alarms, razor wire, and two Doberman pinschers who were never fed quite enough.
Upstairs — you got up there through a door at the right front of the building, next to the two big wide green accordion-metal overhead garage doors — were Jersey Josh's apartment, office, and storage area. Some of the restaurant-supply company's security measures also protected his space, but in addition to that he had his own double layer of doors at the foot of the stairs, both metal, both wired for a variety of things, including a disagreeable but probably not fatal electric shock should you insert anything at all into any of those inviting-looking keyholes.
The stairs themselves were steep and narrow, so that only one person could ascend at a time. The door at the head of the stairs was also metal, and contained a peephole for looking through, a slit for shooting through, and a small hinged openable panel for accepting pizzas through.
Behind this door was a large living room with two natural brick walls and two plaster walls painted a kind of dirty white. These weren't dirty walls, these were walls painted a specific white only found in New York City, variously known as landlord white or cockroach white; it goes on gray and drab, and therefore will always look the way it does the first day it's spread, and so it doesn't have to be repainted as often as walls painted more esthetically pleasing colors.
The furnishings here are, you might say, eclectic, since everything was bought from thieves, including the saggy green sofa, all the lamps (he paid a premium, three dollars, for the table lamp that represents a Moor in a turban and scimitar and wide lavender pants), and the rug on the floor, on which can clearly be seen the traffic patterns of its previous owners.
Almost no one penetrates deeper into Jersey Josh's domain than the living room, but then, almost no one except police with warrants would want to. His bathroom is large and contains a big old clawfoot tub (stolen), but is otherwise unspeakable, as is his kitchen. His bedroom is as large as his living room, and furnished out of the same back doors. The floor-length mirror on its farthest wall is actually a door, leading to Jersey Josh's business space: a room with a desk and two safes, plus several rooms of watches, fur coats, TV sets, and SaladShooters. At the farthest end is the wall-less ancient elevator for which only he has the key, used to bring larger goods up or send shipments down for resale to dealers from Pennsylvania and Maine.
When Jersey Josh uses this elevator, it descends into a cage on the first floor, which separates his realm from the territory of the restaurant-supply company; always, when he and the elevator lower into that cage, the Doberman pinschers are there, slavering, in such a frenzy to tear his flesh they bite the bars of the cage. Good- humoredly, Jersey Josh spits at them and makes obscene gestures in their direction, before turning to open the overhead garage door which only he can operate without electrocution, and which leads to a side alley, where the customers await, with their trucks.
Usually, Jersey Josh was content in this comfy little nest he'd carved for himself from the cold heart of the city, but tonight he was to have a lady visitor, and tonight he wasn't sure the place was absolutely up to snuff. He fussed around, dusting the Moor, running water in the bathtub to redistribute the grease in there, spraying the rooms with an aerosol product that was supposed to make them smell like a mountain glade but which in fact gave them an odor strongly reminiscent of an Eastern European chemical plant. But it was the best he could do.
Also, there was his personal self. Short, heavyset, out of condition, with long lank gray hair and a deeply lined face the exact color of Egyptian mummies, Jersey Josh was not at the best of times easy to look at, and his best of times had been some decades ago. Nevertheless, when he was ready — seven-thirty, half an hour early, agog with anticipation — and looked at himself in his mirror/secret door, he saw an image that did not displease him totally. Wasn't there something of Henry Kissinger in his stance, a soupзon of Ari Onassis in the debonair tilt of his brow? If he were a little taller, couldn't he give Tip O'Neill a run for the money? Wasn't there more than a trace of Ed Meese in his whole self-confident air?
7:32. Jersey Josh put Blue Nun on ice,
8:04. Doorbell. Josh jolted awake from a warm dream. Doorbell. The lady. Right.
He struggled out of the saggy sofa, wiping drool from his chin, and lumbered across the room to push the intercom button: 'R?'
'It's Peg, uh . . . Peg.'
Female. Young. Nervous. Check, check, and check. 'S,' Josh said, and pushed admittance button number one. Then he peered through the peephole in the upstairs door, and didn't push button number two until he heard her thud into the interior door down there, expecting it to open. Push. Open.
In she came, holding the door open a long time down there, as though thinking she might turn around and go back after all. She even muttered to herself, showing more of the nervousness he liked, then looked up toward his door, and at last released the door down there and started up the stairs.
Nice. Good-looking, but not a real beauty, not enough to scare a person. Good strong legs, coming up those steep stairs. Good long fingers holding the rail. Nice round head, slowly rising toward him.
He didn't make her ring the bell at the top, the way he did with most people, including the pizza kid. Instead, just as she reached the last step he opened his final door, smiled at her in a way he hoped wouldn't show his teeth too much, and said, 'I.'
'Hello,' she said, blinking at him, taken aback. She almost seemed to lose her balance for a second in the doorway, maybe from the long climb, causing her to lean against the door, opening it more widely than normal, while Josh automatically resisted, gripping the knob. Then she got her footing again and smiled a little shakily and went past him into the living room.
Josh closed the door, metal door chacking into metal frame with a satisfying finality. He turned to see his guest surveying his room, so he took the opportunity to survey her, the black shoes, black slacks, black spring coat, the blond hair, the little winks of gold at her earlobes. 'S'just my place,' he said, shrugging, sorry to hear himself apologize for it.
She turned and smiled at him; nice teeth, better than his. 'It's very individual,' she said. Inside the black coat was a bit of white blouse, moving with her breath.
'S.' He smiled back, forgetting about his teeth till he saw her look at them, then quickly stopped smiling, but was still pleased, no longer unhappy about his living room. 'Take your coat,' he said. She frowned at that, and he hurriedly added, 'No, no, I'll give it back!'
That made her smile again. 'I know you would,' she said. 'But I'm a little . . . chilly, I guess. I'll keep it on.'
Disappointed, he said, 'OK,' then gestured at the sofa: 'Siddown?'
'I'll sit here,' she said, and took the wooden chair off to the side, on which somebody long ago had painted, pretty poorly, some Amish hex signs.
'But,' Josh said, as she sat on the hex signs, 'you can't see the TV!'
She looked at him. 'So what?'
'Well.' His imaginings scrambled in his brain. He motioned at the VCR atop the TV. 'You could watch a movie.'
'No, I'll just sell you these things,' she said, taking a white tube sock from her coat pocket. The sock was clean, and had red bands around the top. Softening the rejection, she said, 'Freddie's waiting for me at home. He's pretty sick, you know.'
'He said leg.'
'That's
'Pretty good,' Josh agreed. How could he ask this woman to go to bed with him? What were the exact words, to go from here to there? Did he have anything he could put in a drink, knockout drops? Maybe roach poison, he had plenty of that around here. Or maybe he could just hit her on the head when her back was turned, do what he wanted, and then when she woke up he'd say she tripped or something, knocked herself out, and she'd never know anything at all had happened.
Meanwhile, she was holding the damn tube sock, saying, 'Where should I put all this?'
'What's in?' he asked her, reluctant to engage in the wrong conversation.
'Diamonds. Some other jewels, too, but mostly diamonds. All unset.'
'Sit there,' he said, pointing again to the sofa. Then he pointed to the coffee table — kidney-shape avocado- colored Formica — and said, 'Put 'em there. I'll get wine.'
