She’d bring food down, or a glass of extra-dry white wine, and settle near Neff’s desk to chat.
But February became March, and Delvey kept showing up. Usually, these guests went back to their own lives, leaving Neff to hers. “You just sit there and listen, because that’s your concierge life,” she recalled recently, at a coffee shop near her apartment in Crown Heights. Since she’d started working there, Neff, a Washington, D.C., native with a wedge of natural hair, giant Margaret Keane eyes, and a gap-toothed smile, had found herself playing therapist to all manner of hotel guests: husbands cheating on their wives, wives getting away from their husbands. “This is not a guest that needs my help,” it dawned on her. Eventually, Neff realized: Delvey already knew all the cool places to go - not only that, she knew the names of the bartenders and waiters and owners. Purple was totally washed and Vandal was for hipsters, while Delvey’s eyes would flit around behind her glasses. Over the next few weeks, Delvey stopped by often to ask Neff’s advice, slipping her $100 each time.
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Delvey was booked into a Howard Deluxe, one of the hotel’s midrange options, about $400 a night, with ceramic sculptures on the walls and oversize windows looking onto the bustling streets of Soho. But Neff checked the system, and there it was. She’d be staying at the hotel for a month, she went on, which Neff also found surprising: Usually it was only celebrities who came for such long stretches. “What’s your name?” Neff asked, after the girl waved off her suggestions of Carbone and the Mercer Kitchen and settled on the Butcher’s Daughter. She was looking, she said in an accent that sounded European, for “the best food in Soho.” She had a heart-shaped face and pouty lips surrounded by a wild tangle of red hair, her eyes framed by incongruously chunky black glasses that Neff, an aspiring cinematographer with an eye for detail, identified as Céline. Looking up, Neffatari Davis, the 25-year-old concierge, who goes by “Neff,” was surprised to see the cash had come from a young woman who seemed to be around her age. A crisp $100 bill slipped across the smooth surface of the mid-century-inspired concierge desk at 11 Howard, the sleek new boutique hotel in Soho. It started with money, as it so often does in New York.
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