“Linkletter, I’ve got a bone to pick with you,” I say, channeling Marvin Gaye.
Avery barks out a laugh.
“Mr. Kelvin! How did you get in— Shelly!” Margie exclaims.
“I’m so sorry, Leslie. He slipped by me and—” I squeak in a dog-whistle decibel.
“It’s fine. He won’t be staying.”
“Do you know how much that little maneuver of yours has cost me? If you think I’m going to spend one red cent on those…” I growl and trail off.
“Those…what, exactly? Tenants? People? I recommend you choose your next words very carefully.”
The script says that Mr. Kelvin “blusters.” So I bluster. Margie rolls her eyes at my award-worthy performance. “I know people. If you think—”
“I won’t get into what I think.” She sniffs derisively. “But here’s what I know: you’re a slumlord. And now that the defects at 54 Baxter have been laid bare, you have no choice but to bring that building up to code. I priced it out, you know. Structural issue…Yikes. At least a million. And you’re on the hook for all of it.That’swhat I know.”
“Wait, is that—” I clear the Marvin from my throat and try again. “Is that real?”
“What?”
“What you just said. Defect uncovered, old building being forced up to code.” My sluggish mind whirs, a bicycle with its chain off the track. “It’s real? The landlord has to fix it, even if the building is old?” The thread of excitement in my voice is bright and clear, even to those around us.
“I hate to tell you how TV works and ruin the magic, but Pen… I’m not a real lawyer.” Margie laughs at the expression on my face, puckered and sour.
“But…if it’s real, it could solve all my neighbor drama.”
“Come to set. There’s a legal consultant who works on the scripts. We can ask her. And if it’s true…” Margie’s lips curve slightly, but the sparkle in her eyes is pure mischief.
Avery escorts us to my building not long after, making sure we get into my lobby before hailing a cab to take himself home. Margie and I stumble up to my apartment. Even tipsy, I’m incredulous she isn’t even remotely winded after climbing five flights in stilettos.
“I get why you love your apartment. Schlepping all your shit up these stairs,” Margie drawls. “Who needs an elevator?”
“Burglar deterrent,” I pant, reaching the landing. “Plus my ass has never looked better.”
Margie snorts in response.
“You sleeping over?” I whisper, fitting my key into the lock.
“No, I need to give Cashmere her insulin,” she says in a voice designed to tell the cheap seats about her cat’s diabetes.
I shush her.
“Give me my nightcap, and I’ll be on my way, shusher.”
She sails by me and into the kitchen, picking up the bottle of wine on the counter.
“Twist cap? Savage,” she says, setting it back down and pulling my Brita from the fridge. She pours herself a glass of water and kicks her legs out like an old-timey chorus girl, sending first one shoe flying and then the other—right into the far wall with a thud. I wince.
The pounding on the wall of the living room follows almost immediately. He must’ve been on his sofa.
“Oh, what a pain in the ass,” Margie says.
“Told you,” I whisper.
“You two are still doing that wall-banging thing?” she whispers back. Tipsy as she is, she still picks up on my cues. “I can’t wait for you to come to set and ask Genevieve on Monday. If that law is real, we’re fixing this”—she waves a hand toward the wall—“for good.”
My kitchen is narrow. I gesture for Margie to move over before draining the last of the water into a fresh glass. The room tilts one way, and my stomach tilts the other. This much activity is too much for me, evidently. “Margie, you’re the worst. I haven’t been this drunk since my twenty-second birthday.” I grab hold of the counter to stop the spins.
