mind the street sign. But he was on the opposite end from the Christmas tree lot.
The sublet couldn’t be more convenient. He went up the worn sandstone stairs and rang the bell for 1-A, under a tattered slip of paper that said WALCOTT.
The outer door buzzed and he heard the lock release. Sam pushed the door in and stopped at the inside door, waiting for a second buzz.
Absently, he looked down at the entryway floor, realizing that he’d seen versions of it all over New York. In hallways. In bathrooms. The tiles were tiny white octagons with a decorative border. In an old building like this, some of the tiles were chipped, but someone kept them clean.
That would be the super. He reminded himself to ask for the guy’s name, in case anything needed fixing.
He tried the inside door. Still locked. Alex Walcott seemed to have forgotten to press the second buzzer. Sam went outside and pressed the apartment bell again.
Simultaneously, the buzzer rang and an apartment door in the narrow hallway opened with a bang.
Alex waved to him. Sam didn’t remember his hair being green. “Sorry! I was looking for my tap shoes!” He dashed back in.
“Not a problem.” Sam walked to 1-A and went to the door his landlord had left open.
“Come on in,” Alex said. “Did the green hair scare you? Job requirement. I don’t even want to look in a mirror.” His voice was muffled. Sam heard hangers being scraped along a rod. “Make yourself at home.” Thumps and scrabbling sounds came from the depths of the single closet, and a box flew out.
Sam paused on the sill. Five more steps and he would reach the opposite wall of the single room. The furniture was sized to fit, he noticed. Elf-size.
Whatever. He would manage. The place looked clean and comfortable. If he shoved the coffee table to one end of the miniature couch, he could even stretch out enough to sleep. He didn’t see a bed.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” Alex said. He came out from the closet, tap shoes in hand. “Sit down, please. Would you like a drink? Soda, wine, beer?”
“I’ll have a beer, sure.”
Sam sat down on the sofa as Alex bagged the shoes and tossed them into an unzipped suitcase already bulging with clothes.
“The show provides costumes, but I have to have my lucky shoes,” he explained.
In a couple of steps, Alex was in the alcove that served as a kitchen. Even the refrigerator was small. But it looked new and so did the stove. Sam noticed a row of pots and pans, neatly hung. He could do his own cooking, if he wanted to.
Alex returned with a couple of frosty bottles and handed one over. He unfolded a chair and positioned it on the other side of the coffee table, sitting down himself and taking a long swallow.
“Ah. I needed that,” he said with satisfaction.
“Looks like you’re almost ready to go,” Sam said conversationally.
“Yeah. The suitcase is full. But I have to go over to my girlfriend’s apartment and help her pack. I got her into the pixie chorus as an understudy.”
Sam laughed and took a sip of beer, shaking his head. “Never, ever volunteer to help a woman pack. You will always do it wrong.”
Alex raised his bottle to that. “You’re right. But if I help her, she will actually be ready on time, no tears, no craziness, no going back. Bermuda, here we come.”
The phone rang, and Alex reached toward a side table to answer it. Sam guessed he was talking to his girlfriend. He looked around the apartment while he drank his beer, trying to figure out where the bathroom was.
A narrow door near the corner was shut. That had to be it. The only other interior door belonged to the closet that Alex had been rifling through.
“See you in about half an hour, okay? Love you too.” Alex hung up. “Okay. Let’s get started. Here’s a set of keys.”
He extracted them from his sweatpants and put them down on the table.
“Thanks.” Sam slid a hand into his inside jacket pocket. “Here’s the rest of the
The sublet couldn’t be more convenient. He went up the worn sandstone stairs and rang the bell for 1-A, under a tattered slip of paper that said WALCOTT.
The outer door buzzed and he heard the lock release. Sam pushed the door in and stopped at the inside door, waiting for a second buzz.
Absently, he looked down at the entryway floor, realizing that he’d seen versions of it all over New York. In hallways. In bathrooms. The tiles were tiny white octagons with a decorative border. In an old building like this, some of the tiles were chipped, but someone kept them clean.
That would be the super. He reminded himself to ask for the guy’s name, in case anything needed fixing.
He tried the inside door. Still locked. Alex Walcott seemed to have forgotten to press the second buzzer. Sam went outside and pressed the apartment bell again.
Simultaneously, the buzzer rang and an apartment door in the narrow hallway opened with a bang.
Alex waved to him. Sam didn’t remember his hair being green. “Sorry! I was looking for my tap shoes!” He dashed back in.
“Not a problem.” Sam walked to 1-A and went to the door his landlord had left open.
“Come on in,” Alex said. “Did the green hair scare you? Job requirement. I don’t even want to look in a mirror.” His voice was muffled. Sam heard hangers being scraped along a rod. “Make yourself at home.” Thumps and scrabbling sounds came from the depths of the single closet, and a box flew out.
Sam paused on the sill. Five more steps and he would reach the opposite wall of the single room. The furniture was sized to fit, he noticed. Elf-size.
Whatever. He would manage. The place looked clean and comfortable. If he shoved the coffee table to one end of the miniature couch, he could even stretch out enough to sleep. He didn’t see a bed.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” Alex said. He came out from the closet, tap shoes in hand. “Sit down, please. Would you like a drink? Soda, wine, beer?”
“I’ll have a beer, sure.”
Sam sat down on the sofa as Alex bagged the shoes and tossed them into an unzipped suitcase already bulging with clothes.
“The show provides costumes, but I have to have my lucky shoes,” he explained.
In a couple of steps, Alex was in the alcove that served as a kitchen. Even the refrigerator was small. But it looked new and so did the stove. Sam noticed a row of pots and pans, neatly hung. He could do his own cooking, if he wanted to.
Alex returned with a couple of frosty bottles and handed one over. He unfolded a chair and positioned it on the other side of the coffee table, sitting down himself and taking a long swallow.
“Ah. I needed that,” he said with satisfaction.
“Looks like you’re almost ready to go,” Sam said conversationally.
“Yeah. The suitcase is full. But I have to go over to my girlfriend’s apartment and help her pack. I got her into the pixie chorus as an understudy.”
Sam laughed and took a sip of beer, shaking his head. “Never, ever volunteer to help a woman pack. You will always do it wrong.”
Alex raised his bottle to that. “You’re right. But if I help her, she will actually be ready on time, no tears, no craziness, no going back. Bermuda, here we come.”
The phone rang, and Alex reached toward a side table to answer it. Sam guessed he was talking to his girlfriend. He looked around the apartment while he drank his beer, trying to figure out where the bathroom was.
A narrow door near the corner was shut. That had to be it. The only other interior door belonged to the closet that Alex had been rifling through.
“See you in about half an hour, okay? Love you too.” Alex hung up. “Okay. Let’s get started. Here’s a set of keys.”
He extracted them from his sweatpants and put them down on the table.
“Thanks.” Sam slid a hand into his inside jacket pocket. “Here’s the rest of the
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