The Sentinel (3 page)

"I'm sure I have," said Allison as she followed Miss Logan through the door and began the descent toward the lobby, which they reached quickly and left immediately, stepping from the brownstone into the fading light of dusk.

Miss Logan leaned against the abutment. "I'll see about improving the lighting in the halls. I'd hate to have you fall and break something, and I'm sure the landlord will be most concerned about it."

"Thank you."

"As to the landlord, remember that your occupancy must be passed on and accepted by him. He hasn't liked anyone yet, but who knows, maybe he's decided to stop being so picayune. The apartment is no good to anyone empty."

"I hope you'll be able to get back to me quickly. I want to get settled as soon as possible."

"I understand. I'll let you know one way or the other by tomorrow evening."

The two women shook hands and descended to the street.

"Can I give you a lift back to the East Side?" asked Miss Logan.

"No, thank you," replied Allison. "I'm going to browse around the neighborhood before I go back."

Miss Logan smiled and began to walk toward the corner.

Allison stepped back and reappraised the building. "Miss Logan," she called moments later.

The agent turned. "Yes?" she asked.

Allison continued to stare at the last row of windows.

"Yes," repeated the agent.

"Unless I'm mistaken," Allison began, "someone is staring at me through the curtains in one of the fifth-floor windows."

"I'm sure you've been stared at before." The agent laughed.

"Yes," replied Allison, "but-"

"That's Father Halliran," interrupted Miss Logan. "Matthew Halliran. In five A. A priest. He's been here for years. As far as I know, he doesn't leave his room-kind of senile and blind. But he's harmless. He usually just sits by the window."

"Sounds ominous," said Allison, somewhat amused by the image she drew of this barely visible character.

"Speak to you tomorrow." Miss Logan saluted and briskly sauntered toward the corner.

Allison watched until the agent had disappeared. Then she tilted her head up again. Perhaps she could see more of the priest. No, the angle was too sharp, the curtains too thick, the light too weak. She crossed the street to get a better view. That proved no better. Whatever light was left caused a dull reflection to hang on the glass, obscuring the image beyond recognition.

She stood for a moment watching for movement. There was none. She hailed a cab, satisfied that she had had a fruitful day.

Chapter III

The light at best was only adequate; it crept through the glass inconspicuously, like a burglar.

Allison glanced at the window. "What do you think?" she asked and sipped from a cup of instant coffee.

The electrician walked slowly across the bedroom and looked out the window. There was no view; the rear wall of the opposite building stood no more than six or eight feet away. And the overhanging roofs of both buildings created an inaccessible shaft topped by a narrow opening into which the daylight could only enter obliquely.

"I can put another socket in the wall," he said with a heavy Germanic accent. "And I will wire the ceiling for an overhead light." He paused, scratched his balding head and glanced along the walls. "Of course, it may already be wired. Sometimes they remove the fixtures but leave the leads. That would be of great help."

"Anything you can do," Allison declared, "but please be careful of the carved wood." She slipped a leather vest over her blouse and carried the empty cup into the kitchen. "I'm not used to having so little light in the bedroom. In my old place I had an east and west exposure. There was plenty of sun all the time. In fact, I could even tell the time of day by watching the rays cross the design on my rug."

She heard a grumbling in the other room.

"Get a clock," the man said without suggesting any offense. "And Thomas Edison will take care of the light."

She laughed softly and dumped a loaded dustpan into the garbage.

The electrician walked past the kitchen into the living room; Allison followed.

"You'll wire the closets?"

The man nodded. "And I'll put in new sockets where you marked."

"Good!" Allison put on a fur-lined jacket and grabbed her black portfolio. "Just close the door when you're ready to leave. And thank you."

The man turned to pursue his work; Allison stepped from the apartment with a smile and descended the now familiar staircase.

