New York Echoes (16 page)

“How am I supposed to
work?” Milton complained. “The mutt whines all day long.”

Milton wrote mysteries and
worked at a computer on his desk most of the day. His room was on the other
side of the wall from Mrs. Martinez's apartment. It had actually been a second
bedroom but he and his wife, Barbara, had converted it to his writing room. The
room had built-in bookshelves and a studio couch where Milton stretched out to
nap, usually in the afternoons, when he completed his self-imposed writing
allotment for the day.

Mrs. Martinez, a
widow, shared a landing on their fifteenth-floor co-op on Madison and 81st Street. There were only two apartments on their floor, but the configuration was such
that the wall of Milton's writing room was the same wall where the Martinez's dog was ensconced all day long.

Invariably, the dog,
which was of some small white fluffy breed with coal black eyes, began to whine
just about the time that Milton sat down at his desk to write, which apparently
was the same time that Mrs. Martinez went off to work at some job in Wall
Street. It was an eerie sound, like a low human whimper of pain, but the fact
that it was on the other side of  his wall, probably no more than a couple of
feet from his computer, gave it special significance, at least to Milton.

It wasn't that way
when the Frazers lived there. They spent six months in Florida and even when
they lived in the apartment, the bedroom that was on the other side of the
wall, was rarely, if ever, used.

Ever since Milton had complained to Mrs. Martinez about the dog's whine, her attitude was frosty. Not
that she had ever been friendly, but she did offer a smile and a pleasant
greeting, although it was clear that she had no intention of socializing with
her neighbors. Neighborliness had a different connotation in Manhattan than it
did in the rest of the country. Proximity did not equate with intimacy.

Mrs. Martinez, an
imperious type with ramrod posture, was always immaculately dressed and
coiffed, her jet black hair parted in the middle over a high forehead and a
decidedly feral and suspicious look in her eyes, which grew more hostile after Milton's complaint.

“As you know, the
building allows pets,” Mrs. Martinez replied indignantly without apology. Milton's explanation, he quickly discovered, was futile and immediately dismissed.

“The fact is,” Milton explained to Barbara, “this dog and I are the only two residents on this floor
during the day.”

He was able to
ascertain by deduction, since he was a mystery writer, that the little dog was
paper trained and rarely taken out for walks except on weekends when he noted
through the door peephole that Mrs. Martinez carried the dog into the elevator
and Harry the doorman confirmed that she took the dog for a walk, probably in
Central Park, which was a half a block away from their apartment.

At first, Milton was reluctant to bring up the matter with the co-op board. A disciplined writer, he
was very selfish in the use of his time and was not inclined to set off a
protracted struggle with the detail-oriented, overzealous board, most of whose
members were lawyers.

“It's such a cute
little pooch,” Barbara said.

“You don't have to
live with his whining all day long.”

“Buy yourself some
earplugs,” she suggested.

“I did. They're
uncomfortable and I can't hear the downstairs buzzer.”

She was more amused
than sympathetic. The fact was that she was very partial to dogs and spoke
lovingly of Bitsy, the standard poodle she had owned growing up in New Hampshire, and often expressed regret that they didn't own a dog.

He had rejected the
idea. He didn't want the hassle and convinced her that it would be unfair and
too confining to have a dog in a New York apartment.

For similar reasons,
they had postponed having children. Besides, they were fixated on their
careers. He was into his third book of his mystery series, which had given him
a modicum of notoriety, and she was a rising executive in academic
administration. Both were on the cusp of forty and they had grown too used to
their lifestyle and unwilling to take on further responsibilities. 

The whining little dog
next door had become, at least for him, a disruption. For her, it was barely a
blip on her environmental radar.

“I never hear it,”
Barbara told him.

“Of course not. You're
at the office. It stops when the lady gets home from work.”

