It was the end of the day, and tenants were converging on the Casablanca by car, bus, and taxi. Qwilleran, the only one to arrive on foot, checked the parking lot, hoping that his space might be vacant, but this time a 1975 jalopy was parked in #28.
As he joined the miscellaneous crew trooping through the front door, a man with a reddish moustache hailed him.
"Hi! Did you move in?" "Yes, I've joined the happy few," Qwilleran acknowledged.
"What floor?" "Fourteen." "Does the roof still leak?" "I'll know better when it rains, but they claim to have fixed it yesterday." "You must have connections. They never fix anything around here." He ran ahead to catch the elevator, and only then did Qwilleran realize that he was the friendly jogger who had helped him on his arrival Sunday afternoon.
In the lobby were workmen in coveralls carrying six-packs, boisterous students with bookbags, women dressed for success and carrying briefcases, and elderly inmates with canes and bandages and swollen legs. Together they created the atmosphere of a bus terminal and a hospital corridor.
Most tenants stopped in the mailroom to unlock their mailboxes, after which they looked sourly at what they found there. Upon entering the crowded cubicle, Qwilleran had to dodge a large hairless man wearing a T-shirt imprinted "Ferdie Le Bull." Next, a middle-aged woman in a sequin-studded black cocktail dress, looking anxiously at a handful of envelopes, collided with him.
"Sorry," he mumbled.
"Well, hello!" she said in a girlish voice, regarding his moustache appreciatively. "Where have they been hiding you?" There was no mail in Qwilleran's box. It was too soon to hear from Polly, and other letters were being intercepted by his part-time secretary.
Rupert was standing by as if expecting an emergency, his red hat having the visibility of a fire hydrant. Mrs. Tuttle was sitting behind her desk, knitting, but keeping a stern eye on the engineering students. And among those waiting for the elevator was Amber, carrying a bag of groceries and looking tired.
Qwilleran asked her, "Is there an engineering school in the vicinity? These kids are always talking about bridges." "They're from the dental school," she said. "Qwill, meet my neighbor on Eight, Courtney Hampton. Courtney, this is Jim Qwilleran. He's got Di's apartment on Fourteen." The young man she introduced had square shoulders, slim hips, and a suit of the latest cut. He glanced at Qwilleran's boots and tweeds and said with a nasal twang, "Just in from the country?" Amber said, "Courtney works at Kipper & Fine, the men's clothing store. What have you been doing all day, Qwill?" "Walking around. Getting oriented. Everything has changed." "The Casablanca will be the next to go," her neighbor predicted. "Don't unpack your luggage." "I wonder what's on TV tonight?" Amber said with a weary sigh.
"As for me," said Courtney with a grandiose flourish of eyebrows, "if anyone is interested, I... am playing bridge.
.. with the Countess tonight." "La di da," said Amber. Both elevators arrived simultaneously, and the crowd surged aboard, separating Qwilleran from the other two. As Old Green reluctantly ascended, it performed a sluggish ritual at each floor, first bouncing to a stop, then listlessly opening its door to unload a passenger, after which it waited a long minute, closed its door in slow motion, and crept upward to the next floor. No one spoke. Passengers were holding their collective breath.
It had been a long day, and Qwilleran was glad to be home, but when he opened the door of 14-A he was met by a blast of heat. The radiators were hissing and clanking, and both cats were stretched full-length on the floor, panting.
"What happened?" he demanded. "It must be 110 in here!" He hunted for a thermostat and, finding none, grabbed the housephone. "Mrs. Tuttle! Qwilleran in 14-A. What happened to the furnace? We're suffocating! The cats are half cooked! I expect the window glass to melt!" "Open the windows," she said calmly. "Your side of the building heats up when a cold wind comes from the east.
We don't have much control over it. The apartments on the east side are freezing, and the furnace works overtime to try to get them a little heat. Just open all your windows." He did as he was told, and the Siamese revived sufficiently to sit up and take a little nourishment in the form of a can of red salmon. As for Qwilleran, he lost no time in going out to dinner. It occurred to him that he should invite Amber; she looked too tired to thaw whatever was in her grocery bag, and the temperature in her apartment might be insufferable, whether she lived on the frigid or sweltering side of the building. Yet, he disliked her line of conversation, and he believed that too soon an invitation might encourage her. In his present financial situation he had to be careful. Women used to be attracted to his ample moustache; now he feared they were attracted to his ample bank account.
Feeling guilty, he went to the nearest restaurant on Eat Street, which happened to be Japanese - a roomful of hibachi tables under lighted canopies, against a background of shoji screens and Japanese art. Each table seated eight around a large grill, and Qwilleran was conducted to a table where four persons were already seated.
He often dined alone and entertained himself by eavesdropping and composing scenarios about the other diners.
At the hibachi table he found a young couple sipping tea from handleless gray cups and giggling about the chopsticks.
The man was cloyingly attentive, and his companion kept admiring her ring finger. Newlyweds, Qwilleran decided. From the country. Honeymooning in the big city. They ordered chicken from the low end of the menu.
At the opposite end of the table two men in business suits were drinking sake martinis and ordering the lobster- steak-shrimp combination. On expense accounts, Qwilleran guessed. (He himself ordered the medium-priced teriyaki steak.) Upon further study, pursued surreptitiously, he decided that the man wearing a custom-tailored suit and ostentatious gold jewelry was treating the other man to dinner, his guest being a deferential sort in a suit off the rack and a shirt too loose around the neck. Also, he had a bandage on his ear. They were a curious pair- employer and employee, Qwilleran thought, judging by their respective attitudes. He had a feeling that he had seen that ear patch at the - Casablanca - in the lobby or in the elevator. The man in question suddenly glanced in Qwilleran's direction, then mumbled something to his host, who turned to look at the newcomer with the oversized moustache. All of this Qwilleran observed from the corner of his eye, enjoying it immensely.
Conversation at the table halted when the Japanese chef appeared-an imposing figure in his stovepipe hat, two feet tall, and his leather knife holster. He bowed curtly and whipped out his steel spatulas, which he proceeded to wield with the aplomb of a symphony percussionist. The audience was speechless as he manipulated the splash of egg, the hill of sliced mushrooms, and the mountain of rice. Steaks, seafood, and chicken breasts sizzled in butter and were doused with seasonings and flamed in wine. Then the chef drew his formidable knife, cubed the meat and served the food on rough-textured gray plates. With a quick bow he said, "Have a nice evening," and disappeared.
Qwilleran was the only one who used chopsticks, having acquired virtuosity when he was an overseas correspondent.
Watching him in admiration, the bride said, "You're good at that." "I've been practicing," he said. "Is this your first time here?" "Yes," she said. "We think it's neat, don't we, honey?" "Yeah, it's neat," said her groom. When Qwilleran left the restaurant it was dark, and he took the precaution of hailing a taxi. It was mid-evening now, and the main floor of the Casablanca was deserted. Most of the tenants were eating dinner or watching TV. The students were doing their homework, and the old folks had retired for the night.
As Qwilleran waited for Old Red, the door opened. The young woman who stepped out could only be described as a vision! She had a model's figure and an angel's face, enhanced by incredibly artful makeup. He stared after her and confirmed that she had also a model's walk and an heiress's clothing budget. He blew copiously into his moustache.