She stopped in front of apartment 2 B. She could hear voices. They were female; two women were arguing. She leaned closer, listening. They were arguing over dessert. One wanted to make a chocolate-iced vanilla cake for dinner while the other wanted plain angel food, claiming that it would be far less fattening. It appeared that the first woman had little concern for the size of her waistline; it also appeared she would win.

This was her first significant contact with the neighbors. Peculiarly, she hadn't met anyone in the hallways as yet, though several days before she had heard someone walking up the staircase on the landing above. Yet, if anything, her isolation was her own fault. She had kept to herself since she had moved into the building. All she would have had to do would have been to ring one of the doorbells and announce her presence. But she just hadn't been in the right frame of mind. Perhaps soon. Or perhaps she would continue to rely on circumstance.

She left the brownstone and strolled past the adjoining buildings and through the Park entrance on Ninetieth Street, heading downtown. It was cold. Overcast. A good day for walking. And she couldn't have been in a better mood; she was going back to work.

She had been looking forward to the click of the camera all week, though she had been far too busy to do anything beyond stopping at the agency, announcing her return, prodding the bookers and fetching her portfolio from a locked cabinet. That was accomplished Monday morning, an hour after Miss Logan had called to confirm the apartment and an hour before she had piled her clothes and belongings into two taxis, directed them to the new apartment and begun what was to become a week-today was Monday, so it was exactly one week-of toil. She had expected Michael's help but he had called Sunday night, sheepishly explaining that the transaction would take longer than expected, perhaps another few days. He then demanded to know why she insisted on renting another apartment when she could just as well have lived with him. Disappointed as she was, she was in no mood to reargue the already mutilated subject of marriage. Rather, she agreed to talk to him on Thursday-which she did-only to discover that he wouldn't be back until next Thursday-a week later than promised.

Paradoxically, his absence proved helpful. Without him around she was able to concentrate on the apartment. Not that she was dissatisfied with the furniture or the layout, but there were so many possibilities for creative decorating that she couldn't resist the temptation. Her first purchase was a dining room set made of heavy oak, which she substituted for the present table and chairs-without Miss Logan's approval. Then came a picture, framed in carved wood. Strangely, though, she cared a great deal more for the frame than she did for the painting. She realized, after she had brought it home, that it very much resembled Michael's Napoleon Bonaparte. Of all things! Panicked, she immediately determined to replace the canvas, but until then the bedroom closet was the ideal place for storage. After the picture she was slightly more careful. She bought a clock for the bedroom, several decorative pieces for various tables and dressers, two new "antique" lamps, a pirate's chest, which she spent all Friday refinishing, and a slew of utensils and gizmos for the kitchen and bathroom.

There were other items she had wanted, especially a coffee table for the living room, but she had decided to give the matter more thought. She did not want to rush and buy the wrong piece. It would be her most important acquisition. It could wait until Michael had returned and the painters had finished the bathroom, kitchen and doorways.

The other notable event of the week was the news of the booking. She had learned of it on Friday. She would be working with her favorite photographer, Jack Tucci. And her best friend, Jennifer Learson. She had tried to contact Jennifer all week, but only on Thursday did she remember to call the agency and ask for her whereabouts. They told her that Jennifer was out of town on a job and would return late Sunday night. It seemed as if all her close personal friends had fled New York in prospect of her return. Undaunted, she had called Sunday night, found Jennifer at home, talked for at least an hour and arranged to meet for lunch the next day before going down to the studio.

So she was justifiably excited as she exited the Park near the Plaza Hotel, walked to Third Avenue and entered the restaurant just as Jennifer was sitting down at the table they had reserved in the front room next to the door.

"Allison," screamed Jennifer unabashedly as she ground her cigarette into an ashtray.

Allison maneuvered through the crowd, embraced her friend and sat. "Still smoking too much," she admonished, noticing the smoldering butt.

"Too much for tuberculosis," Jennifer replied, smiling, "but not enough for cancer or a heart condition." She laughed, leaned back in the chair and asked if it felt good to be back.

"Excessively," said Allison as she removed her coat.

