The Sentinel (2 page)

The day had started inauspiciously; she had overslept. Yet, she hadn't had much sleep. She had woken twice during the night, one time to go to the bathroom, the other to find something to kill the dull pressure that had gnawed at her temples, reminding her that the tension that had caused the terrible migraines and dizziness was just beginning to subside and that she would probably feel some discomfort for some time to come. Strangely, the aspirin had little effect. The headache persisted through her sleep, intensified during the morning and first began to dissipate after she had left the apartment. It was gone by noon and was only a memory by the time she found a phone booth in a midtown drug store, called the listed number and, after speaking to Miss Logan, walked uptown toward Seventy-seventh Street and located the dilapidated brownstone that housed the agent's office. She opened the front door, consulted the directory-Miss Logan was the solitary tenant-and climbed a lopsided staircase to the second floor. She peeked through the open doorway. A woman was seated at a desk examining a handful of documents.

"Miss Logan?" Allison questioned.

"Miss Parker," stated the woman in a modulated contralto. She was neatly dressed but years behind in style. Matronly and spinsterish. With a strict posture, an old-fashioned hairstyle and bland, reserved features. "Please take a seat," she suggested. She leaned forward, removed some papers from a nearby chair and placed them on the already overloaded desk.

"Thank you," replied Allison as she entered the room and sat down.

Miss Logan quickly collated the piles in front of her. "I was about to leave when you called. I don't like to stay too late on Sunday so I'm straightening up. I'm sure you don't mind."

"Of course not. I hope I didn't cause-"

"No, it's no trouble at all."

"Nevertheless, I appreciate your staying for me. The apartment sounds perfect. I didn't want to wait till tomorrow and perhaps lose it."

"Yes, I see," observed the agent.

"You sounded unsure on the phone. It is available, isn't it?"

"I believe so," she said as she leaned over the desk and closed the Venetian blind on the only unboarded window.

"Believe?" asked Allison.

The agent smacked her lips. "The landlord said he was going to cease running the notice. He didn't like the prior applicants. We assured him we would find someone suitable, but he became disenchanted and decided to leave the apartment unoccupied."

"He obviously changed his mind again."

"Can I see the ad?"

Allison extended the paper and pointed to the bottom of the page.

The agent read the blurb and nodded.

"Then I can see the apartment?"

The agent eyed Allison intently. "Well, I don't see why not." She paused, then added, "The building is on West Eighty-ninth Street. It's old but still in good condition." She turned back to the desk, shuffled through the piles of papers, removed a document and smiled triumphantly. "Our questionnaire. Standard information for us about you, and I'd appreciate your indulgence. There's also a document that defines our commission which you must sign." She handed the paper to Allison with a slightly raised brow. "Thank you," she said prematurely. "As soon as you've finished, we'll catch a cab."

Allison removed a pencil from her purse and addressed her attention to the forms.

Miss Logan completed the arrangement of her desk. The room was silent for several minutes, then she swiveled around, sat back and stated, "You're from the Midwest."

"Yes," Allison answered, lifting her head.

"I can hear it in your voice."

"I didn't know the drawl was so prominent."

"It's not, but it's there for someone who can recognize it. I'm from Peoria, Illinois, myself, but I've lost the intonation. I've been here fifteen years."

Allison smiled and continued to write.

"You just get to New York?"

"No."

"I didn't think so." Miss Logan was craning her neck, curious as to the answers on the form. "You'll be living alone?" she asked.

"Yes," Allison answered, annoyed at the constant interruption. "With an occasional visitor."

"I live alone."

Allison raised her eyes. "How nice," she remarked.

"I prefer it that way. It gives me more freedom. I can do what I wish whenever I wish. And solitude is good after dealing with people six days a week, ten hours a day."

Allison nodded indifferently, then completed the questionnaire and scanned the commission notice. "Where do I sign?" she asked.

Miss Logan leaned over and pointed. Allison scribbled her signature and returned the forms. The woman quickly reviewed them.