Barbara was out of the
house during the day at her job as an assistant dean at Hunter College, not far from their apartment. On weekends, she rarely went into his writing room and
the fact was that apparently, he had deduced, Mrs. Martinez gave the dog the
run of the house during those days. It seemed obvious, too, that the little
mutt's whining sounds were probably signs of loneliness.  

Milton's work began to
suffer. He became irritable and distracted. He was not meeting his
five-page-a-day allotment and, worse, he couldn't even take his daily nap. 

“I must say, Mrs.
Martinez,” he told her, catching her on the landing as she left for work in the
morning. “I'm trying to be neighborly but your dog's whining during the day is
really interfering with my work. In fact, it's driving me crazy. Perhaps if he
wasn't cooped up in that room all day long. You see, we share a wall. . . .”

He could see that Mrs.
Martinez was becoming indignant, her eyes narrowing, a flush rising on the high
cheekbones of her dark complexion.

“Don't tell me how to
live my life,” she sneered. “Besides my Vickie is not a he. She is sweet and
gentle and quite content in her room during the day.”

Her room, Milton
thought startled. She has a whole room for herself. 

“Hell,” he complained
to Barbara. “Imagine that. Think of the cost. The woman is crazy. Her second
bedroom is for her dog.”

“She loves her dog.
People become very possessive about their pets. I can understand that.”

“If she's so attached
to the pooch, she should take it to work with her.”

“Why not suggest it?”
Barbara said, chuckling.

“I value my life.”

“Then find a way to
cope. Write in the kitchen.”

“The creative life
requires ambience. I love my room.”

He could tell that
Barbara was not as sympathetic as he would have liked. At one point he
persuaded her to postpone her leaving for her job and listen to this doggie
serenade that was making his life an agony.

“I can see where it
can be somewhat of annoyance, but I'm sure you can find a way to cope. I mean
it's not real loud, not vicious watchdog barking. Why not try music? You like
music. Use your iPod. Beethoven's Fourth would do nicely.”

“Not while I write. My
muse doesn't like music when I'm creating.”

Milton had the impression
Barbara was not completely on his side. Finally, he decided to bring the matter
up with the co-op board, who agreed that they would hold a meeting to discuss
the matter and he was welcome to state his case.

Mrs. Martinez, as a
member in good standing of the co-op, was also invited to rebut his complaint.
She brought Vickie to the meeting and some members of the board petted and
fussed over her. Vickie was remarkably silent, very friendly. She delicately
licked fingers and was downright charming.

He rehearsed his plea
with great care and thought he had made an impassioned case for his rights as a
creative artist to work in peace within his own boundaries. At the tail end of
his argument, he delved into the psychological.

“I'm telling you she
makes these whining sounds as soon as Mrs. Martinez leaves, as if she were
crying out of loneliness. It is, in my opinion, not a healthy situation for
anyone who loves animals. The dog is a prisoner in the woman's apartment.” 

“You sound like a dog
psychologist, Mr. Preston,” one of the board members commented as he stroked
Vickie's head.

“She is a member of my
family. I love her as my own child,” Mrs. Martinez said with passion. “People
who love animals will understand. This man hates animals.”

“She has her own
room,” Milton interjected. “Can you imagine? One of the rooms in this coop is
reserved for a dog.”

“I have every right to
use my apartment as I see fit.” Her eyes roamed the faces of the dour board
members like spotlights. “This is a free country, and property rights are its
foundation.”

“I have the right to
my privacy,” Milton opined. He could tell that he was losing the battle, and
the next day he was proven correct. 

“We've canvassed all
of the coop members,” the Board Chairman told him in a telephone call. “No one
has heard anything that would constitute grounds for any action.”

“I live on the other
side of that wall. It annoys the shit out of me and interferes with my
livelihood. I demand action.”

“You always have the
option to sell your share in the building, Mr. Preston,” one of the board
members said with obvious irritation.

Milton was furious.

“Apparently an animal
in this building has more rights than a human,” he muttered as he left the
meeting.

