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Maxine pursed her heavily painted lips. “This is the Lake delivery. I know it’s not the same as a Broadway star, but all of our customers are equally important, aren’t they?”
“But the big party…it’smysection. Why not send Anthony? Or Clara?”
Behind us, Anthony said something and the entire NPH table burst out laughing. Maxine arched a pencil-thin eyebrow at me knowingly. I sighed and nodded. Anthony was warm and personable and could make ten people—including a famous entertainer—laugh in a heartbeat. I would have done an adequate job, but I was “tense” and sometimes “a bit silly.” Whatever that meant.
“You need to hurry,” Maxine was saying now, handing me a slip of paper with an address. “It seems Mr. Lake has lost another assistant but let’s not losehisbusiness, hmm?”
I nodded dully. Mr. Lake, whoever he was, ordered from Annabelle’s at least once a week, and some surly or bored-looking assistant—they seemed to change every so often—came to pick it up. Judging by the angry young man’s outburst, Lake had lost another one.
I took up the sack of takeout, cast a last, lingering glance at Neil Patrick Harris’ party, and went out. I tried to look on the bright side: maybe this Lake guy was a fantastic tipper.
Yeah, dream on.
From what I’d heard, he was some kind of temperamental shut-in. Even if he was a twenty-percenter, there was no way the tip on this delivery would match the gratuity on a party of ten. The best I could hope for was to make the delivery and hurry back before the lunch rush ended.
The address was a townhouse at West 78th, about a ten-minute walk. I hurried out at a brisk pace. If the guy had ordered eggs, they were already cold and the last thing I needed was Lake calling up Maxine and bitching that I’d been too slow.
I walked down Amsterdam Street and took a right on 78th. It was a gorgeous spring day. The air was warm but not yet sticky with summer humidity, and the sky was bursting with sunshine. 78thwas a clean-swept, tree-lined street with typical New York buildings rubbing shoulders, one to the next. The Lake residence was a red brick three-story townhouse wedged tight between two brownstones. I walked up the three steps to the front door and rang the bell.
No answer.
I rang again and was about to ring a third time when a hard, young man’s voice answered over the intercom, his tone brittle with sarcasm. “What, did you come back for a reference?”
Is this Lake’s son?I wondered. I cleared my throat and pushed the button. “I’m not him. The assistant? He quit. I think.”
“I’m aware,” the voice replied. “So who the hell are you?”
I scowled. I didnotjust lose Neil Patrick Harris’ table to put up with some rude shut-in’s even ruder son.
“I’m from Annabelle’s,” I snapped and then tried for a more neutral tone. “I have your order, if you want it.”
Another pause, and just when I thought there wasn’t going to be another reply, the door buzzed.
It opened on a lovely foyer with a small chandelier glittering above me. Straight ahead was a narrow hallway and what looked to be a very small living area—darkened and cluttered with boxes and furniture. Despite the fact it was being used for storage, the first floor was clean, with expensive hardwood flooring below and crown molding up top.
I took the staircase on the left, passing several expensive-looking paintings on the way up. The second floor opened on a living area, elegantly furnished in beige with various shades of blue to accent it. Tasteful art hung on the walls and crystal vases—empty of flowers—rested upon classy end tables in rich mahogany. A glass coffee table in front of the fireplace held the remains of a Big Gulp, potato chips, and ropes of red licorice.
“Breakfast of champions,” I muttered, guessing the mess must have belonged to the former assistant whose job I was currently losing my rent money for.
To the right of the living room was a spacious kitchen—all elegant quartz counters and stainless-steel appliances. But the sink was full of dirty dishes and empty takeout boxes from neighborhood restaurants—none of them cheap—were stacked on the counter. Despite the minor messes, it was obviously the home of a wealthy person. Uptown and a stone’s throw to Central Park, the owner would have to be. Though the second floor was too large for me to see the rest of it, I knew it was empty.
“Hello?” I called. “Mr. Lake?”
Another pause, and then, from the third and last floor, where I assumed the bedrooms were located, came that same young man’s voice, hard-edged and cold. “Just leave it on the counter.”
Ifbitterhad a sound, it was that voice.
I set the stack of boxes on the kitchen counter beside the rest. I knew the bill had already been paid, but did it include gratuity? Normally, I would have just left it to fate or luck, but I needed every dollar I could get.
“Okay,” I called. “Um, is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Yes. You can get the fuck out of my house.”
I felt the blood rush to my cheeks—a rush of both anger and humiliation. I shouldn’t have let it; I worked in customer service after all, but it still stung a little. Not to mention, it was kind of a shock to hear that sort of talk in such an elegant house.
“Prick,” I muttered under my breath. I thumped heavily down the stairs, threw open the door and let it slam shut on its own.
I hurried back to Annabelle’s. I still had some of the lunch rush left to try to make up the lost money, and maybe the rude bastard had left a tip already.
