when I pressed the buzzer next to his name, there was
no answer. I pretended to fumble through the local throwaway paper
until a couple of women who resembled Aunt Sonya entered with
shopping bags. Giving them my best "I'm-no-mugger" smile
while mumbling something about the unspeakably high price of
sturgeon, I drifted in after them as they unlocked the lobby door.
Then I let them take their own elevator and rode up to the ninth
floor alone, emerging in a grimy, institution-green corridor, my feet
echoing off the worn marble floor. I had come a long way in my search
for Otis King.
I don't think I would have gotten any further had the
Satuloff family been spending that particular Wednesday evening in a
state of domestic tranquillity. But from the looks of things, the
Satuloff family didn't spend too many evenings in that state. Two
minutes after arriving on the ninth floor, I was standing by the
incinerator, studying the names on the doors and trying to decide
which one to knock on first, when Mrs. Satuloff and then Mr. Satuloff
came stomping in and out of their apartment, alternatively slamming
the door in the other's face as if this were their nightly ritual.
The Satuloff kids were visible across the living room, looking on
like spectators at a bullfight. It was ultimately Mrs. Satuloff, a
tall woman in a blue reindeer sweater and penny loafers, who came to
rest out in the corridor with the door finally, or semifinally, shut
behind her.
"One of those nights, huh?" I offered.
"You know the problem with men today," she
said. "They want you to be everything-wife, mother, wage earner,
support system, priest, rabbi, and mistress."
"It's their revenge for the women's liberation
movement."
"You're not kidding," she said. "My
first husband was so threatened by my working, I had to pretend I was
a housewife when we went to dinner parties. My second husband wants
me to earn more money, so I took two jobs and now he hates me. I
wonder what my third husband will be like."
"An ax murderer'?"
" Sometimes I think it'd be better that way. At
least I'd know where I stood. You know what the problem is now? We're
all living in a sexual netherworld and nobody knows what the hell to
do. You ever talk to your average sixteen-year-old kid today? They
don't know if they're male, female, or kangaroo."
"I know what you mean. We got a guy right on
this hall named Jorge Mariposa."
"Oh, yeah, well, him. That's a different matter.
Nothing to do with sex whatsoever. Or not directly."
I didn't know what she meant, so I just nodded.
"I don't think we've met. I'm Alice Satuloff."
"I'm a cousin of the Freemans." I picked a
name off the nearest door.
"God, they're ancient. You deserve extra points
for coming around and spending time with them."
"I'm just an old-fashioned guy. What about this
Mariposa'? I saw him a couple of times. What does he do?"
"Well, I can't really say for sure. And I'm not
really into local gossip. You know, people who live in glass houses .
. ."
"I know what you mean. But every time I'm here,
he seems to be coming in the same time I'm going to work. Seven A.M."
She grinned. "That must be closing time at the
Club Los Cocos."
"The Club Los Cocos?"
"You must not be from around here."
"I'm not. I'm from, uh, Brooklyn Heights."
She looked at me strangely. "Don't you read New
York magazine? That new fast-lane place on Ninety-sixth and Columbus
where everybody's supposed to—"
Just then the door opened and her husband came out.
"I thought you were dying out here. Who's this?"
"The Freemans' cousin."
"Reilly," I said, pressing the elevator
button.
"Reilly? The Freemans have a cousin named
Reilly'?"
"Yeah. It is funny, isn't it?"
"They never mentioned having a cousin at all."
"He doesn't know about the Club Los Cocos."
"That's weird."
"Why's it weird? Not everybody on the Upper West
Side is a coke fiend. Some of us have healthier ways of dealing with
our depression, don't we?"
"Are you implying something,
no answer. I pretended to fumble through the local throwaway paper
until a couple of women who resembled Aunt Sonya entered with
shopping bags. Giving them my best "I'm-no-mugger" smile
while mumbling something about the unspeakably high price of
sturgeon, I drifted in after them as they unlocked the lobby door.
Then I let them take their own elevator and rode up to the ninth
floor alone, emerging in a grimy, institution-green corridor, my feet
echoing off the worn marble floor. I had come a long way in my search
for Otis King.
I don't think I would have gotten any further had the
Satuloff family been spending that particular Wednesday evening in a
state of domestic tranquillity. But from the looks of things, the
Satuloff family didn't spend too many evenings in that state. Two
minutes after arriving on the ninth floor, I was standing by the
incinerator, studying the names on the doors and trying to decide
which one to knock on first, when Mrs. Satuloff and then Mr. Satuloff
came stomping in and out of their apartment, alternatively slamming
the door in the other's face as if this were their nightly ritual.
The Satuloff kids were visible across the living room, looking on
like spectators at a bullfight. It was ultimately Mrs. Satuloff, a
tall woman in a blue reindeer sweater and penny loafers, who came to
rest out in the corridor with the door finally, or semifinally, shut
behind her.
"One of those nights, huh?" I offered.
"You know the problem with men today," she
said. "They want you to be everything-wife, mother, wage earner,
support system, priest, rabbi, and mistress."
"It's their revenge for the women's liberation
movement."
"You're not kidding," she said. "My
first husband was so threatened by my working, I had to pretend I was
a housewife when we went to dinner parties. My second husband wants
me to earn more money, so I took two jobs and now he hates me. I
wonder what my third husband will be like."
"An ax murderer'?"
" Sometimes I think it'd be better that way. At
least I'd know where I stood. You know what the problem is now? We're
all living in a sexual netherworld and nobody knows what the hell to
do. You ever talk to your average sixteen-year-old kid today? They
don't know if they're male, female, or kangaroo."
"I know what you mean. We got a guy right on
this hall named Jorge Mariposa."
"Oh, yeah, well, him. That's a different matter.
Nothing to do with sex whatsoever. Or not directly."
I didn't know what she meant, so I just nodded.
"I don't think we've met. I'm Alice Satuloff."
"I'm a cousin of the Freemans." I picked a
name off the nearest door.
"God, they're ancient. You deserve extra points
for coming around and spending time with them."
"I'm just an old-fashioned guy. What about this
Mariposa'? I saw him a couple of times. What does he do?"
"Well, I can't really say for sure. And I'm not
really into local gossip. You know, people who live in glass houses .
. ."
"I know what you mean. But every time I'm here,
he seems to be coming in the same time I'm going to work. Seven A.M."
She grinned. "That must be closing time at the
Club Los Cocos."
"The Club Los Cocos?"
"You must not be from around here."
"I'm not. I'm from, uh, Brooklyn Heights."
She looked at me strangely. "Don't you read New
York magazine? That new fast-lane place on Ninety-sixth and Columbus
where everybody's supposed to—"
Just then the door opened and her husband came out.
"I thought you were dying out here. Who's this?"
"The Freemans' cousin."
"Reilly," I said, pressing the elevator
button.
"Reilly? The Freemans have a cousin named
Reilly'?"
"Yeah. It is funny, isn't it?"
"They never mentioned having a cousin at all."
"He doesn't know about the Club Los Cocos."
"That's weird."
"Why's it weird? Not everybody on the Upper West
Side is a coke fiend. Some of us have healthier ways of dealing with
our depression, don't we?"
"Are you implying something,
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