"A model," she declared. "That's a very interesting profession. All that glamour and excitement. Twenty-six years old. Single. No relatives in the city, but good references." She smiled reassuringly. "It looks fine. I'm sure the landlord will approve." She looked at her watch. "Shall we go?"

Allison stood and followed the agent as she walked to the door and pulled a fashionless tweed coat from a rusted nail on the wall.

"Are you sure the staircase is secure?" Allison inquired, half jokingly.

"Perfectly," replied the agent. She threw on her coat. "Just a little harrowing. To make life interesting." She motioned Allison out, set the lock and slammed the door. "I've been in this building five years, and though it looks like it's falling apart, it's sturdy." The landing squeaked under her feet as she grabbed the banister. "I've thought about renovating a portion of the second floor and even the staircase, but that wouldn't make any financial sense. I suppose I'll get out of here sooner or later, but, you know, once you get used to something, you don't like to leave it. The office is like a second home."

"I understand," Allison replied. "I'm a little like that myself."

"Midwesterners are. They have a more finely developed sense of home and sentiment than New Yorkers. I rarely find New Yorkers having a sense for anything but sex and money."

"I guess there's something to be said for that too," observed Allison.

"Each to his own," said Miss Logan obliquely as she opened the front door.

They stepped onto the street into a tide of shattered sunlight painted in striations by a descending sun through barren trees; they hailed a taxi.

It was a standard New York brownstone. Five floors. Extremely old. Engagingly battered.

Allison paid the driver; they stepped from the cab.

"One of the nicer tree-lined blocks in New York," declared the agent as she started her sales pitch.

Allison pivoted and glanced up and down the narrow street lined with brownstones.

"And it's convenient," Miss Logan added. "There's a subway on Ninety-sixth and Central Park West. There's another on Broadway. There are plenty of buses, and cabs are easy to get. And, of course, you have the park."

They began to climb the stone staircase to the raised front entrance.

"Around the far corner there is a supermarket. There's also a cleaner's nearby and a hardware store."

Allison digested the geography lesson as Miss Logan smiled broadly, Allison's look of satisfaction having added fuel to the impending sale.

"We've become slaves to convenience," said Allison.

"New York does that."

"Unfortunately."

"Shall we?" asked the renting agent as she opened the heavy front door and stepped into the rectangular hallway.

Allison followed, admiring the soiled wood paneling that completely covered the walls.

She glanced at herself in a hanging mirror, then leaned against a bicycle rack in the center of the hallway.

"You can keep a bicycle here," said Miss Logan, standing at the base of the wooden staircase, "although the basement is probably more convenient."

Allison nodded thoughtfully. Eyes darting. Feeling a rapport with the building's personality.

With the renting agent leading the way, they began to climb the stairs. Halfway up, Allison stopped, grabbed the banister and shook it firmly. It was sturdy. Reassured, she continued to the first landing, forty-two steps from where she had started.

The second floor was paneled like the first with long strips of worn, soiled pine. However, at the junction of the landing and the second-floor hallway there was a segment of wall that had been completely refurbished. It began about four feet off the ground, ran to the ceiling and was approximately eight feet wide, reaching from the stairwell wall to the door of the B apartment that stood at the top of the landing in the beginning of the hallway. Allison inspected the fine new pine closely, touched it and thought of a pearl in an oyster, an isolated addition to an otherwise homogeneous surrounding. She shrugged, dismissed its presence and stepped away.

The lighting was extremely poor; the texture of the air was thick, almost filamentous, making it even harder to see. But she continued to follow Miss Logan, relying more on the agent's exemplary progress and her own non-visual senses than on her eyes. They wandered down the hall past the A apartment and climbed the second staircase to the third landing, which was easily as dark and forbidding as the second. The small yellow wall lights, one at each end of the hall, provided the only illumination. Miss Logan removed the chain of keys from her pocket and inserted one into the door marked 3 A. It opened and they entered.

