Caveat Emptor by Ken Perenyi Page B

collecting as much as a penny in royalties. Furthermore, she was certain that she was being watched at all times by elements of what she referred to as “the overworld” and that monies earned from the royalties were being funneled to right-wing hit squads in South America.
    I had viewed the Fergusen Club as a temporary refuge, but after meeting Ann I began to feel at home, part of the family, and I wasn’t so anxious to leave. I learned from Ann that the house was owned by Phoebe Warren Andrews, a rich, elderly recluse who lived in two adjoining brownstones on East Sixty-Second Street between Park and Lexington Avenues. She nurtured a lifelong penchant for handsome young men, was a friend of Doris Duke’s, and shared many of Doris’s peculiarities.
    As a young girl, Phoebe had been employed as a maid at the house. The property was owned then by a rich elderly financier who owned several residences. Rumor had it that Phoebe became his mistress. Whatever the circumstances, he died and left her the property. Phoebe displayed remarkable business acumen. She borrowed against the property, purchased other town houses, rented them out, and eventually parlayed her property on Sixty-Eighth Street into a small real estate empire.
    Phoebe bought estates in Oyster Bay, Long Island, and Newport, Rhode Island. In Newport, Phoebe became president of the Arts Council and took up with Igor Reed, a handsome schoolteacher. Together they joined the two brownstones that Phoebe owned on East Sixty-Second Street and spared no expense on rich, opulent decorations. Phoebe insisted her help be young, male, and handsome. That was Igor’s department. In fact, his tastes were the same as hers, so he had no problem staffing their houses with friends and friends of friends.
    Phoebe held a sentimental attachment to the Sixty-Eighth Street town house and, although she used it commercially, she kept it as original and unaltered as possible. During the sixties, the house was opened as an exclusive finishing school for girls. Its clientele came from among America’s best families. It was so successful that she acquired the town house up the street, off Fifth, and established one for boys, calling it the Warren Club after a late husband.
    As Phoebe aged and became less involved with managing her properties, standards dropped. The buildings went from exclusive boarding schools to coed residential clubs. The Fergusen, however, enforced a restriction imposed by Phoebe as “reserved for young people in the arts,” and Mrs. Parker tried to maintain that policy.
    Already a recluse for some years, Phoebe was ill and housebound and rarely left her bedroom. Igor was around fifty or so and reputedly in charge. One could clearly discern the remnants of his former good looks, but years of overindulgence had taken their toll and he was now running to fat. He spent his afternoons walking a pair of shih tzus and sitting at the Carlton Bar on Madison Avenue, sipping martinis. It was common knowledge that when the old lady died, Igor would get the lot, and her demise was expected momentarily.
    The first thing that struck me as I settled into the house was the frequent appearance of two sinister-looking guys who projected distinctly unpleasant vibrations. They collected rent receipts from Mrs. Parker. Like twins, they both had shaved heads and wore black-leather biker jackets, motorcycle boots, and tight jeans. Silence would descend on the lobby whenever they entered. They would demand the cash box from Mrs. Parker and shamelessly rifle its contents in front of everyone. A quick check of the receipt book, and they’d leave without a word. When I ran into them, they’d stare holes through me.
    Ann explained that their names were Kevin and Allen. They were Igor’s lieutenants. In addition to collecting rent, they acted as roving supers for the many properties. They called their company Marshall Management. The clubs offered not only