Caveat Emptor (12 page)

There was a fourth person in this arrangement who Terry described as a “slimeball,” a lawyer known only as Rubel. Rubel was one of Igor's buddies, and his sole practice was handling Phoebe's legal affairs. Allen and Kevin's duties, however, extended beyond management to that of procuring for their hopelessly timid boss Igor. Terry described Allen as a particularly nasty piece of work. He would find handsome young men for Igor. They would enter the luxury and comfort of the town house—at least for a time—or be housed at the Warren.

Some, like Terry, would eventually be given a position. But not before they dealt first with Allen, who enjoyed subjugating the employees to vicious rounds of sadomasochistic sex. Terry also divulged another bit of intelligence that I found most interesting. Speaking of Igor's revolving door for young houseguests, Terry explained in hushed tones that “things are constantly disappearing.”

“What kind of things?” I asked.

“Jewelry, money, silverware, and antiques,” he divulged. “Even a genuine Corot that Phoebe paid over twenty thousand dollars for walked right out of the house one night!”

“Well, doesn't Igor call the cops?” I asked in bewilderment.

“Not a chance,” Terry laughed. “He's afraid of the questions they'd ask.”

To my surprise, there was an inhabitant directly below me whom I had yet to meet. No one had ever mentioned him. Gino Comminchio occupied a basement apartment with its own entrance down a staircase below my window. He was the dark secret of the house. All I could get out of Ann and Raun was that he was a gangster rumored to be a Mafia enforcer and usually late with the rent, but no one disturbed him about it, not even Kevin and Allen, leather jackets and all.

The most anyone knew of Gino was that he was never without a high-society girlfriend, that he hung out every evening at a restaurant in the East Fifties, that he wore fifteen-hundred-dollar suits, and that he collected a paycheck for it. I finally met him one afternoon when he made a rare appearance in the lobby. I had just returned from having lunch with Michelle, and he was in conversation with Mrs. Parker just outside my apartment door.

Mrs. Parker introduced me to Gino as “the young artist who moved into the drawing room.” Gino stuck out a huge hand. We shook. He said that he'd like to see my work, and I invited him in. Gino was an enormous hulk of a man. He stood six feet, four inches tall and was around fifty years old. He wore an expensive Burberry trench coat draped over a gray sharkskin suit. He had a built-in suntan, and deep furrows lined his broad face. His hair was graying at the temples, and he was everything you'd expect a godfather to be. It was a wonder that he never went to Hollywood to play the part.

Gino entered my room, we chatted, and I showed him the various components of my collection. He nodded in approval and then asked, point-blank, “Wadda ya do for money?”

“I move antiques whenever I can lay my hands on them,” I replied. Gino gave me a wink and said, “I'll let you know when somethin' comes my way.” He slapped me on the back and was on his way out when he paused and looked at the pair of “Dutch” paintings hanging on the wall.

“Like these?” he asked.

“Exactly,” I answered, and he left.

With each passing day, I felt more at home at the Fergusen Club. Even Kevin and Allen acted friendly when they saw me. One day I was surprised when, answering a knock at my door, I found them standing in the lobby holding a supposed Canaletto. The painting had been stored in the attic of the club. They asked my opinion of the picture and if I would carry it to the Sixty-Second Street residence and hang it for Igor. The request struck me as suspicious, but I agreed. At least it would provide the opportunity to see the inside of Phoebe's much-touted town house.

The maid admitted me to the Sixty-Second Street residence and asked me to wait in the drawing room. The opulence of the décor left me speechless. Walls covered with the finest Venetian green silk damask set off exquisite paintings hung in gold-leaf frames. To my surprise, there were numerous examples of fine seventeenth-century European furniture. This explained the overflow of period pieces at the clubs.

A pompous middle-aged man wearing a dark suit and tie appeared. I assumed this was Igor, and he coldly asked me to follow him to another room. Once there, he directed me to hang the picture from a wall fixture. After I was done, he thanked me, and I left.

