Lock Every Door(10)

“Isn’t that kind of—” I stop myself, searching for a word that won’t offend Leslie. “Strict?”

“Perhaps,” Leslie says. “But also necessary. Some very prominent people live here. They don’t want strangers walking through their building.”

“Aren’t I technically a stranger?” I say.

Leslie corrects me. “You’re an employee. And, for the next three months, a tenant.”

The elevator finally arrives, bringing with it a man in his early twenties. He’s short but muscular, with a broad chest and big arms. His hair—black, obviously dyed—flops over his right eye. Small ebony discs rest in both earlobes.

“Well, isn’t this marvelous,” Leslie says. “Jules, I’d like to introduce you to Dylan. He’s another apartment sitter.”

I had already intuited this. His Danzig T-shirt and baggy black jeans, frayed at the cuffs, gave it away. Like me, he clearly doesn’t belong in the Bartholomew.

“Dylan, this is Jules.”

Rather than shake my hand, Dylan shoves his hands into his pockets and gives me a half-mumbled hello.

“Jules is moving in today,” Leslie tells him. “She was just expressing her concerns about some of the rules we have for our temporary tenants. Perhaps you could enlighten her more about that.”

“I don’t mind them all that much.” He has an accent. The thickened vowels and rounded consonants instantly peg him as being from Brooklyn. The old-school section. “It’s nothing to worry about, really. Nothing too strict.”

“See?” Leslie says. “Nothing to worry about.”

“I gotta go,” Dylan says, his eyes aimed at the marble floor between his sneakers. “Nice meeting you, Jules. I’ll see you around.”

He pushes past us, his hands still shoved deep into his pockets. I watch him go, observing the way he walks with his head still lowered. He pauses at the door Charlie holds opens for him, almost like he’s having second thoughts about going outside. When Dylan finally does step onto the sidewalk, it’s with the skittishness of a deer about to cross a busy highway.

“A nice young man,” Leslie says once we’re in the elevator. “Quiet, which is what we like around here.”

“How many apartment sitters currently live here?”

Leslie slides the grate across the elevator door. “You make three. Dylan’s on eleven, as is Ingrid.”

She hits the button for the twelfth floor, and the elevator again creaks to life. As we rise to our destination, she goes over the rest of the rules. Although I’m allowed to come and go as I please, I must spend each night in the apartment. It makes sense. That is, after all, what I’m being paid to do. Live there. Occupy the place. Breathe life into it, as Leslie put it during that surreal interview.

Smoking isn’t allowed.

Of course.

Nor are drugs.

Another no-brainer.

Alcohol is tolerated if consumed responsibly, which is a relief, seeing how there are two bottles of wine Chloe gifted to me in one of the boxes Charlie’s set to deliver to my door.

“You’re to keep everything in pristine condition at all times,” Leslie says. “If something breaks, contact maintenance immediately. Basically, you need to leave the place looking exactly the way it did when you arrived.”

Other than not allowing visitors, none of this sounds unreasonable. And even the no-visitors policy makes more sense now that Leslie’s explained the reasoning behind it. I begin to think Dylan is right. I have nothing to worry about.

But then Leslie adds another rule. She mentions it offhandedly, as if making it up on the spot.

“Oh, one last thing. As I mentioned yesterday, the residents here enjoy their privacy. Since some of them have a certain renown, we insist that you don’t bother them. Speak only if spoken to. Also, never discuss residents beyond these walls. Do you use social media?”

“Just Facebook and Instagram,” I say. “And both very rarely.”

For the past two weeks, my social media usage has consisted of checking LinkedIn for potential job leads from former co-workers. So far, it hasn’t done me a bit of good.

“Be sure not to mention this place on there. We monitor our apartment sitters’ social media accounts, again for privacy reasons. If the inside of the Bartholomew shows up on Instagram, the person who posted it is forced to leave immediately.” The elevator shimmies to a stop on the top floor. Leslie throws open the grate and says, “Do you have any other questions?”

I do. An important one, only I’m afraid to ask it for fear of sounding indelicate. But then I think about my checking account, which is now fifty dollars lighter after that Uber ride.

And about how I’ll have even less once I buy groceries.

And about the text I got reminding me that my phone bill is past due.

And about the unemployment check I’ll be receiving soon and how long that meager two hundred sixty dollars will last in this neighborhood.

I think of all these things and decide I can’t care about appearing indelicate.

“When do I get paid?” I say.

“A very good question that I’m so glad you asked,” Leslie replies, tactful as always. “You’ll receive your first payment five days from now. A thousand dollars. Cash. Charlie will hand-deliver it to you at the end of the day. He’ll do the same at the end of every week you’re here.”