12
Sherman Glickman stood at the front door of his ground-floor apartment, one hand wriggling around in his pocket searching for his key, the other holding a paper bag from McDonald's. The apartment building, in one of the city's rougher South of Market neighborhoods, was designed like a motel. Two stories tall, all of its doors opened directly onto a walkway. Rusted and chipped wrought iron fencing along the upper floors matched equally decrepit fences on the lower that provided meaningless barriers between the front doors and the sidewalk.
The smell of urine grew stronger as Richie and Rebecca approached the building. Richie hated everything about it—it reminded him of some places he and his mom had to live in when he was growing up after his father was killed, the kind of area filled
