ABSTRACT
Meri's son Ricardo, known as Richie, was the bane of our "lan'lo's" life. Harold Stern and his mother (whom he addressed as "Mother!") had their rental office around the corner on Avenue B. Harold was a roundish man in his late forties, partial to an off-white turtleneck sweater pulled down over his ample belly, a Tyrolean hat with a feather, and a dead-end cigar perpetually stuck in the corner of his mouth. He was fatherly with prospective tenants and charming to me. Whenever I showed up in his office complaining of no heat, he would motion me, the cigar for a moment ceremoniously extended, inside the swinging gate that separated him from visiting tenants and into a dusty back office and a beat-up imitation leather chair. Then he would explain patiently, once again, how an oil truck had gotten stuck in Brooklyn, how another one was just on its way.
