Gus Ambrose

Gus Ambrose is 56 and has been the condominium caretaker for twelve years. Born in Texas, the son of a garage mechanic, he boxed for a few years in neighborhood rings, from which he left with a flattened nose and the habit of sizing up everyone who comes through the gate. He came to the desert for the dry climate, because of a weak lung, and ended up staying.

He spends the day among the garden, the pool and the basement maintenance shop, a low-ceilinged room with shelves of paint cans, brooms, hoses and a bench with a vise. He fixes faucets, changes bulbs, takes out trash, takes complaints without arguing. He eats sandwiches wrapped in brown paper and drinks coffee from a thermos, sitting in a garden chair, listening to the radio low.

He is short and stocky, with thick sunburned arms, a broad, wrinkled face and close-cropped gray hair. He wears a short-sleeved khaki work shirt, worn jeans and heavy boots, with a ring of keys on his belt. He is gruff, wary, speaks little and looks at his own boots when he answers.

He says the actor arrived in early June for the play's run and that the theater rents the whole of building 14 for the cast. He says he paid on time and tipped. As for the neighbor in 14C, Miss Lorraine, he's never seen a more curious actress: she walks around with a little notebook and writes everything down, the hour he leaves, who comes in, who goes out. When voices are raised, he warns that he says nothing to shouting. Ask properly.

Gus knows the caretaker of a condominium sees, hears and keeps more than he would like. It could be the reserve of a man who prefers not to meddle in other people's lives. It could be someone who knows exactly what he saw and what suits him to tell. The detective will have to decide which.