Doorman Wanted By Glenn R. Miller - 38

CHAPTER 36

Thursday, 4:53 pm

I walk down the alley toward the penthouse vestibule of L’Hermitage, giving thought to both Mr. Stewart’s reaction to the distributed agenda, as well as Jacob’s interaction with Mrs. Turnblad and Mrs. Tang. Though he had often been impertinent with me, I thought that was simply our shtick—his routine with his direct supervisor, his indifferent shrug at authority, laughable of a representation of authority as I may be. I had not realized that it actually stretched into a floor show with the residents. And, quite frankly, if Mmes. Harrison and Tang can be considered a dependable focus group, his performances are not only put up with, but seemingly appreciated, enjoyed, and perhaps even anticipated, at least on this particular evening.

As I put my key into the vestibule’s lock, a noise behind me brings me out of my deliberations.

“Franklin? What are you doing?”

I turn quickly to see Mr. Stewart standing near the utility dumpsters.

“Mr. Stewart, uh, hello,” I say. “What are you doing back here? Can I . . . can I help you?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head and slowly approaching. “ I don’t need any help, but I can’t help but wonder, Franklin, why it is you’re going into the penthouse entrance. Aren’t you off duty right now?”

“I am, sir. Yes, indeed I am.” I pause, hoping he’ll jump in at this point and swerve this particular conversation in another direction. Nothing. More dead air. “I would think this probably looks a little, well, uh, suspicious,” I say.

“Yeah, as a matter of fact it does,” he says. “So, what’s going on?”

“Well, part of my job—at the end of my shift, well, actually, at various times throughout my shift, as well—is to check and make sure the penthouse owner’s door, uh, Mr. Franken’s door is properly locked and hasn’t been tampered with.”

“Uh-huh, check the door,” he says, tilting his head back and looking down his nose at me. “And you need to actually unlock the door with the key you have there to determine that the door is locked and . . . hasn’t been tampered with?”

Jesus, this inquisition. Although I had certainly known there always existed the possibility that someone would see me entering the building by way of the penthouse’s private entrance, I had assumed, incorrectly, that it might happen by someone looking out of their small utility room windows on the upper floors. It hadn’t occurred to me that I would carelessly overlook someone standing by the dumpsters. I had always played it out in my mind that if I were to chance upon someone in the alley, I could explain it away by yammering on about perimeter reconnaissance or some such nonsense. People, for the most part, observe actions and personal presentations within a given context. But, presently, Mr. Stewart is working against that particular assumption.

“Well, yes. It simply is part of my job description,” I say, opening the door, sticking my neck in for a nanosec, and then shutting and locking the door.

“All clear, Franklin?” he asks.

“Seems to be,” I say. “All seems to be in order. As usual. Well, good night, then.”

“Take me up to his apartment, Franklin.”

“Sir?”

“I said, take me up there. I’ve been waiting back here for a fucking half hour to meet this Mr. Franken and talk to him about his stupid plan for Fitzger’s. Homeless art gallery. Goddamn. He doesn’t return calls. He doesn’t introduce himself to anyone in the building, but he sure as hell is comfortable imposing his cute little idea on the rest of us. Well, it isn’t going to happen—I’ll make damn sure of that. But I want to talk to him. So . . . take me up there.”

“But, sir, I can’t do that. Besides, I don’t think he’s up there at present.”

“Well, who would know? No one has seen him enter or leave the building. He doesn’t return calls—”

“But doesn’t his lawyer, Ms. Guncheon, return calls?”

“Oh, yes, I’ve talked with her, but it’s him I want to talk to now,” he says, nodding his head skyward. “So, let’s go. Open the door, Franklin.”

“No, sir. I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“You know, Franklin, it looked a lot like you were trying to illegally enter this unit. Do you do that with the other units, too? Have you tried to enter my unit, Franklin? Convenient that you always know when people are home or away, isn’t it? And that you have keys that would allow entrance to any unit within the building. All very convenient for a doorman, isn’t it?”

Oh. I see. We’re going down that path, are we? Now it’s my turn to stand up a little taller, a little straighter, and look down my nose.

“Sir, are you aware of items missing from your apartment or from others? To my knowledge, there hasn’t been a rash of break-ins or burglaries within our building. In fact, I’m unaware of any one unit being illegally or improperly entered since I’ve been here. So, I’m afraid, I’m not quite sure of the direction of this conversation.”

“Oh, Franklin, you clearly are not schooled in the myriad forms of theft—”

“You are correct about that, sir. I am not. Although it has been brought to my attention recently that theft does, indeed, take many forms. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way. Best wishes in your attempts to get ahold of Mr. Franken. I know, for a fact, that he oftentimes comes home not at—” I look down at my watch–—“ten after five, but, rather, more often after midnight. Bit of a night owl, as it turns out. And, yes, he does, most often, enter through the front doors, not through this alleyway.”

I turn and head back to the alley’s entrance. What I assumed was a conversation heading down a path in which Mr. Stewart had made the realization that Henry Franken and Franklin Hanratty are, in fact, one in the same had veered off in a far more nefarious direction.

It’s becoming clearer that a reveal might be necessary. It’s no longer easy hiding behind a doorman’s cape.