CHAPTER SIX
While I slept, Stella blew up my phone with a dozen messages, ranging from “OMG I am so sorry!” to “Call me and tell me you’re OK! I don’t even know where you are!!!!”
I’m so mad at her that I decide to let her stew, refusing to reply to her messages. Instead, I set my Facebook status to a lyric from Forty-Second Street about the lullaby of Broadway, the rumble of the subway train, and the rattle of the taxis.
Whoever wrote that song took a lot of artistic license. The sounds I heard last night through my hotel’s paper-thin walls were more heavy metal than lullaby.
I’ve barely settled into my new desk at Keystone Property Management when Dan taps me on the shoulder.
“Come with me. We’ve got a prospect and we’re going to check it out.”
I admire his snappy cab-hailing skills once we hit the street. On our ride, he tells me how he and three college friends built Keystone from a summer gig into a business with more than thirty staff.
“All you really need is connections,” Dan says, explaining that his parents and his partners’ parents had them. “That phrase ‘it’s not what you know, it’s who you know’ matters more here than anywhere.”
I nod and try to take it all in, feeling thoroughly out of my league.
The taxi whisks us to a hundred-year-old building on the Upper West Side where a doorman meets us under a green awning.
I check out the ornate brass and glass doors, the lobby’s checkerboard marble floor, and a massive flower arrangement on a central table. It’s all white: ranunculus, peonies, and orchids, and practically as tall as I am.
Dan passes a business card to the doorman, who checks our IDs while signing us in. He gives Dan a set of keys.
“We haven’t seen Mr. Slater in quite a while,” the doorman murmurs. “I hope he’s well?”
Dan gives him an odd look. “I didn’t get much from his message.”
I follow Dan to elevators fully lined with mirrors that reflect my wrinkled navy linen skirt, white blouse, navy patent flats, and frizzing ponytail. New York’s humidity does not look good on me. A zit is budding in the center of my forehead. Perfect.
The elevator stops at the penthouse level and its lobby is a smaller version of the main entry. A mahogany side table holds a miniature replica of the floral display downstairs.
Dan unlocks a white-lacquered door with a brass doorknocker and a mail slot. He has to give the door an extra push to open it all the way because mail is piled deep on the floor behind it.
Before my eyes adjust to the darkened apartment, the smell hits me: garbage, stale beer, cigarettes, and mildew. Even the U of O dorms my friends lived in didn’t reek like this.
“Brilliant.” Dan groans and finds a control panel to raise the blackout shades. The light illuminates a disaster scene.
I wish Dan had issued me a hazmat suit. I’m going to need it.
“Well, this is not the worst I’ve ever seen, but it’s definitely in the top ten,” Dan says ruefully as he pushes open three sliding-glass doors to the terrace. I feel less nauseated as we get fresh air.
I do my part, picking my way over clothes and take-out containers strewn throughout the living room to find light switches and a switch operating two massive fans that hang down from the high ceiling.
I find an overflowing trashcan under the sink, tie the liner shut without gagging and haul it to a spot near the front door. Then I put a new bag in the garbage can and walk around the apartment, stuffing in handfuls of debris. On top of a grand piano, I find two ashtrays full of cigarette butts. Half-burnt paper is scattered around the fireplace.
This is glamorous.
I wonder how a person so privileged, so wealthy, can stand to live like this? Like a disgusting slob, or someone on a bender? I suspect whoever normally cleans up after this Slater guy has abandoned ship.
Smart.
I overhear Dan leaving a voicemail for the client and I eavesdrop, wondering if Dan might tell him off for leaving such a wreck.
Not in this lifetime.
“Mr. Slater, thank you again for your business. I want to assure you that Keystone Property Management will take care of everything to restore your home perfectly by the time you return. My assistant Berry will handle your billing and all the details needed to make things right. I’m not sure if you were aware of the state of the apartment when you or your guests departed, so I’ll be emailing some photographs to document the additional charges. Again, please don’t hesitate to ask us if there’s anything we can do to make your home more accommodating. We’ll go the extra mile.”
Dan moves through the apartment efficiently, taking pictures of the mess, adjusting the thermostat and inspecting the rooms. When he’s done taking inventory, he finds some semi-clean grocery bags and stuffs them full of mail from the entryway. He fills two bags as I build a pile of laundry in one corner.
“I promise, this is not normal,” Dan looks sheepish. “All I got was an email from this client asking me to fix up the place and take care of his bills. He didn’t say how bad it was. I thought he might be preparing his place to sublease or sell, but this is just … weird.”
“So by fix it up, he means clean it up?”
“We’ll do whatever it takes. That’s the hallmark of my company. Normally, property management clients just want us to keep everything running when they are gone for extended periods. A lot of them have second homes in California, Florida or Europe. But Mr. Slater didn’t say how long he’ll be gone or what the situation is here. I just have a credit card to cover his expenses.”
I shake my head. “This will take a while.”
“That’s OK. He’s going to pay a premium for it. I appreciate you getting the worst of the trash out of here. You can schedule our housekeeping service to give this place a top-to-bottom scrubbing tomorrow. You’ll be in charge of anything they don’t do, like organizing and restocking whatever the client needs.”
“Looks like I’m restocking the bar, then,” I mumble, picking up another empty fifth of vodka.
Dan takes more pictures and tells me we’ll call it a day. He wants me to attack the sacks of mail in case any bills are urgent. We get green juices from a street vendor and take another cab back to the office. I’m already feeling better.
“So, how’s your new apartment?” Dan asks as the taxi noses its way through Midtown gridlock.
Buzzkill.
“Not brilliant.” I’m not even sure where to begin—the freaky yelling outside my door last night? The cold trickle of a shower this morning?
“I know New York living is a pretty big change compared to life in Oregon,” he starts. “Apartments here are all about efficiency. You spend all day somewhere else—your office, restaurants, bars, or the park. Don’t worry if it’s small. How’s your roommate?”
“That’s the thing. She isn’t.” I tell Dan my tale of woe, from giving Stella a fat chunk of my savings for rent, to Blayde slamming the door in my face, to checking into the gross hotel. At this rate, my savings won’t last until my first paycheck.
“You should have left me a message! I hate the thought of you staying in that place, or what your mother will do to me if she finds out.” Dan makes a comical face as he slices his finger across his neck.
I laugh and promise him I won’t tell.
“Buck up, Berry. I’ll help you move to a better hotel tonight,” Dan promises. “If you need it, I’ll give you an advance. That’ll help you with first and last and a security deposit for a permanent place. If you want to live in Manhattan, you’ll definitely need a roommate, but you should also go explore the outer boroughs. Brooklyn’s really hot right now, and Bushwick’s in your price range.”
I nod, hoping I can find something good—no, something decent. Anything that doesn’t give me the heebie-jeebies. If I don’t, this is going to be one very short visit to New York.