One Fifth Avenue

“I see them all the time. In my office.”

Annalisa laughed. “There aren’t any women in your office. There are hardly any women in your industry.”

“There are,” Paul said. “And they’re all like Mindy Gooch. Dried-up husks who spend their whole lives trying to be like men. And not succeeding,” he added.

“Don’t be so hard on people, Paul. And what difference does it make? We’ll probably never see her.”

Back at the hotel, Annalisa sat on the bed, reading through the bylaws of the building, which Mindy had put together into a neat, printed pamphlet for new occupants. “Listen to this,” Annalisa said as Paul brushed and flossed his teeth. “We have a storage room in the basement. And there’s parking. In the Mews.”

“Really?” Paul said, removing his clothes.

“Maybe not,” Annalisa said, reading on. “It’s a lottery. Every year, they pick one name out of a hat. And that person gets a parking spot for a year.”

“We’ll have to get one,” Paul said.

“We don’t have a car,” Annalisa said.

“We’ll get one. With a driver.”

Annalisa put the pamphlet aside and playfully wrapped her legs around his waist. “Isn’t it exciting?” she said. “We’re starting a new life.”

Knowing she wanted to have sex, Paul kissed her briefly, then moved down to her vagina. Their lovemaking was slightly clinical and always consisted of the same routine. Several minutes of cunnilingus, during which Annalisa climaxed, followed by about three minutes of intercourse. Then Paul would arch his back and come. She would hold him, stroking his back. After another minute, he would roll off her, go to the bathroom, put on his boxer shorts, and get into bed. It wasn’t exactly exciting, but it was satisfying as far as orgasms went. This evening, however, Paul was distracted and lost his hard-on.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, raising herself up on her elbow.

“Nothing,” he said, pulling on his shorts. He began pacing the room.

“Do you want me to give you a blow job?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Just thinking about the apartment,” he said.

“Me, too.”

“And that parking spot. Why does it have to be a lottery? And why do you only get it for a year?”

“I don’t know. Those are the rules, I guess.”

“We have the biggest apartment in the building. And we pay the most maintenance. We should get precedence,” he said.

Three weeks later, when Annalisa and Paul Rice had closed on the apartment, Mrs. Houghton’s lawyer called Billy Litchfield and asked to see him in his office.

Mrs. Houghton might have chosen an attorney from an old New York family to manage her legal affairs, but instead had retained Johnnie Toochin, a tall, pugnacious fellow who had grown up in the Bronx. Louise had “discovered” Johnnie at a dinner party where he was holding court as the city’s brightest up-and-coming young lawyer in a case of the city versus the government over school funding. Johnnie had won, and his future was doubly assured when Mrs. Houghton hired him on retainer. “There are as many criminals in the ‘establishment’ as there are in the ghettos,” Mrs. Houghton was fond of saying. “Never forget that it’s easy for a man to hide his bad intentions beneath good clothes.”

Happily for Mrs. Houghton, Johnnie Toochin had never been well dressed, but after exposure to money and superior company, he had definitely become establishment. His office was nearly a museum of modern furniture and art, containing two Eames chairs, a sharkskin coffee table, and on the walls, a Klee, a DeKooning, and a David Salle.

“We should see each other more often,” Johnnie said to Billy from behind a massive desk. “Not like this, though. The way we used to at parties. My wife keeps telling me we ought to go out more. But somehow there’s no time. You’re still out and about, though.”

“Not as much as I used to be,” Billy said, quietly resenting the conversation. It was the same conversation he seemed to have often now, every time he ran into someone he hadn’t seen in ages and likely wouldn’t in the future.

“Ah, we’re all getting old,” Johnnie said. “I’ll be sixty this year.”

“Best not to talk about it,” Billy said.

“You still live in the same place?” Johnnie asked.

“Lower Fifth,” Billy said, wishing Johnnie would get on with whatever it was that had caused him to call this meeting.

Johnnie nodded. “You lived close to Mrs. Houghton. Well, she adored you, you know. She left you something.” He stood up. “She insisted I give it to you in person. Hence the visit to my office.”