Bobby Hawran was a retired longshoreman with a handsome face and an even handsomer pension.

In April 2021, Hawran, 62, moved into an apartment building in north Seattle. The new building was named Janus, for the Roman god of beginnings and endings, and the duality between war and peace — a metaphor for Hawran’s short time in the building if there ever was one.

Hawran lived on the ground floor, with a quiet patio facing an alley. He was a stone’s throw, almost literally, from the bungalow where he’d grown up, molded in his father’s image as a man loyal to the waterfront, although perhaps more loyal to the drink. He was known for being as generous as he was hardworking, with the chiseled body of Stallone and the face of Redford — his looks, in particular his blue eyes, were described by everyone I interviewed about him.

On the day Hawran moved in, staff clocked him as an easy tenant, if a bit bumbling, who could afford the $2,150 rent for a one-bedroom.