“Flowers for Miz D’Onofreo.”
“Eh? No one here wi’ that name.”
Selina’s heart sank, but she didn’t panic. “Not again. They do this to me every bleeding day.” She fumbled with the bouquet and read the address from the card. The doorman shook his head and held his ground. Selina played her final card: “Lobb. Eddie Lobb. You got an Edward Lobb here? His name’s on the receipt, maybe he’s got someone staying with him.”
Recognition in the gargoyle’s eyes, but he said nothing.
“Give me a break, okay? I’m on the street, man, if I lose this job. Just let me take ’em upstairs.” Selina did a credible imitation of despair. “Come on. It’s not like I’m going to bust in and steal something, for chrissake.”
It was her will against his in the lingering mist and afternoon traffic. An intense young man with designer hair, wire-rim glasses, and the gray flannel three-piece uniform of the brokerage trade climbed out of a cab and demanded to know if his graphite tennis racket had arrived. Another taxi rolled up and began disgorging luggage. A matron with too much makeup and a poodle came through the lobby without slowing down. She expected the doorman to get the door open in time.
Selina hadn’t chosen rush-hour by accident. The doorman pulled in his will.
“I give you ten minutes. Then I call the cops.”
Selina’s smile was pure and honest. “Ten minutes. Right. Apartment five-cee. Ten minutes. Got it.” She graciously opened the door for the poodle matron.
“Seven-gee!” the doorman corrected. “Seven-gee. Mister Lobb in seven-gee.” But he left her holding the door while he looked for the tennis racket.