The pipes in the old building on Washington Street had been groaning for as long as Frank Delacroix had been a plumber, which was twenty-five years and still counting. He knew every groan, every creak
The sound he heard at 2:14 on a Tuesday afternoon was not normal. It was coming through the copper pipe he was working on in the basement of a three-family building in DUMBO, and it was not water. It was too regular—tap-tap-tap-pause-tap-tap—like someone knocking on the inside of the pipe. Frank stopped what he was doing, put his ear against the copper, and listened. Tap-tap-tap-pause....
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