“A dog gets more
respect than a creative artist,” he complained to Barbara. 

“I will not move,”
Barbara said when he reported on the meeting. “Under no circumstances.”

It became increasingly
difficult for Milton to work. The rhythm of his life had been totally
disrupted. 

“I'd like to strangle
that little bitch,” Milton cried. “I want her dead.”

He sensed that he was
entering the tunnel of a deep depression. As his work diminished, then stopped
altogether, he grew despondent and began to fantasize about ways to eliminate
his nemesis. He was, after all, a mystery writer and pretty nimble when it came
to creating murder scenarios.

On the Internet, he
researched various poisoning methods, finally concluding that he would, under
the circumstances, be the logical culprit and a lawsuit or worse was sure to
ensue in the wake of the assassination.

Disposing of Vicki
soon turned into an obsession and he spent what was normally his writing time
figuring out ways to eliminate his tormentor in a way that would not come back
to haunt him. His first step would have to be breaking into Mrs. Martinez's
apartment, no small feat, since every apartment door was equipped with excellent
locks.

Harry the doorman and
his night replacement Barney kept duplicate keys in a small cupboard near the
service elevator. Both were trusted employees of the coop and when an apartment
owner forgot a key, they would produce the proper key and open the apartment
door. Security procedures were very strict and no one was able to enter the
apartment without being announced and the doormen controlled the self-service
elevator.

There had never been a
break-in or burglary in the apartment building in anyone's memory, and the
tenants felt secure in the care of their ever watchful doormen and the other
employees of the building including the superintendent, the porter and the
managing agent. It was an older building built in the early thirties of the
last century with twenty floors. 

Most of the apartment
owners, including Milton and Barbara and the Martinez woman, allowed the
doorman to enter their apartments with the duplicate keys when a delivery was
special and would be safer inside the apartment and such action was arranged in
advance by the owner.

Such details were
crucial to Milton's plans as he plotted during every waking hour how he was
going to eliminate his nemesis and promulgate the perfect crime, avoiding any
proof that he was the perpetrator. As for the process of elimination, he
determined that he would somehow get the dog out of the apartment, find a way
to get it out of the lobby without arousing the suspicion of the doorman and
drive it outside the city for disposal.

The disposal issue
became a test of his nature, which was decidedly non-violent, and it became
apparent after much soul searching that he could not be a murderer even if the
victim was a dog.  Instead, he determined that he would remove the dog's
registration medallion and deposit her anonymously at an animal shelter. The
rest would be up to the compassionate shelter people and those who might wish
to adopt the dog, who was obviously expensive, pedigreed, and cute enough to
attract a new owner.

After due
deliberation, he realized that the first place Mrs. Martinez would look would
be an animal shelter in the city. He rejected that idea in favor of finding an
animal shelter outside the city limits, perhaps Westchester County.

He felt more and more
exhilarated by his plotting effort. Perhaps someday it might find its way into
a book.

As for the effect of
his action on Mrs. Martinez, he could generate little pity.  Collateral damage,
he assured himself. Of course, he would have to survive her scrutiny and
accusations, but he felt fully prepared for such an onslaught. This was a core
issue in his life and it had to be resolved.

“You seem in fine
fettle these days, Milton,” Barbara told him. “You no longer are fixated on
Mrs. Martinez's dog.”

“I'm coping,” he
replied with a snicker.

There were steps to be
taken. He had to establish a pattern, one that would pass muster in any
investigation. Under the pretense that he was researching a new book, he would
roll a small suitcase through the lobby, offering Harry, the doorman on day
duty, the comment that he was transporting books back and forth from the
library for research.

“Not so simple being a
writer. Lots of reading required,” he would tell Harry as he entered and exited
the apartment lobby. After a few weeks of establishing the pattern, he pretended
to have lost his key, which gave him an opportunity to follow Harry to the
place where he kept the keys, which were neatly hung by apartment number on
hooks in the key cupboard behind the elevators.