Like most posh places, Boom Boom’s building had a doorman. A pudgy, middle-aged white man, he was helping an old lady out of her Seville when I got there, and didn’t pay much attention to me. I fumbled with the keys, trying to find the one that opened the inner door.

Inside the lobby, a woman got off the elevator with a tiny poodle, its fluffy white hair tied in blue ribbons. She opened the outer door, and I went inside, giving the dog a commiserating look. The dog lurched at its rhinestone-studded leash to smell my leg. “Now, Fifi,” the woman said, pulling the poodle back to her side. Dogs like that aren’t supposed to sniff at things or do anything else to remind their owners they’re animals.

The inner lobby wasn’t big. It held a few potted trees, two off-white couches where residents could chat, and a large hanging. You see these hangings all over the place, at least in this kind of building: they’re woven, usually with large knots of wool sticking out here and there and a few long strands trailing down the middle. While I waited for an elevator I studied this one without enthusiasm. It covered the west wall and was made from different shades of green and mustard. I was just as glad I lived in a tired three-flat with no neighbors like Fifi’s owner to decide what should hang in the lobby.

The elevator opened quietly behind me. A woman my age came out dressed for running, followed by two older women on their way to Saks, debating whether to eat lunch at Water Tower on the way over. I looked at my watch: twelve forty-five. Why weren’t they at work on a Tuesday? Perhaps like me they were all private investigators taking time off to handle a relative’s estate. I pressed 22 and the elevator carried me up swiftly and noiselessly.