Hayes leads him downstairs to the furnace room. The door closes behind them. 18 minutes pass. Irving checks his watch. A proper inspection takes 45 to 60 minutes minimum.
He knows because he looked it up last night. Read the city protocols. Section 1319653 of the municipal code. Testing requirements, documentation standards, safety thresholds. 18 minutes isn't enough.
The door opens. Moore and Hayes walk out, still talking, low voices. Hayes gestures toward the lobby, toward Irving. Moore glances up, make eye contact, looks away fast. They climb the stairs.
Moore doesn't test any apartments. Don't check CO levels on different floors. Doesn't verify the furnace repair logs. Just walk through. Clipboard under his arm.
Pen in pocket. Unused. At 2:30, Moore stops in the lobby, clears his throat. The furnace has been repaired. Building passes inspection.
No violations found. Irving steps forward. Sir, did you test CO levels in each unit? Moore's jaw tightens. I don't need to explain my process to you.
I'm just asking if Hayes cuts in. Loud. Intentional. Mr. Collins. He emphasizes the name, makes it sound formal, distant.
Let the professional do his job, unless you think you know better than a city inspector. The other tenants watch. Mrs. Johnson, Mr. Patterson, the young couple from 4B. Irving keeps his voice even. I just want to make sure everyone's safe.
You've done enough. Hayes steps closer. Invades space. Calling 911, making a scene now questioning official inspections. You need to mind your business, old man.
Old man said like an insult. Irving is 64. Hayes may be 48, but the age gap isn't what Hayes means. Moore shifts his weight, checks his phone, nervous. I've completed my assessment, Moore says.
The building is compliant. He leaves fast. Doesn't hand out paperwork, doesn't answer questions. Hayes watches him go, then turns back to Irving. You got a problem with how I run my property?
No, sir. I just Because you've been here a long time, 22 years, right? Hayes smiles cold. Long time for someone like you to stay in one place. Most people, they appreciate what they have.
Don't cause trouble. Someone like you. Immani's hand finds Irving's squeezes. Warning, let it go. Irving lets it go.
Hayes walks out. The lobby goes quiet. Mrs. Johnson speaks first. That wasn't right. Mr. Patterson nods.
18 minutes. I timed it. But no one says more. Everyone returns to their apartments. Later that afternoon, Hayes posts a notice in the lobby printed on city letterhead.
Official seal in the corner. Inspection certificate past Chicago Department of Buildings. Inspector B. Moore, badge number 2831. Date February 6th, 2024.
Property 847E. Oakwood Blow Vid Furnace compliant. Carbon monoxide. Safe violations. Found.
None. The signature is illeible. A scrawl. The red stamp looks real enough. Irving photographs it with his phone.
The whole notice clear. Every word. That night. Ammani sits at the kitchen table staring at nothing. Something's wrong.
She says, "I know that man didn't inspect anything. He barely looked. " "I know. " And Hayes, the way he talked to you in front of everyone. Irving doesn't answer. Doesn't need to. 22 years in this building.
Never been spoken to like that. Not once. Not by the old landlord. Not by maintenance. Not by anyone.
Until now. Emani's voice drops. What do we do? Nothing. We keep our heads down.
Pay rent. Stay quiet. After he humiliated you. After he humiliated me. Irving looks at his hands.
Steady, weathered. 64 years of work. We can't afford to fight. Not with him. Not with the city.
We just survive. But surviving feels different now. Feels smaller. The phone rings. Immani answers.
It's Mrs. Johnson. Voice shaking. Mr. Collins, my kids are coughing again. The smell is back. Irving closes his eyes.
The furnace wasn't fixed. Moore lied. Hayes paid him to lie. Keep your windows cracked, Irving says. Even in the cold.
I'll figure something out. He hangs up, looks at Ammani. We need to call Isaac. Ammani shakes her head. He's busy.
That new job downtown. I don't care how busy he is. Irving's voice is quiet, firm. Our neighbors kids are breathing poison. The inspector lied.
Hayes threatened me in public. We need help. What's Isaac going to do? He's a lawyer, not He'll know someone. Someone who can make them listen.
Irving doesn't call that night. Can't bring himself to. His son worked too hard to get where he is. Irving won't pull him into this mess. Not yet.
The smell returns overnight. Faint. Metallic. Wrong. Irving's meter reads 43 parts per million by morning.
Not lethal. Not yet. But climbing. The certificate on the lobby wall still says safe. Still lies.
February 15th, 8:00 p. M. A knock on the door. Irving opens it. Not Hayes.
A process server. Young white man. Neutral expression. Clipboard. Manila envelope.
Irving Collins. Yes, you've been served. The envelope weighs nothing. Three pages inside. Irving closes the door.
Opens the envelope with hands that don't shake yet. Notice to vacate. He reads it once, twice. The words don't change. Tenant Irving and Ammani Collins, Unit 3C.
Landlord Vincent Hayes, Hayes Property Management, LLC. Violation: Unauthorized Occupant residing in unit without landlord approval in violation of lease agreement. Section 4.2. Two unauthorized occupant minor child female approximately 4 years of age. Deadline to vacate February 20th, 2024, 5 days from service.
Failure to comply will result in forcible eviction proceedings and associated legal costs. Immani reads over his shoulder. Goes still, Amara. They're saying Amara can't live here. Irving flips to the second page.
The lease agreement excerpt. Section 4.2. Guests and occupancy. Tenants may host guests for up to 144 14 consecutive days. Any person residing in the unit beyond this period requires written approval from the landlord.
He remembers when Amara moved in July 2022. After their daughter's funeral, they'd told Hayes face to face in the lobby. Hayes had shrugged. "Sure, whatever. Just keep paying rent.
No written approval, no formal process, just verbal, okay. 2 and 1/2 years ago. Never an issue, never a complaint, never mentioned again until now. " Immi's voice shakes. He approved it. You told him?
He said yes. Verbal approval doesn't count. Not legally. But he never said we needed written. He didn't have to.
It's in the lease. We signed it. The third page lists next steps. Warnings. Consequences.
Legal language designed to intimidate. 5 days to vacate. No chance to cure the violation. No grace period. Just out.
Irving walks to Amara's room, opens the door quietly. She's asleep, clutching her stuffed rabbit. Four years old, doesn't know her grandparents just got evicted because she exists. He closes the door. Immani sits at the kitchen table, staring at the notice.
This is because you called 911 because you questioned the inspection. Irving doesn't answer. Doesn't need to. What do we do? Pack.
Find somewhere to go in 5 days with a 4-year-old. Ammani's voice rises. Cracks in February. It's -18° outside Irving. The forecast says it's dropping to -28 this weekend.