Crazy for Cornelia
Read Crazy for Cornelia Online
Authors: Chris Gilson
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are
used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2000 by Travisty Productions, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Warner Books, Inc.,
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at
www.HachetteBookGroup.com
First eBook Edition: October 2009
ISBN: 978-0-446-93078-9
Contents
To Carolyn
Dress Grays
K
evin Sebastian Doyle searched for something to admire in 840 Fifth Avenue, but could only see a musty stack of limestone and
money.
At the corner of Fifth Avenue and 65th Street, he stood across the street from the apartment building in the cold, exhaling
vapor through his nostrils as he squinted to confirm the number on the gray awning: 840. The building had no invented name
like the Beresford or the Dakota. Kevin figured it didn’t need one. In this building, the names lived inside—families like
Vanderbilt, Lord, and Morgan.
The face of 840 Fifth surprised him. Its location oozed wealth the way the cheap old building he grew up in leaked asbestos.
But he’d expected a shimmering tower to fortress these fifteen-room apartments overlooking Central Park. Instead, under the
gloomy December sky, 840 Fifth Avenue squatted on the corner of 65th and Fifth like a sullen dowager with dirty skirts.
Kevin’s father, a career doorman at another prewar building on Fifth Avenue, had told him that Old Money let the outside of
their buildings grow seedy to hide their grand lives from the grumbling peasants. An “eccentricity,” he called it.
Kevin’s father knew little secrets about Old Money. Over the years, he also tried to identify with it in awkward ways. One
day he
brought home a moldy 1930s edition of
The Emily Post Guide to Etiquette
and asked his family to study it. Kevin had opened the Emily Post book and, deadpan, read a line out loud, “Even a tiny home
with only one or two servants…”
His mom had snorted and rolled her eyes at his father’s sad efforts to know his employers, and Kevin felt reality rip through
his chest thinking about her.
She had died suddenly just eighteen days ago.
For years he had struggled to make a living as an artist. Now he longed to work on the piece he had dedicated to his mom.
Instead, since she was the only family member who had encouraged him, slipping him what little spare cash his conscience let
him take, he would be going to work as a doorman.
He gripped the heavy stack of blue-plastic-wrapped uniforms over his shoulder, slippery as a stack of weasels, and crossed
the street. The two uniformed doormen standing just inside the black wrought iron and glass double doors of 840 Fifth came
to attention as they saw him approach.
One of the doormen poked his head out of the heavy door and blocked the entry.
“Can I help you?”
The large-framed black man with cropped gray hair was in his fifties. His watery eyes appraised Kevin, who probably looked
suspicious in his black leather jacket, torn jeans, and scruffed-up Doc Martens.
“I’m Kevin Doyle. Starting the job today.” He spoke more slowly than usual, working hard to take the punch out of his voice.
“Take the side alley and come around back to the service door. I’ll go meet you.”
Inside the building’s staff room, the doorman broke into a friendlier grin and offered his white-gloved hand for Kevin to
shake, a big man’s easy grip.
“Andrew Stiles, fifteen years at this building. I know your dad and your Uncle Eddie. Eddie got you the job, I guess.” The
older man’s lined face softened as he looked closely at Kevin and picked up on his rawness. “Sorry to hear about your mom.”
“Thanks.” The cork he’d stuffed into his feelings was working loose, but he shoved it back.
He watched Andrew take his doorman cap off and absently wipe his forehead. Under the hat, Andrew Stiles wore a little black
skullcap that said, “I love Jesus,” with a red heart for the “love” part.
Kevin decided that Andrew wasn’t a religious nut, because his eyes seemed gentle, not zealous. But they weren’t dulled, either,
more like his edge had been sanded off from years of “Very good, sirs.” Andrew put his cap back on like a man with a sense
of place. The whole building could collapse around him, but Andrew Stiles would dust off his epaulets and man the door.
“You’ll find a locker over there with your name on it,” Andrew told him. “Suit up and come out to the lobby when you’re ready.”
So Kevin stood in the empty staff room, painted the same garish yellow as the light in a subway station. Burnt coffee burbled
from a stained Mr. Coffee machine, and an ancient floor heater hissed in the corner. Under the secret treasures of this building,
Kevin marveled, the staff room could be a museum exhibit of the other New York City, the one where he grew up. He looked at
the cracked Formica table and could see his mother in a housedress laying out dinner for his family.
He found the hulking metal time clock bulging out of the wall. On the steel time card organizer beside it, he located the
tip of a card sticking up with his name on it. He clocked in at 11:56.
The heavy
ker-chunk
of the hammer jolted him violently like an electrical shock. By reflex, he hit the time clock back, a good slam that stung
his hand. Kevin squeezed his eyes shut. Eighteen days after his mother died, he still couldn’t let his anger go. His shoulder
ached from carrying the plastic-bagged uniforms twenty blocks. To make it through this day, he would need to bite the bullet
until his teeth turned to chalk.
One of the banged-up lockers had his name written on a strip of masking tape across the door: “Doyle, Kevin.”
He removed the blue bag from one of the winter uniforms and stripped down to his shorts. He unfolded a shirt and slipped his
arm through one heavily starched sleeve that felt like sandpaper. Next came the gray wool pants. He knotted the plain black
tie, slipped on the scratchy dress-gray jacket. Then he tugged on his snug white gloves, one finger at a time. Finally, he
took the officer-style cap with the black patent leather brim and wiped a fingerprint off the shiny surface.
