Read Online Fresh Disasters by Stuart Woods - Free Book Online Page B

with a limestone facade and the usual awning. A doorman stood out front, rocking on his heels, waiting to open a taxi door for somebody. Cantor crossed the street and approached the doorman.
    “Good morning,” he said.
    “Morning, sir,” the doorman, a paunchy man in his fifties, replied. “Can I be of service?”
    “Is the super around?”
    “No, he’s in the hospital; had his tonsils out. Ain’t that something, a guy his age having his tonsils out?” He laughed in a way that made Cantor think the guy didn’t like his boss much.
    “That’s a good one,” Cantor chuckled. “How would you like to make five hundred bucks?”
    The doorman stopped rocking on his heels and eyed him warily. “We’re not allowed to murder the building’s occupants.”
    “No violence involved. I just want to take some photographs up and down Park Avenue from the top of your building. There’s probably part of the roof devoted to equipment, that’s separate from the penthouse property, isn’t there? You know, air conditioning, satellite dishes, that sort of thing.”
    “Yes, there is.”
    “Good view of Park from that spot?”
    The doorman nodded. “A very good view.” He looked at Cantor for a moment, then took a deep breath.
    Cantor cut him off. “Five hundred is the max. I’ll need to be up there until dark, probably, and if I don’t get what I need, I’ll have to come back tomorrow, and in that case, it’s another two hundred.”
    “You’re not a cat burglar?”
    “I’m a retired cop.” Cantor flashed his badge.
    “Name?”
    “That’s all you need to know.”
    Another doorman appeared from inside. “I’ll take the outside for a while, Tim.”
    “Okay,” the doorman replied. “I’ve got to run this guy up to the utility area, anyway.” He took a clump of keys from the doorman’s station in the lobby and motioned with his head for Cantor to follow. They rode up in the elevator to the sixteenth floor in silence, then got off. “I don’t want to know what this is about, do I?”
    Cantor shook his head. “Why would you? It doesn’t involve any of the people who live in your building.”
    The doorman led him to a door marked “Staff Only,” unlocked it, then led him up a flight of stairs to another door, marked “Utilities.” He unlocked that and held it open for Cantor. “This what you’re looking for?”
    Cantor walked through a forest of antennae and steel boxes to the parapet and looked up and down Park Avenue, noting especially his view of the building across the street and the angle to the penthouse terrace. “This will do,” he said.
    The doorman made a motion with his fingers, and Cantor took five folded hundred-dollar bills from a pocket and handed them to him.
    “The doors will lock themselves when you come downstairs,” the doorman said, “and the elevator won’t stop until it gets to the ground floor. If you need to piss, there’s a drainpipe over there.” He nodded at the corner. “Don’t leave no trash, and if you see any of the building tenants, try not to look like a criminal.”
    “Got it,” Cantor said. “And thanks very much.” The two men shook hands, and the doorman left. Cantor walked back to the parapet and surveyed the penthouse apartment across the street and two stories below him. “Fucking perfect,” he said aloud. He set up his tripod and began unpacking equipment.
    He affixed a very long lens to the electronic camera and sighted the terrace, then he screwed on a Polaroid filter, in case he wanted to shoot through the sliding glass doors. When he was satisfied that he was ready for anything, he set a portable radio beside him, already tuned to a classical station, then he opened a folding camp stool, sat down and took a sandwich and a Diet Coke from his case. It was a nice day, and an al fresco lunch was just the thing. He stayed there all afternoon, occasionally stretching his legs but always with an eye on the penthouse across the street.
     
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