“
So,” holding his arms outstretched, like Kubla Khan welcoming Marco Polo to Xanadu, “what do you think?” “Nice,” I croaked. “Very nice.” “Home sweet home,” he said fondly, and slurped his tea. “Although . . . ,” I began. “Yeah?” “Well, I have to say,” I said, in a careless, jokey sort of way to show there were no hard feelings, “I don’t think much of your doorman.” “Doorman?” Frank repeated. “Yes, the doorman,” I said, trying to maintain my smile. “You know, he was really quite slovenly.” “That wasn’t a doorman, Charlie, he’s homeless.” “Homeless?” “Yeah, he lives in that cardboard box on the steps.” “Oh,” I said in a small voice. “I wondered why he wasn’t wearing a cap.” There was a pause. “Doorman,” Frank chuckled to himself. Light struggled in through the ungenerous window, weak gray light that was more like the residue of light. I looked down thoughtfully into my tea, which had bits in it. After a time I said judiciously, “I imagine that’s why it’s taking him so long to bring up my cases.” Frank put his cup down, wincing. “Ah, Charlie . . .” “You don’t suppose,” I ventured, “he might have forgotten which room—” But Frank had already leapt from his seat and was hurtling back down the stairs. I got up and hurried after him, catching up outside the front door, where he stood studying the cardboard box and blanket until a short while ago occupied by the homeless person–doorman. “Fuck,” he said, stroking his chin.
”
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