Kevin studied himself in the cheap plastic mirror on the wall next
to the lockers. His tight frame filled out the uniform when he pulled his shoulders back, although he wouldn’t pop any buttons
puffing his chest out. He worked out at home with a cheap set of dumbbells, since he couldn’t afford to join a gym.
Kevin put his hat on, angled it to the left, slightly low. Lines had started to creep into his forehead over the last two
weeks. Getting middle-aged at twenty-five.
Then he took the chrome whistle on a black lanyard that he would use for calling cabs and slipped it around his neck. He forced
a big smile and talked to the mirror, pointing his white-gloved finger.
“Doyle comma Kevin,” he snarled. “Don’t fuck with my whistle.” But under the buzzing fluorescent overhead lights that washed
the room with a factory-floor tint, he looked more like a Salvation Army officer with a bad attitude than a guardian.
He definitely needed to push Mr. Leave Me Alone way back on the shelf and practice Mr. Friendly and Helpful.
He crinkled his eyes, improbably blue. Kevin’s mother was Black Irish, with Moorish blood that left Kevin with choirboy eyes
and jet-black hair. She raised Kevin and his sisters in a walkup on Tenth Avenue, whacking and cajoling them to avoid temptation
and soldier on without complaint. She had also chosen to nurture Kevin’s artist’s eye. She called it the “spark of the divine.”
“Who are you?”
Kevin turned to the fleshy man who had appeared beside him, also in doorman’s uniform. He had a broad face with drooping jowls
and wide, cunning eyes. His body stood almost double-wide—a human wheelbarrow.
“Kevin Doyle.” He put out his hand, a little wary.
“I am Vladimir Kosov,” the man took it in both of his. “I go off duty now. I was captain of twelve doormen at the Hotel Leningradska
in Moscow. We will talk, you and I.” He pointed to the door with his forefinger. “Now, Andrew wastes.”
“He what?”
“Andrew wastes for you in the lobby.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
Kevin closed his locker and watched Vladimir drop heavily onto the bench, grunting like a football player under his gear.
He walked down the hall to the end where the cheesy linoleum floor stopped at a door marked “Lobby.”
Showtime.
He expected to see crystal chandeliers and velvet furniture, maybe authentic Old Masters mounted on silk wallpaper. But the
lobby loomed dark and austere. The gray fabric that covered the walls looked just like his flannel doorman suit. Muted, recessed
lights kept the lobby just bright enough to walk through without bumping into furniture. He could barely make out the fragile,
maroon-silk upholstered chairs and a small couch perched around a table that appeared to be teak, polished to shine in the
dark. They don’t want us to read on the job, Kevin decided.
He found Andrew guarding the door with his hands folded behind his back, standing next to a small shelf jutting out from the
wall beside the door. The doorman’s shelf, which Andrew kept neat and burnished, had a manila file and folded-up newspaper
stacked neatly on top.
“So,” Kevin struggled to think of something positive to say, “I guess this is the place to be, 840 Fifth.”
“Best building in Manhattan. Small enough you get to know all the owners real quick. A nice class of people.”
“Nice class of people” jammed sideways in Kevin’s head. The cocoon of wealth made people negligent, even criminal, because
they stopped thinking about anyone else.
“Where does your dad work again?” Andrew asked him.
“2000 Fifth, with Uncle Eddie. He got my dad his job fifteen years ago.”
Andrew pursed his lips. “So I guess you’re following in your dad’s footsteps. And your Uncle Eddie’s.”
“Yeah. The Doyles, we own the door.”
“So let’s start at the beginning.” Andrew shifted to what Kevin guessed was his training voice. “This building’s a co-op.
You know what cooperative ownership is?”
“I know cooperation’s the opposite of what they have in mind. The owners can break the Fair Housing laws, only let in who
they want as neighbors.”
“Well,” Andrew had to agree, “this building got famous by who they wouldn’t let in.” He stopped to open the door for an older
man
blessed with a strong chin stuck up at an angle, pink skin, and swept-back silver hair. “Good afternoon, Mr. Blanchard.”
“What’s the Yale-Harvard score?” the man barked to nobody in particular.
“Yale, fourteen–seven, first half, Mr. Blanchard,” Andrew told him. “This is Kevin Doyle, new man on the door.”
The man stopped in front of Kevin, tipping slightly to the left. “What was the matter with the old one?”
“I hear he retired, Mr. Blanchard.” Kevin braced himself against the whiskey fumes.
“Well, there’s always room,” Mr. Blanchard said, nodding at him.
“Excuse me?”
“Always room at the bottom, son. Remember that.”
Was he supposed to answer? His mother had taught him to be patient with old people because they could be fragile and confused.
But Blanchard spun on his heel with surprising agility and wandered off toward the brass elevator doors at the other end of
the lobby.
“Hey, Andrew,” Kevin said. “Wasn’t that game yesterday? Harvard won.”
“Yeah, but Mr. Blanchard went to Yale, and he can use a little cheerin’ up. His son, Bill, he’s gettin’ a divorce and he just
told the old man he’s going to tell the world he’s homosexual.”
“Blanchard told you that?”