300/d. day 7

"Not even a SCUFF!" Henry straightened to his full height, which, when he wasn't slouching from his neurotic disposition, was actually a full twenty inches taller than Reggie.
"Well, I mean, it's not as bad as Vickie's..." Reggie pleaded as Henry walked deliberately to the doorway of the bathroom. Reggie, not sure how to read his tenant's mood, followed cautiously while rebutting. "You should see her--" Reggie was cut short by Henry's stern look. He followed the slender, sickly white forearm with his eyes and then past the small slightly redish fingers off to the ultimate destination he was gesturing toward: the tiny hairline crack where the ceiling met the wall over the mirror.
"Whu--" Reggie started laughing in a superior chuckle, shaking more dust off the thousand curly black hairs protruding from the collar of his mottled white tank top. "Why, Henry, There's nothing there!"
Henry's eyes flickered with an intensity, that Reggie couldn't quite place, for a moment at something just behind Reggie's left ear. A second later Henry swept into the bathroom with a theatrical aire. "THIS IS NOTHING?!" The emaciated, pinkish finger hovered inches below the crack.
"Well, I mean... look, Henry," The Superintendent dropped his tone as if he were inviting Henry into the greatest confidence. "Cracks like that show up all the time. I mean, you probably have some in every roo--" Before he could stop himself, Reggie knew he had blown it. There was no chance of recovery now. Of what, he wasn't exactly sure, but returning to "okay" was not something he could do at this point. Henry looked livid. His breathing was starting to quicken and he was doing something very odd with his pink, chapped fingers. Something like a practiced dance, only more forced and slightly jerky.
Regginald F. Gallo was employed by the Hawker, Scott and Dunn real estate company. More specifically, he was employed by Tito, his cousin, who worked in some capacity for Hawker, Scott and Dunn. Reggie was roughly 5'6" and nearly 250 pounds. The pathetic amount of hair lying placidly over his large round head was more than made up for by the veritable carpet of black tendrils covering, presumably, the rest of his spherical viscerae. R. F. Gallo was not the following: a ladies man, a neat freak or, and most importantly at this point in the story, a quick study of personality.