was small and pinched, and his black eyes glittered deeply from a crevasse of wrinkles like two tiny currants inside a bigger raisin.
His hatred of raisins aside, T.S. decided he was going to like the fellow.
The old man looked T.S. over silently, inspected Auntie Lil once again, then stared down at the photos for a closer look. "You are family?" he asked them.
"Not really. But friends," T.S. said firmly before Auntie Lil could lie.
"She lived next door," the old man said calmly. "I think on the sixth floor." He pushed the photos back toward them. "And now I bid you goodbye."
Nellie shook her head in disapproval, braids bobbing and beads clacking angrily. "You are a good man, Ernest. But not too smart. Some things go on here, better not to get involved. Too many ways to get hurt."
Ernest shrugged and headed for the door. "That may be true, my lovely Nellie, but old Ernest here, he just can't say no. Look again at those photos. That old woman, she did not die in peace. I think it is my choice, not yours, if I get involved." He bowed and waved a brief goodbye before disappearing through the door and turning toward Ninth Avenue.
Nellie shrugged. "You heard the man. He say she lived next door, she lived next door."
T.S. stared at Auntie Lil. They moved as one toward the exit. The woman called after them just as they reached the sidewalk, "But remember, old Nellie here, she didn't know a thing."
Next door was a small six-story brownstone, in cheaply renovated condition with a new brick facade that was already beginning to crack and crumble. The front door to the foyer was locked and they peered inside at a row of twelve mailboxes. Six stories, two small apartments to a floor. Which one belonged to Emily? The man in Nellie's had said he thought it was the sixth floor, but hadn't been sure. T.S. could not see a name on either of the sixth-floor mailboxes. Both occupant labels were blank.
"Someone's coming," T.S. pointed out. He could see a small elevator through the door window, the indicator shining bright green in the dim hall light. "This place is a real Taj Mahal," he added. "An elevator and everything."
"Which explains how an old lady could live on the sixth floor. Who is it?" Auntie Lil asked anxiously, pushing against him and tramping the backs of his heels in an effort to peer through the window with him.
A young man emerged from the elevator. He was of average height and very thin, with sharp features and willowy limbs. His long blond hair was cut in a single length and hung down the sides of his pointed face in long waves. He looked like an Afghan hound but moved like a hyperactive Chihuahua. He bent his limbs with unnatural grace and each step was more a miniature jete than a stride.
"A dancer," T.S. predicted. "He'll probably break into a song from Oklahoma."
Auntie Lil did not appreciate his wit. She was too busy thinking up a good lie.
"Young man," she cried enthusiastically, grasping the fellow's arm before he could scurry down the steps.
The young man—who, up close, looked more like a forty-five-year-old who was aging badly and trying to hide it—jumped in alarm, then patted the sides of his now obviously dyed blond hair before asking in a high, precisely articulated voice, "Yes? Can I help you with something? There's no need to get pushy, you know."
"I think my sister lives in this building, but I've forgotten the apartment number. I'm from out of town and this street is quite frightening to me. Can you let us in to find her? Her name is Emily."
The man stared at her through suspicious, almond-shaped eyes. "Everyone who lives in this building is in the business," he informed her primly. "There's not a soul over thirty, sweetie." He shrugged and whirled gracefully, traipsing lightly down the steps, too quickly to catch Auntie Lil's mumbled retort about him dreaming on if he really thought she believed he was a day under forty.
But T.S. was not ready to give up. "That's a coincidence," T.S. called after him. "I'm a producer myself."
The man stopped in mid-hop and twirled back around, hands on his hips. He surveyed T.S. with a bright smile. "Really? Not the Chorus Line road show by any teensy weensy chance… I'm just on my way to…"
"No, no," T.S. lied smoothly, inspiration flowing through him with genetic enthusiasm. "That's ancient history.