The apartment, as advertised, was a floor through. The living room, which lay directly beyond the entrance, was large, rectangular and generally well preserved. The furniture was eye-catching, the style Victorian, the condition old. A treasure chest of antiques, from the smallest ashtray to the two large grandfather clocks that stood on either side of the mantel. She particularly liked the sofa that set the general tone and mood and stood in the middle of the room between two old granny lamps and before a low-standing bookshelf. Across from the sofa was a fireplace bordered in marble. It was clean; obviously it had not been used in some time. Scattered around the room were delicate chairs with arching backs and exquisite hand-sewn fabrics. She noted their position and thought to herself that the chair in front of the middle window belonged by the chair near the side wall. Perhaps she could buy a coffee table to place between the two, thereby establishing a separate personality to that little corner of the living room. The idea pleased her; she smiled to herself as she crossed the Oriental rug, glancing at the handsomely papered walls and hand-wrought mirrors.

Miss Logan followed and stuttered. "The old furniture fits in perfectly, I'm sure you'll agree."

She did. But no response. Instead, a continued walk around the room. Attention to details. The many small objects. "I assume all of this will come with the apartment?"

"I think so," said the agent, "but I can check before either of us makes a final decision."

"I'd appreciate it," Allison acknowledged, opening the window draperies, admitting the soft muted light of late afternoon. Looking out the third-floor window, she nodded her circumspect approval, closed the draperies, then turned back to the impatient renting agent and asked whether she could see the bedroom.

"Of course," answered Miss Logan.

She led Allison down a narrow hallway approximately fifteen feet long, which was bisected lengthwise by two opposing doorways-one leading to the small kitchenette, the other leading to the bathroom. Allison peeked in-they were standard, no more, no less-listened to Miss Logan's inane commentary about the utility and workmanship of each of the items, including the toilet bowl, then continued down the hall and walked into the bedroom. She sat down on the four-poster and looked about the room at the antique furnishings. The burnished walls. The gold-leafed metalwork. The ceiling. It was hand-carved. "Who put it in?" she asked, glancing upward.

"A prior tenant."

The ceiling was certainly an unexpected find in a rented apartment. Not the type of addition one would include without an interest in the building or a long-term lease. "Did you know the people?" Allison asked curiously.

"No," replied the agent.

Allison shrugged. She patted the quilted bedspread; little bits of dust billowed into the air, dancing in the gray light, settling into the darkness. She stood and walked back through the hallway; Miss Logan followed nervously.

"I want the apartment," Allison declared when they reached the brighter confines of the living room. The grandfather clocks struck the hour, then resumed their frantic ticking. She turned. "It's exactly what I need. Exactly."

"I was sure that you would feel that way."

"How much did you say the rent was?"

"I didn't," said the agent. The modulation in her voice increased in intensity; she appeared overly anxious. "The rental is four hundred and fifty a month. I'm certain that's within reason."

"Interesting," remarked Allison after a long pause, "but I'm afraid we have different standards of reasonableness."

Miss Logan smiled. "The apartment is large and it's furnished."

"And it's in the West Eighties," said Allison. "Not one of the up-and-coming neighborhoods in the city."

"I wouldn't say that," challenged the agent as she sat down on the sofa and leaned forward.

"I would. Four hundred and fifty is out of line. If you can't bring it down by at least one hundred, we might as well thank each other for the other's company and call it a day."

Miss Logan bit her lip. "You want the apartment?" she asked rhetorically.

Allison nodded.

"Frankly, three hundred and seventy-five a month is not excessive in New York."

"You said four hundred and fifty."

Miss Logan wrinkled her brow. "Did I? Careless of me. I do that all the time."

"I'm sure," said Allison with an amused grin. She opened her pocketbook and removed her checkbook. "Do you have a pen I could borrow?" she asked.

Miss Logan withdrew an expensive ballpoint from her jacket and laid it in Allison's outstretched hand. "A fifty-dollar deposit will be fine."

Allison scribbled in the figure and handed her the check.

"You've made an excellent choice," declared the agent.