Not long after this, Mrs. Parker informed me that Jim, the super at the club, was leaving, and the management wondered if I'd be interested in the position. They offered me my room, plus a salary of seventy-five dollars a week. All that was required was a few daily chores such as filling the boiler each day with water, mopping the marble floor in the lobby, and generally keeping an eye on things. I would be on duty five days a week, and I could paint in my apartment during the day if I was free.

No words could adequately describe the feeling of elation I felt at that moment. To live in my magnificent room, to paint all I wanted, and to be paid for it as well! It was a dream come true. Now the debacle on Union Square seemed like an act of divine intervention. It was Terry who had taken the liberty of suggesting to Allen that they offer me the position. The charade of having me deliver a painting to the Sixty-Second Street town house was a ruse in order for Igor to check me out. When I saw Terry, he made it a point to let me know there were “no strings attached,” but he added, “Igor wants to know if you'd paint some murals on the walls of the place in Oyster Bay.”

As things stood, Jim would leave in a month and then I would assume the position of super. In the meantime, Jim showed me my duties in the house and the operation of the ancient boiler in the subbasement. Indeed, I felt like the luckiest person on earth.

And right on cue, Tony, affecting one of his remarkable turnarounds, once again showed up looking like a movie star. He had found lodgings with an old girlfriend on Ninety-Fifth Street. He was absolutely floored when he saw my new royal digs.

“How the fuck are you paying for all this?” he demanded to know. Unable to contain myself any longer, and no longer under his control, I just pointed to the pair of “Dutch” paintings hanging on the wall. “You paint them?” he asked.

“Right,” I said.

“And where do you sell 'em?” he asked.

“Around the neighborhood,” I answered, with the air of a person who hasn't a care in the world. As Tony took one of the paintings down and studied it closely, a sly smile, one I'd seen many times before, began to spread across his face.

“So, when are we going into business?” he wanted to know.

“I'll let you know,” I answered sarcastically as I pulled the painting from his sticky hands and replaced it on the wall.

The fact was I had no intention of doing anything with Tony. I was still steamed over the disaster downtown and wanted only to torture him. Besides, since I'd been offered the position at the club, I had stopped selling any more fakes. Nevertheless Tony was back and now, courting me like a virgin, he was taking me around to the best gallery openings and parties in town.

I should have known it was all too good to be true. I came home late one afternoon feeling on top of the world and just days away from taking over as super to find once again that the roof had caved in on me—figuratively this time. Upon entering the lobby, I was confronted by Ann, sobbing into a handkerchief and consoling Mrs. Parker. My first thought was that Phoebe had died. When I asked what had happened, Mrs. Parker replied, “ The ax finally fell!”

Ann, waving a piece of paper, said “These were posted on everybody's door,” and, sure enough, there was one on mine too. Dumbfounded, I looked at it and read the words “Notice of Eviction” printed across the top in bold letters. After a bunch of legal mumbo-jumbo, it gave us two weeks to vacate the apartments. It was signed at the bottom by a lawyer, slimeball Rubel. In shocked disbelief I went into my room to be alone.

This can't be happening, I thought. They promised me a job! It didn't make any sense. I felt sick and forgot about making dinner.

The eviction notice offered no explanations, alluding only to tenants without leases, therefore etc., etc. All we could elicit from Mrs. Parker was that “they leased the building and they won't talk to
anybody
.” For me it was Union Square all over again.

Kevin and Allen never showed their faces at the house again. No one, not even Terry, had had any forewarning of the management's plans to vacate the house. When I saw Terry, he told me he was just as stunned as I was and said he'd try to find out what was going on.

The next few days were a nightmare. Like other tenants, I ran around the neighborhood in a futile search of a vacancy. Suddenly, the neighborhood that I'd become enamored of, with its elegant façades, didn't look as good, as fine, and as friendly as it had before.

We were down to a week before the deadline to vacate. Ann, Raun, Gino, myself, and a few other tenants, including Mrs. Parker, still remained. It was depressing. The house that Mrs. Parker worked so hard to maintain had become a pilferer's paradise. Pots, pans, lamps, and even chairs and beds disappeared with fleeing tenants. I didn't know what to do. Where could I go with all my artwork? It was February, when apartments were scarce, and those that were available were way beyond my means. Between deposits, key money, and rent, even my fakes couldn't save me now.

