I felt enclosed, almost suffocated: the building, its faded grandeur, the leaking rooms and cracked plaster, the dead Russian, the Hutchisons who would never leave. Who else lived in this fortress on Sugar Hill where gargoyles guarded the door? There were signs somebody was fixing the place up, all the notices on the front door, the paint and ladders. The wallpaper on the fourteenth floor was new. And there was Lily’s behavior, febrile, scared, moody. Her claim she had killed Simonova. Had killed her friend.
There was a small window at the end of the hallway, and when I looked out, I saw the city was socked in now by snow, ice, and fog. Sleet battered the window. People in the street below were like smudges on a Japanese print.
“You thinking of moving that car or something?” said Diaz the doorman, confronting me in the lobby.
“Sure,” I said. I could see the guy was looking to assert his authority, and I wasn’t giving him any. Still, I didn’t show him my badge. I didn’t want him thinking I was here on a case, so I kept my temper. “You want to tell me where’s a good place to park?”
“Yeah, OK, I can show you,” he said. Spotting somebody at the front door, he adjusted his fancy cap and rushed to let the man in.
Black cashmere overcoat, handmade shoes, yellow scarf, the man stopped to talk to Diaz, who practically saluted. I waited.
It was Saturday morning and the Armstrong lobby was busy with people, some collecting packages from a long table near the mailbox, others lugging suitcases out of the elevator as they headed off for the weekend, or tried to. The airports were shutting down fast that day, I figured. Maybe trains, too. The city would be cut off.
A group of elderly people, two in wheelchairs, one leaning on a walker, had gathered near the fireplace; they chatted and laughed. A woman cajoled two little boys, twins, it looked like, burdened by violin cases. Saturday morning. Music lessons. The majority of people I saw that morning, though, were old. The lobby was their village green.
The old tiled floor, inset with strips of marble, was partly covered with worn Persian rugs, blue, red, pink. Dark, heavy oak furniture stood in front of the fireplace, where real logs burned. On the walls were lamps with ruffled glass shades, one of them cracked, one missing a bulb. Near the elevator was a large Obama poster. HOPE, it read.
Heavy blue velvet drapes and silky swags framed the windows, which looked out on a courtyard. Snow fell on a terrified city watching its money go down the drain. Money was New York’s blood and marrow.
I waited in the lobby for Diaz. Louis Armstrong was singing “Winter Wonderland.” The speakers were by the fireplace. The lyrics took hold of my brain. Only Louis could have made it sound OK. In this fucking festive season, the whole city was a mess of noise, too much traffic, too many tourists, and, God help me, the music.
I wanted to get out of here. Diaz was still with the cashmere coat. The man glanced at me, then asked Diaz something and slipped a bill into his hand.
Every building in New York has its own system, but it’s a seasonal thing, the Christmas cash, the yuletide tip. Leaning against the wall, I saw people dropping envelopes on Diaz, pushing money into his hand. Any way you looked at it, this was the annual payoff, this was how you got your packages faster, your cabs sooner, your kids looked after, your late night activities-parties too loud, people too strange-ignored.
New York, unlike any place on Earth, lives in its buildings as if they’re minute city-states. The people who service them have real power; without them, nothing works.
“Carver Lennox,” said the guy who had been talking to Diaz. “You’re Artie Cohen. Lily’s mentioned you,” he added, though I knew it was Diaz who’d given him my name. “Welcome to the building. Anything you need?” He was plenty self-confident. I figured him for his late thirties.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Christmas party tonight,” he said. “Whole building coming over. Sugar Hill Club. You’d be welcome. Lily can give you the address.”
“I know where it is.”
“Good for you.” He nodded slightly and moved on toward the long hall off the lobby.
Diaz finally strolled over in my direction and said, “Right, I’ll show you the parking spot, man.”
“Just tell me.”
“You won’t find it without me.”
“You only have one elevator here?” I put my hand in my pocket. Diaz watched me get out my wallet. His tone changed.
“Three,” he said. “Two for residents, one for service-we call that one the prayer elevator.” He laughed without much humor. “You gotta say a prayer when you get in it. Just like there’s two sets of stairs, main one, and they got another one back by the garbage chute that’s on every floor.” He paused. “Saw you with Mr. Lennox.”
I waited.
“President of the co-op board,” he said.
“Right.” I knew Diaz would retail anything I said. He was the kind of guy who made a living off gossip. “Can we walk? The elevator looks like it’s stuck.” I extracted a twenty and gave it to him.
“Sure,” said Diaz.
“Where you from?” I asked.
“Cuba,” he said.
Diaz pulled open a heavy door that led to a stairwell. I followed him to the basement.
“You work here every day?”
“I live here, man, or I’m supposed to, down in the basement where they got what they call an apartment. It’s a shit hole. Usually I leave one of the other guys in charge, he don’t mind much, ain’t got nowhere else to go.”
“Who’s that?”
“They call him Goofy, the Goof, ’cause he don’t have all his marbles, you know? He help out. Do some maintenance work.” He grinned. “He’s OK unless you let him play around with them fuse boxes.”
CHAPTER 10
Bare bulbs overhead lit the basement with a creepy glow. The walls were clammy. I could hear water falling somewhere. I was lost.
Diaz had left me in the basement, pointed in the direction of the parking lot beyond the back door and told me to check but if there was a space, then move my car from the front. After that, he turned, went back through the door, and disappeared.
I tried to get my bearings. I found myself in a subterranean maze with only a few windows, high up in the walls and barred with black metal. I tried to trace my steps back to the stairs. I was lost.
“Hello?” I called out. My voice echoed back at me.
I looked into what turned out to be a vast laundry room, with modern washing machines and a couple of ironing boards. Nobody around. Beyond it was another space lined with huge metal racks. Old-fashioned drying racks, rusted now, each with the number of an apartment and underneath a gas heater. Looked like nobody had used them for decades. I slid one out; it rattled with age.
I backed up, opened another door. In front of me was a boiler room the size of a basketball court. Machines clanked and hissed. The door of one of the boilers was open. Inside was the orange flicker of flames.
Another room was full of electrical stuff, skeins of wiring, fuse boxes, weird pieces of equipment, some obviously broken. Next door was space for maintenance equipment, all left helter skelter on the floor-cans of paint, stepladders, tool kits, a pair of work boots splattered with pink paint.
“Hello?”
The whole basement was like the guts of some ancient ocean liner, the Titantic gone to seed, the crew absent.
It was freezing. I could just hear the sound of traffic over my head. I must be under the street, I thought. There were sounds coming from every direction, the clank of machinery, voices, animals-I heard a dog yap-all echoing through the long halls.
I passed a row of doors, each one marked with an apartment number. I rattled a few of the doorknobs, and
