Our landlord Shylock was a mid-life-crisis in action.  The strictest evidence was his Corvette—a red convertible always baring a recent wax job.  When it came to San Jose real estate, Shylock approached Baron-status.  He’d inherited a slew of properties from a thoughtful aunt twenty years before and had built an empire, renting mostly to students.  He was the resident slum-lord.  His daughter, Candy, was a rebellious thing—sixteen and just reaching the age where sneaking out the bedroom window seemed like the best of all possible worlds.  But Candy was not an accomplished escape artist.  She’d left an important detail sitting by her make-up stand that evening—a flyer pinpointing her eventual destination.


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