Jake Feigenbaum, the do-nothing landlord, is an oily zhlub with a mustache and bad skin who leers goo-goo eyes until I snap, “I’m a missus, and I’m here about Hester Street.” He goes crafty, rifling his files as if he has so many buildings, he can’t remember what’s for sale. When he quotes me a ridiculous price, I stand up to leave.
“Wait, wait,” he puffs. “Wrong address.” He rifles again, says the real amount.
I keep giving him the evil eye. “So? Are we going to inspect, or what?”
On plops his bowler and lickety split, we’re at the building. Soon as the door opens, I cover my nose with a kerchief I brought special for the occasion.
“You gotta be kidding.” I make as if to walk away.
“I know there’s a little odor, but take a minute.” Feigenbaum hems and haws. “I’ll drop the price a couple hundred.”
“Well…” I enter, but I keep with the kerchief as I size the place up.
The pickle guy has stripped it, lock, stock, and barrel, so empty my steps echo off the walls. Feigenbaum said it’s fifty feet by thirty. I’ll have to measure that myself. The floor’s clean. The tin ceiling’s still in one piece. When I give a knock, the walls sound solid. I stand in the middle, my face still covered.
This is just what I’d been looking for.
“There’s stairs to the second floor off the back storeroom.” Feigenbaum still plays the salesman.
“If it stinks like this up there, I’m out.” But up we go.
The apartment’s a palace. Two bedrooms, big closets, a kitchen with a gas-type stove, a parlor with windows looking right over Hester Street. I open every cabinet and every drawer, checking for rats and mice. Soon as I’m sure the place is clean, I go into a coughing fit. “I need fresh air.”
Feigenbaum trails me to the street, where I lean against the wall like it’s hard to breathe. The yutz pulls out a hanky, wiping his sweaty hands.
“I could maybe drop the price, say, another two hundred.”
“It would cost that much just to fumigate,” I manage to spit out, catching my breath. “Still…I got to admit, the size is right, and I like the location…”
Feigenbaum can’t take his eyes off me as I glance back through the window, tapping my forefinger on my chin. I give it a full two minutes, before a huge sigh.
“It’s a mess, but I’m a sucker for near the park. Drop another four hundred, I’ll take the dump off your hands.”
“You got a deal.” He pumps my hand so hard I get an ache. We arrange to meet at his office to sign the papers and he toddles off, humming. I fold my arms and lean against the wall. Pickle-shmickle. A bottle of bleach, good lye soap and a little elbow grease, the place will smell like a perfume store.