I hated Igor, Allen, and Kevin. Throwing us out on the street in the middle of winter didn't mean a thing to them. I was lying awake nights trying to come up with a plan to get even somehow. But
they
had all the money;
they
had all the power. Every night, Terry told me, the three of them were served gourmet dinners prepared by their cook and served by the houseboy in the cozy candle-lit dining room surrounded by beautiful paintings and antique furniture, far removed from the petty problems of their tenants. Even Mrs. Parker was being turned out, without any help or an offer of another position. To add to our troubles, the management, not satisfied with the speed with which the house was being vacated, sent a message to Mrs. Parker threatening
that force
would be used if the house was not empty by the deadline—including cessation of all utilities.

No sooner did Mrs. Parker show me the message than Terry dropped in. “You're never gonna believe why they're emptying the house—they just leased it to a drug rehabilitation clinic!” he declared. Mrs. Parker looked straight up at the ceiling and almost fainted. We had to hold her up and guide her to my sofa.

The idea of putting a drug rehabilitation clinic on East Sixty-Eighth Street, one of the most fashionable residential areas of New York, was like sticking a methadone clinic in Rockefeller Center. Terry speculated that the deal had probably been dreamed up by Igor's lawyer, Rubel.

No longer beholden to the management for employment, and furious about our treatment, Mrs. Parker came into my room for a private chat. “Kenny, you have to do something. There's no telling what they might do next week when they close the house.” Then she handed me a piece of paper with a name and telephone number on it. “You call this man and tell him what's going on. He's a big lawyer who lives on the block. He might help.”

When I looked at the piece of paper, the name Roy Cohn didn't mean a thing to me. I appreciated Mrs. Parker's concern, but I dismissed the idea as too little, too late. Three quarters of the tenants were gone, we had no leases, and the clinic was scheduled to move in. There didn't seem to be any hope, but little did I realize that the revenge I so desperately wanted had just been handed to me in spades.

The following day, Friday, I ran into Mrs. Parker in the lobby.

“Did you call him?” she asked.

“No,” I had to confess. “I didn't get around to it yet.” She insisted I sit down at her desk and make the call at once. I dialed the number. A secretary answered and told me, “Mr. Cohn is not in at the moment and is not expected back until Monday.” She asked if I'd like to leave a message.

“Well, my name is Ken Perenyi,” I said. “I live next door at number 35. I don't know if Mr. Cohn would be interested, but all of the tenants here are being evicted because a drug rehabilitation clinic is moving in next week, and we wanted to know if there is any way we can fight this.”

The secretary asked for my number and promised to give the message to Mr. Cohn. I hung up and turned to Mrs. Parker, who stood with her arms folded and an expression of satisfaction on her face. Ann and Raun were just returning from work and joined us. We were sitting around the lobby ruminating when the phone rang. It was the secretary. She said that Mr. Cohn would like to see me Monday morning at nine and told me to bring any documents I had with me.

I hadn't seen Gino in a while, and when I ran into him the next day in the lobby he wasn't concerned at all and had no intention of moving out. “Those fuckin' faggots come around here, I'll send them home in shopping bags,” he said.

“But what about the eviction notice?”

“That's no legal document!” he said with contempt. Then I told him I had an appointment to see Roy Cohn.

“Good, tell him that Gino from P. J. Clarke's lives here too. No way he's gonna let a bunch of fuckin' junkies live next door to him.” With that, he slapped me on the back and left laughing.

Monday morning, I got dressed, had a cup of coffee, and left for my appointment. Out in the lobby, Raun and Ann gave me their work numbers to call in case of news.

Roy's town house and law offices, number 39, were just one door down from the Fergusen Club. The entrance of the building's fortress-like façade offered nothing more than two small windows fitted with heavy, ornate bronze bars that flanked a pair of massive oak doors. Two fearsome lion's-head knockers greeted the visitor. I pulled open one of the doors and entered the street-level room that served as reception. It was an ill-lit area with a sofa and a few chairs. To one side, a girl was seated behind a desk. Toward the back I noticed an open door, beyond which was a communications room.