to get into the Charlemagne but I still needed a way to stay there.
“I can’t think who’d send me flowers,” she said, taking the wrapped bouquet from me. “Unless it might be my sister’s boy Lewis, but why would he take a notion of sending me flowers? There must be some mistake.”
“There’s a card,” I said.
“Oh, there’s a card,” she said, discovering it for herself. “Just wait a moment. Let me see if there hasn’t been some mistake here. No, that’s my name, Leona Tremaine. Now let me open this.”
Didn’t anyone else in the goddamned building want the elevator? Would nothing summon this putz out of his reverie and float him away to another floor?
“‘Fondly, Donald Brown,’” she read aloud. “Donald Brown. Donald. Brown. Donald Brown. Now who could that be?”
“Uh.”
“Well, they’re perfectly lovely, aren’t they?” She sniffed industriously, as if determined to inhale not merely the bouquet but the petals as well. “And fragrant. Donald Brown. It’s a familiar name, but—well, I’m sure there’s been a mistake, but I’ll just enjoy them all the same. I’ll have to get down a vase, I’ll have to put them in water—” She broke off suddenly, remembering that I was there. “Is there something else, young man?”
“Well, I just—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, I’m forgetting you, aren’t I? Just one moment, let me get my bag. I’ll just put these down, here we are, here we are, and thank you very much, and my thanks to Donald Brown, whoever he may be.”
The door closed.
I turned and there was the goddamned elevator, waiting for to carry me home. The attendant wasn’t exactly smiling but he did look amused. I rode down and walked through the lobby. The doorman grinned when he saw me coming.
“Well,” he said. “How’d you make out, fella?”
“Make out?”
“She give you a good tip?”
“She gave me a quarter,” I said.
“Hey, cheer up, that’s not bad for Tremaine. She doesn’t part with a nickel all year round and then at Christmas she tips the building staff five bucks a man. That’s ten cents a week. Can you believe it?”
“Sure,” I said. “I can believe it.”
Chapter Seven
I didn’t keep Leona Tremaine’s quarter for very long. I walked around the corner, passed a watering hole called Big Charlie’s, and had a cup of coffee at a lunch counter on Madison Avenue, where I left the quarter as a tip, hoping it would delight the waitress as much as it had delighted me. I got out of there and started walking uptown until I came to a florist.
It was past four. The shift would have changed by now, unless someone was late. Still, it would probably be easier getting past a crew who’d seen me last night than convincing the doorman and concierge I wanted to make another in-person delivery.
I went in and paid $7.98 for essentially the same assortment that had set me back $4.98 on the West Side. Ah, well. No doubt this chap had higher rent to pay. In any event, I might get another quarter from Ms. Tremaine, and that would offset some of my expenses.
Leona Tremaine, I wrote once more on the outside of the envelope. And, on the card, Won’t you say I’m forgiven? Donald Brown.
The staff had turned over at the Charlemagne. I recognized the concierge and the doorman from the night before, but if my face was familiar they didn’t remark on it. Last night I’d been a guest of a tenant, all decked out in suit and tie, while today I was a short-sleeved member of the working class. If either of them recognized me, he probably assumed he’d seen me delivering flowers another time.
Again the concierge offered to see that the flowers were delivered, and again I insisted on making the delivery in person, and again the doorman snickered, guessing that I wanted my tip. It was nice to see they all had their lines down pat. The concierge announced me on the intercom and Eduardo took me up to the ninth floor, where Ms. Tremaine was waiting in the doorway of her apartment.
“Why, it’s you again,” she said. “I can’t understand this at all. Are you sure these flowers are for me?”
“The card says—”
“The card, the card, the card,” she said, and opened its envelope. “‘Won’t you say I’m forgiven? Donald Brown.’ What a curious sentiment. More specific than fondly, I daresay, but rather more baffling. Who is this Donald Brown and why am I to forgive him?”
The elevator had not gone away.
“I’m supposed