Doofenshmirtz Building Novels & Stories

David said from the front, with the cheerfulness of someone who enjoyed his job. The building was on the Upper East Side, the kind of address that had a weight to it even when you said it out loud. Pre-war, pale stone, brass fixtures at the entrance worn to a dull gleam by years of use. A doorman who had clearly been there long enough to have opinions. He nodded at David and looked at me with careful neutrality, the professional version of not asking questions. The elevator was small and panelled in dark wood. We rode it in silence to the fourteenth floor.