Night Watch

FORTY

I decided to drive to work on Friday morning because I had a slight detour to make.

I left my garage at seven-thirty and drove up Madison Avenue. I wanted to stop and see the twin buildings that Lutèce and its neighbor occupied on the quiet, tree-lined street not far from Central Park, which was in full spring bloom.

There were several parking spots on the street. Many wary New Yorkers lived by the hours of the alternate-side street-cleaning signs rather than pay for garage spaces more expensive than most monthly rents in the country.

I slipped into an opening just off the corner and got out of the car.

The work crew was setting up in the restaurant. They were unloading tools and equipment from two small trucks double-parked on the street. The front door was wide open, and although I was tempted to go in to look around, I knew that I would be in the way.

I crossed to the other side and studied the facades of the matching buildings. The exteriors of both had been restored to their original elegance. That alone would have cost a small fortune.

Double-hung windows had been replaced in each, the neighbors appeared to be copying the effect of the painted trim on the sills, and the handsome silhouettes were aesthetically pleasing to the eye.

The only difference I noted was in the entrance to the buildings. Lutèce was open to the sidewalk, with black wrought iron handrails that would give customers secure footing on the steps in and out of the restaurant.

Around the adjacent residence, there was black wrought iron, too. But it wasn’t a simple railing. Rather, it was an eight-foot-high gate that extended from the sides of the house itself and squared around the front of the building, where the two sides met in the middle with a formidable lock at the entrance.

The residential twin town house looked as unwelcoming as the fancy restaurant appeared to be inviting. The distinction amused me. It was not everyone’s idea of home to have the daily foot traffic of hundreds of diners and the constant commercial deliveries of food and liquor and flowers and linens.

Workmen were also setting up in the town house next to Lutèce. I waited for a school bus to pass, then crossed back to stand in front of the gate.

“Excuse me,” I said to one of the four men in painters’ pants who were carrying buckets from their van into the building.

“Good morning, lady.”

“How far along are you?” I asked. I didn’t know enough about construction work to think of anything more profound.

“How far with what?”

“This building. I mean, is it going to be ready for occupancy soon?”

“It’s not for rent, if that’s what you’re asking,” the guy said. He was standing at the rear doors of the van, passing paint rollers and tarps to the other three.

“I’m a friend of the guy who bought this other building-the restaurant next door. I’m just interested in what’s happening here.”

“Antique white on the walls on the ground floor. Pastels in most of the bedrooms upstairs. Martha Stewart kind of colors. That’s what’s happening here, so far as I know,” he said, his Bronx accent undoubtedly thicker than the paint.

“Who’s the owner?”

“Lady, the last time I played Twenty Questions I was in third grade. I don’t got the slightest idea who the owner is.”

I followed him toward the gate.

“I’m just curious, ’cause I’d like to talk to him-or to her-about when they’re moving in. Things like that.”

“Hey, Joey,” he yelled out to one of the others. “Who owns this place?”

He waited for an answer. “It’s not people that’s moving in, lady. It’s a corporation that owns it. I’m not trying to be difficult with you.”

Joey shouted back. “The name’s on your pay stub.”

I walked down the steps behind the guy I was talking to and went inside. The walls had been freshly plastered, and I could smell the coat of paint that had been applied yesterday.

“Look around, lady. Suit yourself.”

The parquet floors had been laid but not finished. That would wait until after the paint job. There were no furnishings at all yet, and the space flowed freely from one area at the front of the house to the next.

“You guys do nice work,” I said. “Do you have a card, in case we need any help?”

“Your workers would throw a fit if we elbowed in on them.”

“You just never know when you need to bring in someone from the outside. I think they’re running way behind schedule.”

The painter reached deep into his back pocket for his wallet and removed a card for me. Then he unrolled a piece of paper-the pay stub of his check-and showed it to me. “That’s who’s gonna be your neighbors.”

I looked at the name: GINEVA IMPORTS. I played with the letters and said it aloud a couple of times, but it didn’t mean anything to me.

“Would you mind if I looked around the basement?” I asked.

“Right over there. Most people want to see the upstairs. They made it a nice space-three bedrooms on the second floor with three baths. Really spiffy. Two on the floor above that.”

“Any lights down here?” I was on the staircase, and the bare bulb shining overhead only got me halfway down the staircase.

“I got a flashlight,” the man said. “Whaddaya want to look at?”

I was flustered and trying to think of an answer. “We’ve got a wine cellar in the basement of the restaurant, and that’s where our sound system will be,” I said, making up the second part. “I’m just wondering where it will abut, because of the noise late at night. I’d hate to cause any trouble after all this construction is done.”

“I wouldn’t give it a second thought, lady. The walls down here are like Fort Knox.”

“How so?”

“We just got in to start the paint job this week,” he said, running his hands over the rough stones that formed an entire length of wall adjacent to the basement of Lutèce. “They had some bricklayer come in and install this just before we started working.”

The flashlight exposed the bricks, and I could see that they were heavy and real, not a veneer.

“Tell your friend his clients can make all the noise they want because the folks on this side of the wall won’t hear a thing.”

“I’ll do that,” I said. “Would you just shine that light over this middle area again?”

“You’re a real stickler, lady. On second thought,” he said good-naturedly, “don’t be so quick to call if you need a paint job.”

He directed his flashlight to the area I pointed out. I looked closely and could see that the bricks were riddled with dozens of tiny holes and that a thin metal rod hung from a hook on the ceiling above-just like at the seamlessly invisible entrance to the secret door in the wine cellar designed for the ‘21’ Club.