TEDDY FAY WALKED OUT of the Algonquin Hotel and greeted the brisk new day. He hailed a cab. “Take me uptown on Madison,” he said to the driver. When they had reached 63rd Street, he told the driver to stop, and he walked across the street to a branch of the Bank of New York. A guard directed him to a desk at the rear, and the young woman behind it stood up to greet him, introducing herself.
“I’m Albert Foreman,” Teddy said, seating himself. “I’d like to open an account.”
“Certainly, Mr. Foreman,” the woman said, then began producing an application and signature cards. “Are you new in town?”
“Yes, I just arrived last night, from Chicago. I’ve sold my business and retired, and I thought I might live in New York for a while. I’ve always loved the city.”
“Welcome to town,” she said. “How much would you like to deposit?”
Teddy handed her an envelope. “Five thousand dollars,” he said. “I’ll be wire-transferring a larger sum as soon as I have an account number.”
“Here are some counter checks with your account number,” she said, handing him a packet. “Where are you living?”
“At the moment, I’m at the Algonquin, but I’m on my way to do some apartment hunting right now. I’ll call you with the address when I’ve found something.”
“Fine. Everything is in order. You may begin using your account immediately.”
Teddy thanked her and left the bank. Outside, he used his cell phone to call a number he had memorized.
“This is Mr. Allen,” a voice said.
Teddy gave him his account number.
“Password?”
“Cayuse.” He spelled it.
“Yes, sir, how may I help you?”
“I’d like to wire two hundred thousand dollars to the following account number at the Bank of New York.” He read the number and the routing number, and Allen repeated it.
“And your transfer password?”
“Old Paint.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll wire the funds immediately; they’ll be in New York within the hour.”
Teddy thanked him and hung up. He walked along Madison for a few blocks and went into a real estate office where he had made an appointment earlier, by phone.
“Good morning, Mr. Foreman,” the agent said. “I’ve arranged viewings of three apartments that would seem to meet your requirements. The first is just around the corner.”
He followed her to 610 Park Avenue. “This was formerly the Mayfair Hotel,” the agent said, “and it was converted to condos a few years ago.”
Teddy had requested a condominium building, since he did not want to wait weeks for the board of a co-op building to investigate him. A condo board would only want a credit report.
“It’s a full-service building; the restaurant, Daniel, is on the ground floor and provides room service.” They got onto an elevator and emerged on a high floor. “I sold this apartment three years ago, and my clients have gone on a round-the-world tour for a year, so the apartment is available for that time.” She unlocked a door.
Teddy walked quickly through the place. It was really a two-bedroom hotel suite, beautifully furnished. “How much?”
“Six thousand a month.”
“I’ll take it,” he said.
“You don’t want to see the other two?”
“No, this is fine.”
“They’ll want a credit check, of course.”
“Of course, but I’ll pay the year’s rent in advance.” He took a check from the bank packet and wrote it out.
“If you’d like to take a seat, I’ll see how quickly we can get this done,” she said.
Teddy took a book of Winston Churchill’s speeches from a bookcase, sat down and began reading.
Ten minutes later the woman returned. “Your credit report is fine, and the building manager has approved you,” she said. “And in view of your advance payment, I’ve gotten him to waive the security deposit.”
“Then I’m home,” Teddy said.
“Yes, you are.” She handed him the keys. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Not a thing,” Teddy said.
They rode down to the street together, and Teddy took a cab back to the Algonquin. He cleaned out the safe, packed his bags and checked out. Fifteen minutes later, he was a resident of New York City. He called the bank and gave them his new address, then he began looking in the classified section of the newspaper for suitable work space.
AN HOUR LATER, Teddy was looking at a three-room furnished space over a dry-cleaner’s shop on Lexington Avenue. “Does anyone live in the building?” he asked the super.
“No, sir. The place is empty by six.”
“What’s immediately below?”
“A storeroom for furs. The cleaners store them there for clients.”
“And above?”
“The roof.”
“I’ll take it.” He wrote the man a check for a year’s rent and was given the keys.
Now all Teddy had to do was to begin shopping for tools. He already had a detailed list of what he would need, and he knew where to find them. He walked downstairs and out onto Lexington Avenue and hailed a cab.