“Right, okay,” I take over, thinking maybe Zoey has forgotten the urgency of our mission now that she’s faced with the overwhelming, totally understandable urge to punch out the concierge of Hotel the, lowercase t. Although, come to think of it, I feel like no one in this place would bat an eye if Mary had sent over a Trojan horse packed with weed. “So, this is Zoey Abot. I believe she has a reservation here. And a package waiting for her.”

“Let me check,” the concierge says and he starts tapping at his desk, which has a built-in black laminated keyboard. There are no letters on the keys.

“Ah, yes. Wonderful. One of our canal-view rooms.”

I nearly choke on the air I was breathing. “As in . . . the Gowanus Canal?” Aka Brooklyn’s wretched hive of scum and body bags? Do people pay extra to overlook that?

“Of course. I see you have two massages booked for tomorrow morning. Wonderful. And here . . .” He presses a button and a slot opens somewhere near his feet. He extracts a small white box tied with red bakery thread. “This must be the package.”

“Yes! Thank you!” Zoey snatches the box so fast, I half expect it to burst open and comically spill dime bags everywhere. But it stays intact.

“May I have your ID and your phone?” the concierge asks. Zoey hands them both over. He taps her phone on a device and hands it back. “You’re in room 922. Just tap your phone to the door to unlock it.” He says this smugly, as if he’s expecting us to ooh and aah at the hotel’s fancy tech.

“Like when I pay in Walgreen’s?” I ask innocently, and am gratified when I see the flash of irritation in his eyes.

“The elevator is that way,” he says brusquely. “Enjoy your stay.”

Zoey hugs the box to her and we step away from the concierge and go around a corner to where a shockingly normal elevator is. I was half expecting to be sent up in a wicker dumbwaiter.

“Wow, this place is . . . something.” I’m actually feeling sorry I won’t get to go up to Zoey’s room and experience the rest of this bizarro world with her.

“That’s one word for it,” Zoey says, as she takes out one of the massage gift certificates from the envelope. “Here. This is for you. For all your help.”

“It was nothing. You don’t have to do that,” I say.

She laughs. “Am I supposed to get two massages at once? I think it was always meant for you, actually. She wanted you to have it.”

“She . . . Mary she?” I can hear my own voice squeak at her name.

“Yes, Mary.” Zoey rolls her eyes. “Maybe when you’re getting your massage you can pretend it’s from her, from her.”

“No, it’s not that . . . just, why would she want me to have it?”