Doorman Wanted By Glenn R. Miller - 39

CHAPTER 37

Thursday, 8:43 pm

A fter killing three hours of time by walking in the park, eating at Baluchi’s, and browsing at Westsider Books, I work my nerve up to return to L’Hermitage. This time, unlike my nonchalant stroll through the alley earlier, I am vigilant and cautious. I proceed slowly, staying along the sides of the buildings, rather than walking obliviously and incautiously down the middle, as I had done earlier in the evening prior to my run-in with Mr. Stewart. I return to my previously established procedures, when my charade was brand new, looking for movement or any signs of human presence.

Prior to crossing the alley to approach the vestibule, I carefully examine the back windows of L’Hermitage. Satisfied that no one is watching, I cross, unlock the door, and enter the elevator.

Although I had initially felt like a stranger in a very strange land when entering my father’s condo months ago, my feelings toward the penthouse have changed in the last few weeks. As I enter my space, lights from the city flood the living room and entryway, so much so that I needn’t initially turn on any interior lighting. I walk to the windows and look out. I see people in their apartments across the way, eating, watching television, talking on their phones, pulling blinds, walking between rooms. In the top unit in the building directly across the street, I see a man looking out from his windows, arms behind his back. At first glance, I mistakenly think he, in his window, is simply a mirror image of me in mine, somehow a trick of light, reflection, and space. But then a woman walks up behind him—his wife? His lover?—and hugs him, looking out on the street scene with him. She says something that makes both of them laugh. They turn away from the window and walk out of the room together.

I turn and face the emptiness of my apartment. My cell phone flashlight is blinking, which means only one thing—Judith has left a message. I listen to it—Judith at her shortest and most succinct. “Call me, kid,” it says. The timestamp indicates that the call came in while I was wandering the West Side—after my conversation with Mr. Stewart. Since Judith rarely calls in the middle of the week, saving up any news items for our Saturday morning visits, I assume there is a certain sense of urgency behind her call and that the urgency might just be related to Mr. Stewart.

“Oh, yeah, kid, I got some news for you,” Judith says upon picking up my call, eschewing any howdy-do pleasantries and jumping right into the matter at hand.

“Let’s see,” she says, “where should I begin? Here’s a good spot; maybe you can help me out. I got a problem because I have two screaming headlines for you, and I just don’t know which one to lead with. Kind of like when the news producers had to decide between opening with Reagan’s inauguration or Iran’s release of the American prisoners—kind of like that, you know what I mean? Maybe I’ll save the historical references for later. Tonight, let’s stick to the hysterical ones, shall we? ’Cause I got a ton of those.”

She is clearly enjoying this, savoring the moment, working at stretching it out for as long as possible without breaking it, which is never a good sign with Judith. Given the slight slur of her speech, I suspect she might also be savoring and stretching out her second—possibly third—cocktail.

“Is this windup an attempt to run up my bill?” I ask.

“Yeah, okay, on with the show. Here, let’s try this on,” she says. “I’ll approach it from this angle and see what you think. I’ll combine the two and we’ll just see how it plays. Brendan Stewart thinks you’re a cat burglar—his term, not mine. Kind of cute, though, don’t you think? And he now wants to rent out the jewelry space. So, there you go. Which one you wanna discuss first?”

The cat burglar issue is news to Judith only, so I set this one aside for the time being. The rental of the jewelry space, however, is a genuine, bona fide headliner.

“What are you talking about? He wants to rent Fitzger’s?” I ask. “It’s been available for months. Why hasn’t he stepped forward earlier?”

“Well, if you were a poker player—which, sadly, I suspect you most definitely are not—you would understand that you have, in effect, forced his hand. Stewart wouldn’t have given a shit if a shoe store or a candy shop was moving in there. But an art gallery, no way. He can’t stomach that. He feels threatened by this move, the fact that a competitor is moving into his very own building, right under his nose. And a big part of this, I suspect, is that Brendan Stewart—or ‘B. S.,’ as I will now affectionately refer to him—feels dissed. A little of his reaction is concern about one more art gallery competing in the neighborhood against his own. But, quite frankly, it may be more about his own goddamn pride.”

“But he can’t take this personally. We’re talking about an organization aimed purely at helping homeless artists. We’re just giving them studio and display space. How can that possibly be threatening to him? To him and his, his . . . soot artists?”

“Oh, snap, as my neighbor’s kid would say,” Judith says. “The boy has some fight in him after all. Yeah, well, you know, competition is in the eye of the beholder. Or, at least, in the eye of the gallery owner who is fighting for his life to stay solvent. It’s a tough market out there, Henry, especially for the Brendan Stewarts of the world who, as I understand it, happens to be teetering on the edge of bankruptcy. If he doesn’t feel painted in a corner, he may feel like he’s been, at least, pointed to the corner. And he doesn’t like it. So, here’s the deal: he’s planning on growing his way out of his debt. And he wants our retail display space for his inventory that’s been doing nothing but sitting in storage. Maybe he was wavering before over that space and the agenda item forced him to commit and, quite honestly, I think he increasingly talked himself into the wisdom of his move while he and I were talking. In any event, we now have a new action item on the agenda. The board will now be asked to vote on which occupant they want in Fitzger’s—Brendan Stewart’s upper-end chi-chi gallery—again, his words, not mine—or a nonprofit homeless artist gallery. So now, my young friend, you have a bit of a fight on your hands. Because I’m Henry Franken’s representative, I can make as strong a case as possible within the context of the meeting, but I’m simply an intermediary. Your neighbors are getting restless that the real Henry Franken never shows up. And, you know what? Stewart is going to be in the meeting, twisting arms, looking people directly in the eye, and saying he needs this space. A building owner who can’t even make the time to be at a meeting and make a case for this nonprofit organization won’t get a great deal of consideration. I’m just sayin’.”

I let out a heavy sigh and fiddle with a pencil and paper that are sitting next to the phone.

“Is there anything else, Judith?” I ask.

“Well, yeah, just this thing about you being a cat burglar and breaking into every unit in L’Hermitage, and some poop about you possibly being a drug dealer, but, I suppose, we can table all that until our next meeting.”

“Yeah, I’d prefer that,” I say. “I need to do some thinking.”

“Yes, I suppose you do. But your window, Henry? Not the one you’re probably staring out right now, but the window that is allowing you the luxury of noodling about and playing the Hamlet shtick? It’s closing rapidly, know what I mean? It’s unhealthy for cat burglars to get locked in on the wrong side of a closed window. Yeah, okay, that metaphor might be a bit of a stretch, but you get the general drift. Anyhoo, this conversation has just gone long enough that I can justifiably and with all clear conscience charge you another quarter hour. And, more important to one of us, I gotta go freshen up my G and T. See you, sugar plum . . . Sylvie! Make me another—”

Judith clicks off and I go to change out of my doorman’s uniform. I put on blue jeans and a summer-weight sweater, slide on my two-tone sneakers, and take the elevator down. The main elevator, not the service elevator.