signals. A valve moved from its safe position.

I had kept paper logs since film came on reels. A clean join could fool your eye; the bench record told you where to look.

After yesterday's test, I had changed the printer roll. At closing, I had removed the used spool and put it in a clean film can. Damp air curled paper in that room. The can kept it flat.

The roll covered the test and the hours after it.

There was another record, too. Our service keys hung behind the ticket desk. Anyone taking one signed the register. The book used carbon paper, and I tore out each day's duplicate before locking up.

Morrow had called that habit "old man theater" on his first visit.

I had let him laugh.

I did not open the can while he was there. I wanted someone trained to read what the panel had printed, and I wanted the first full opening witnessed.

Ada arrived carrying a folder from a property company called Estuary Landing.

"Travis called," she said. "He thinks you panicked over a repair bill."

"Did he tell you what repair?"

She stared at the notice.

"He said fixing this could run $38,000."

"Did he give you an estimate?"

"No."

The folder held an offer of $610,000 for the building. Closing in twelve days. Vacant possession required.

"My lease isn't vacant," I said.

"Mendel, this could save us both a fight."

"It could also give somebody a cheap room with a bad report attached."

Her phone rang. She turned it toward me before answering.

The caller was Wade Morrow.

I looked from his name to the red notice in the window.

"Travis's cousin," Ada said. "He's handling the purchase."

She stepped outside. I picked up my needle, then set it down. Through the glass, I watched her listen while a second county truck pulled up behind the first truck's empty space.

Its driver carried a notice naming me personally.