The Dollhouse(51)

Jason raised his eyebrows. “Well, we know her name begins with an A. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

The taxi pulled up to a stop at a five-story building on Second Avenue. The gray stone facade was filthy, as if it had been rubbed with a giant piece of charcoal, and graffiti marred the front door. At ground level stood a French bistro.

She pointed to the restaurant, which had a CLOSED sign in the window. “That’s where the club used to be.”

Jason shot some exteriors, then knocked on the glass door.

A young woman appeared, looking harried and tired. “We’re not open until five tonight.”

Rose explained who they were, adding that they were researching the location of an old jazz club from the fifties. The minute she said WordMerge, the woman’s face lit up. “Of course, I love WordMerge. If you want, come on in and look around. The shell of the place is the same, but everything else has been renovated.”

The brick walls had been recently whitewashed and big windows looked out onto the street, making the space seem larger than it actually was. Jason pulled up a black-and-white photo on his phone, showing the interior of the club during a show. Men in suits and ties and women with coifed hairdos were tightly packed into the space, practically on top of one another, while a sax player stood at the edge of a low stage. Without the windows and whitewashing, the space had been dark and seedy.

“It looks like the stage was here, and the entrance around here.” Jason pointed out the locations. “I can take some interiors if you want.”

“Sure, why not.” Rose turned to the woman. “Do you know if anyone in the building has lived here a long time? They’d have to be pretty old by now, in their eighties.” It was a stretch.

“There’s Mr. B. He comes in for a steak frites every Wednesday, before it gets too crowded. Nice guy, talks about the old days. He’s the one you want to talk to.”

“Do you happen to have his contact info?”

“No, but he lives in apartment 5D. If you buzz him and tell him that Nicole said he should talk to you, he might let you up. Or you can come back on Wednesday and catch him here.”

The name on the buzzer for 5D said BUCKLEY.

Jackpot. Maybe Sam had been living a ten-minute taxi ride from Darby the past fifty years. A rush of adrenaline surged through her.

Rose hit the buzzer and waited. Nothing. “He’s got to be an old guy; we’ll give him time.”

“You’re the boss.”

She turned to him. “Look, I’m really sorry about what I said before. I don’t think I’m Snow White, I assure you of that. And you’re not . . .”

Again, she couldn’t finish the sentence.

He did. “A dwarf?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Most dwarfs would take offense at the comment, by the way. They like to be called little people.”

“It was just an expression.” Sweat prickled her neck. She really didn’t want to have this conversation. “I didn’t mean it.”

“Whatever you say.”

God, he was frustrating, always with that stupid smile. “But you do smirk.” She couldn’t help herself. “You’re smirking now.”

“No, I’m not. I’m smiling. You’re getting all bent out of shape and I’m enjoying it immensely.”

“That’s the definition of smirking.”

He laughed. “Point taken. Am I smirking now?”

She couldn’t help grinning. “Yes! You are.”

“Hello?”

The voice was crackly, although it was hard to tell if it was from the intercom or the person speaking.

Rose leaned in. “Mr. Buckley? Nicole downstairs suggested we try to reach you. We’re doing research on a news story about the Flatted Fifth and she said you might be able to help. My name is Rose Lewin and I’m with my colleague, Jason Wolf. Would you be interested in coming down and talking for a moment? We’d be happy to take you out to coffee nearby.”

“I can’t come down there. You come up here.”

Rose looked at Jason and he nodded. “Let’s go.”

The stuccoed hallway smelled of rotting vegetables, and the once colorful tile floors were edged with brown grout. When Mr. Buckley finally opened the door to his apartment, Rose was shocked at the contrast from the building’s public spaces. Sunlight streamed through the windows and the place was inviting and well kept.

“Come on in. You’re reporters, you say?” Mr. Buckley walked with a cane. He’d once been a tall man, but now his spine curved painfully forward. He had a gray beard and wore thick-framed glasses that overpowered the sharp angles of his face. He looked them both up and down before leading them to the sitting room.

“We are; we appreciate your time. We’re interested in finding out more about the people who frequented the Flatted Fifth in the early 1950s.” Rose sat on a scarlet couch dotted with garish saffron-colored pillows. Jason sat beside her and took out his camera.

“Do you mind if I record the interview?” he asked.

Mr. Buckley eased himself into a rail-back armchair upholstered in a nubby green fabric and nodded. “Fine with me.”

Jason nudged Rose and she followed his gaze. The entire wall of a hallway was filled with shelves of vinyl records, thousands of them.