Catching sight of the moustached stranger with a shopping bag, she started to back off but apparently decided to take a chance. There was no eye contact, but roguishly Qwilleran started to breathe heavily, causing her to edge closer to the door. He was feeling playful following his stimulating lunch at the Press Club and his brief dialogue with the Countess's absurd butler. When the elevator reached the bottom with a crash, the other passenger scuttled off the car, and he followed her with deliberately heavy footfalls.
The laundry room was large and dreary with one row of washers and another row of dryers, many of them labeled out of order. The peeling masonry walls had not known a paintbrush for perhaps sixty years. At that time - when family laundresses did the washing, ironing, and mangling - a cheerful environment was not thought necessary. Now the somber workplace was enlivened by a veritable gallery of prohibitions and warnings neatly printed with red and green felt markers and lavished with exclamation marks:
NO SMOKING! NO LOUD RADIO!
NO HORSING AROUND!
HAVE RESPECT FOR OTHERS!
CANADIAN COINS DON'T WORK!
NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR LOST WASH!
STAY WITH YOUR THINGS!!! BALANCE YOUR LOAD!!!
Machines were churning and spinning, and one thumped noisily; not everyone had balanced his or her load.
Several persons were patiently staying with their things: an old man jabbering to himself, the woman with two small children - speaking in their native tongue - another woman in a housedress and sweater, glowering at a student with his nose in a textbook who had not balanced his load. Qwilleran studied the signs for instructions: TOO MUCH SOAP MESSES UP MACHINES!
DON'T FEED THE MICE!
MOTHERS WITH BABIES - NO DIAPERING ON MACHINES! USE RESTROOM!!
Although no stranger to laundromats, Qwilleran found sadistic pleasure in asking his fearful fellow passenger from Old Red how to use the washer, explaining in a graveyard voice that he was new in the building. She obliged without looking at him, then moved away quickly.
He balanced his load, inserted a coin, and studied the posted messages for further inspiration, no doubt from the motherly Mrs. Tuttle:
BE A GOOD NEIGHBOR! CLEAN LINT TRAP!
DON'T HOG THE DRYERS!! NO LIQUOR! NO LOITERING!
THIS IS NOT A SOCIAL HALL!
ONLY ONE PERSON AT A TIME IN THE RESTROOM OR IT WILL BE LOCKED!!!
The benches were hard and backless and not likely to encourage loitering, but Qwilleran sat down and scanned the newspapers he had brought along until - from the corner of his eye - he caught a flash of red. Rupert had sauntered into the room and was surveying it for violations.
Qwilleran beckoned to him and asked, "May I ask a question, Rupert? Why are there no pigeons on the terrace?
My cats like to watch pigeons." "Them dirty birds!" said the custodian in disgust. "Lady that lived there before, she used to feed' em, and the parkers in the lot raised holy hell. Don't let Mrs. T catch you feedin' 'em or she'll be after you with a rollin' pin!" Qwilleran resumed reading Sasha Crispen-Schmitt's column in the Morning Rampage, a shallow recital of gossip and rumors. When another tenant entered the room carrying a laundry basket, he made the mistake of looking up. It was Isabelle Wilburton, wearing a soiled housecoat.
She came directly to him. "Sorry if I offended you last night." "No harm done," he said, returning to his newspaper.
She loaded one of the washers, and he wondered if she would remove her housecoat and throw it in, but she was still decently clothed when she sat down beside him on the uncomfortable bench.
"I get so lonely," she said. "That's my trouble. I don't have any friends except the damned rum bottle." "The bottle can be your worst enemy. Take it from one who's been there." "I used to have a wonderful job. I was a corporate secretary." "What happened?" "My boss was killed in a plane crash." "Couldn't you get another job?" "I didn't... I couldn't... The heart went out of me. I'd been with him twenty years, ever since business school. He was more than a boss. We used to go on business trips together, and a lot of times we'd work late at the office and have dinner sent in. I was so happy in those days." "I suppose he was married," Qwilleran said.
Isabelle heaved an enormous sigh. "I used to shop for gifts for his wife and children. When he died, everybody felt sorry for them. Nobody felt sorry for me. Twenty years! I used to have beautiful clothes. I still have the cocktail dresses he bought me. I put them on and sit at my kitchen table and drink rum." "Why aren't you drinking today?" "My check hasn't come yet." "Did he leave you a trust?" She shook her head sadly. "It comes from my family." "Where do they live?" "In the suburbs. They have a big house in Muggy Swamp." "Apparently you haven't sold your piano." "Winnie Wingfoot looked at it, but she can't make up her mind. Do you know Winnie?" "I've seen her in the parking lot," Qwilleran said.
"Isn't she gorgeous? If I had her looks, I'd have a lot of friends. Of course, she's younger. Could you use a piano?" "I'm afraid not." "Is that your washer? It stopped," Isabelle informed him.
Qwilleran transferred his clothes to a dryer and returned to the bench. "Aren't you friendly with your family?" "They won't have anything to do with me. I guess I embarrass them. Do you have a family?" "Only a couple of cats, but the three of us are a real family. Did you ever think of getting a cat?" "There are lots of them around the building, but... I've never had a pet," she said with lack of interest.
"They're good company when you live alone - almost human." Isabelle turned away. She looked at her fingernails. She looked at the ceiling.
Qwilleran said, "Someone on Nine is offering free kittens." "If I just had one friend, I'd be all right," she said. "I wouldn't drink. I don't know why I don't have any friends." "I can tell you why," he said, lowering his voice. "I had the same problem a few years ago." "You did?" Although he had a healthy curiosity about the secrets of others, Qwilleran was loathe to discuss his own personal history, but he recognized this was an exception. "Drinking ruined my life after I'd had a successful career in journalism." "Did you lose someone you loved?" she asked with sympathy in her bloodshot eyes.
"I made a bad marriage and went through a shattering divorce. I started drinking heavily, and my ex-wife cracked up. Two lives ruined! So then I had a load of guilt added to my disappointment and resentment and murderous hate for my meddling in-laws. I lost my friends and couldn't hold a job. No newspaper would hire me after a couple of bad incidents, and I didn't have any convenient checks coming in the mail." "What did you do?" "It took a horrifying accident to make me realize I needed help. I was living like a bum in New York, and one night I was so drunk I fell off a subway platform. I'll never forget the screams of onlookers and the roar of the train coming out of the tunnel. They hauled me out just in time! Believe me, that was a sobering experience. It was also the turning point. I took the advice that had been given me and got counseling. The road back was slow and painful, but I made it! And I've never again touched alcohol. That's my story." Isabelle's eyes were filled with tears. "Would you like to have dinner at my place tonight?" she asked hopefully. "1 could thaw some spaghetti." "I appreciate the invitation," he said, "but I have an important dinner date - so important," he added with an attempt at drollery, "that I'm washing my shirt and socks." He was relieved to see his dryer stop churning. Putting his shirts on hangers and throwing his socks and undershorts in the shopping bag, he escaped from the laundry room.
His telephone was ringing when he unlocked the door to 14-A. The caller was Matt Thiggamon. "Sorry to take so long," he said. "I got the guy's name. It's Jack Yazbro." "Spell it." "Y-a-z-b-r-o." "Thanks a lot, Matt." "Any time." Qwilleran lost no time in going downstairs to the desk. "Mrs. Tuttle," he said, "I want to compliment you on the way you run this building. I've seen you handle a variety of situations in a very competent manner and deal with all kinds of tenants." "Thank you," she said with her hearty smile, although it was partially canceled out by her intimidating gimlet stare.