New Tricks Read Online Free PDF Page A

he should let me know when he would be ready to meet with me.
    “How about today?” he asks.
    I’m fine with that, and I tell him so. He asks where I would like to meet, and I suggest his home. Since I might wind up putting
     Waggy there, I want to get a sense of what it’s like.
    He tells me where he lives, and I’m not pleased when I learn that it’s in New York City. I love the city, but it’s my least
     favorite place in the world to drive.
    Waggy a city dog? I don’t think so.
    I find a parking place at 89th Street and West End Avenue. The Upper West Side is the part of Manhattan I like best; it has
     the excitement and pace of the city, but with the feel of a real neighborhood. Just by walking on the street you know that
     real life is being lived there.
    Steven lives on the fourth floor of a brownstone between Riverside Drive and West End on 89th. There is nothing pretentious
     about it at all, though I’m sure that it’s expensive, real estate prices being what they are.
    I’m not put off by the fact that there is no yard for Waggy to ultimately run around in. Many people have the mistaken notion
     that dogs shouldn’t live in apartments, because they therefore won’t get exercise. The truth is that dogs don’t go outside
     by themselves to do calisthenics; they have their needed physical activity when their owners take them out. New York has dog
     owners as good as anywhere in the country. You only need to take a walk through Central Park to realize that.
    I ring the buzzer at the street level, and Steven’s voice comes through the intercom. “Come on up,” he says.
    “Okay. Where’s the elevator?”
    “There isn’t any. The stairs are on your left.”
    “It’s a walk-up?” I say, trying to mask my incredulity.
    He laughs; I guess I’m not real good at incredulity-masking. “Yes. I hope that’s okay.”
    “It’s fine,” I lie.
    Waggy a walk-up dog? I don’t think so.
    The inside of Steven’s apartment is as unassuming as the exterior. My guess is that he didn’t put a dent into his father’s
     fortune by decorating this place.
    He shakes my hand when I enter and notices that I’m still out of breath from the three flights of stairs. “Sorry about the
     stairs,” he says. “I’m used to it, but most people aren’t.”
    “No problem,” I gasp. “You mind if I borrow your oxygen tent?”
    He laughs and gives me a chance to catch my breath. While I’m doing so, I notice that there are a number of pictures of Steven
     and his father, but images of his late stepmother are nowhere to be found. One of the pictures, in which Steven appears to
     be no more than ten years old, includes the now destroyed house in Alpine.
    He sees me staring at it and says, “I guess we got out just in time, huh?”
    “That’s for sure,” is my less-than-clever retort. The incident has left me a little shaken, and seeing the house triggers
     that feeling again.
    “I loved that house. I guess you always love the house you grew up in. You feel that way?”
    I nod. “I do. That’s why I’m still living in it.”
    “I envy you,” he says. Then: “You feel like a slice of pizza? There’s a place on Broadway that’s the best in the city.”
    Now he wants me to go back down the stairs? “Why didn’t you suggest that before I climbed Mount Brownstone?”
    “I figured you wanted to see my place, because hopefully Waggy will be living here soon. Now that you’ve seen it, we can talk
     over pizza,” he says. “Or we can stay here; whatever you like.”
    I opt for the best pizza in the city. The stairs on the way down fortunately turn out to be far easier to navigate than the
     same stairs on the way up.
    I think it’s a gravity thing.

N EW Y ORK HAS BY FAR THE BEST PIZZA in the world.
    This is not a debatable issue among serious-minded pizza eaters, of which I am one. And not only is the pizza the best, but
     it is everywhere. There are apparently thousands of pizzeria owners who have mastered