Jennifer took another cigarette from the pack that lay on the table. "I give you two weeks and you'll be complaining that you're overworked and underpaid, that the photographers are lechers and the agency executives are dullards and that you must find something more creative and stimulating to do with your time." She laughed. "I've never known a model whose sense of commitment didn't resemble the flight path of a punctured balloon."

"I don't doubt you're right," agreed Allison, "but for the time being let me indulge in my fantasies."

"I wouldn't conceive of introducing a note of reality. You've every right to delude yourself for as long as you can." Jennifer looked up as the waiter leaned over the red and white checked tablecloth. "Two Bloody Marys," she ordered, glancing at Allison who nodded accommodatingly. "And strong on the Worcestershire," she added.

Allison grabbed Jennifer's portfolio and began to thumb the pages. "New pictures?" she asked after a pause.

"The product of off-season hysteria."

Allison pulled out a contact sheet and held it to the light. "You worked hard."

"My lot in life."

"Didn't you know?" Allison smiled. "Everyone works hard."

"The butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker?"

"Yes."

"Even Michael?"

"So I've been told."

"So have I."

"By whom?"

"Michael."

Allison shook her head. "He's looking for sympathy."

"Do you give it?"

"I haven't had the chance. I've been away-remember?"

"Will you give it now?"

"Depends."

"On?"

"Just depends."

"Will he give it to you?"

"I don't want any."

Jennifer nodded. "It's very romantic," she said.

"What?"

"Separation. It makes the head grow fonder."

"Wrong organ."

"The liver?"

They laughed.

The two drinks soon arrived and sat untouched for some time as they rehashed much of their telephone conversation of the night before. Then they ordered, finished quickly, left the restaurant and hailed a cab on Lexington Avenue, headed downtown. The taxi crawled through the traffic to West Twenty-sixth, a crumbling block of commercial tenements. It stopped halfway between Fifth and Sixth. They stepped out and entered a dilapidated loft building. Another model was standing in front of the elevator. They introduced themselves-the model's name was Lois-walked into the elevator and scrambled out on the seventh floor in front of Jack Tucci's studio.

They had been working several hours.

"A few more," Tucci finally announced in a clipped English accent that was tarnished by a slight New York inflection.

The Hasselblad clicked-one, two, three.

He shifted, altered his position, brushed the perspiration from the perfectly barbered goatee that hugged his chin, then shifted again. His slender body moved like a breaking wave. Practiced. Sure. Egocentric.

"A little to the left," he ordered. He motioned with his hand to emphasize the command. "Raise your chins-too much-good!"

The camera responded.

"Okay," he declared, "let's break for dinner. Then we'll do the black and whites."

Shielding their eyes from the hot lights, they stepped away from the backdrop and carefully negotiated the wires and light stands to the lounge area in the rear of the studio.

Jack placed the camera on a tripod and followed.

"Have a cigarette?" asked Jennifer.

Jack removed a pack from his shirt pocket and tossed it on the formica-topped bar.

Allison eased into an old armchair.

"Anybody else?" Tucci asked, holding out the cigarettes. Receiving no reply, he placed them back in his pocket, circled the bar, reached into a cabinet and removed a stack of photos. "Tell me what you think of these," he commanded, handing them to Jennifer before disappearing through an open doorway.

He returned a moment later carrying a tray which held several sandwiches, some Cokes and a bottle of white wine. "The dark bread is tongue," he announced. "The rye is roast beef." He smiled and began to distribute the food. "Allison?" he asked after the other two models had chosen.

"In a moment," she replied submissively, her arms dangling limply over the supports of the chair, her legs stiffly extended.

"Well?" he prodded, gesturing to the pictures.

"Quite good," answered Jennifer. She removed a pair of glasses from her purse-wire rims-placed them on her fine-boned nose, held the pictures to the light and re-examined them closely. "Who is the girl?"

"You don't know her."

"A model?"

"No. Just a friend." He winked suggestively.

"I admire the quality."