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greeted him warmly in Spanish, patting his shoulder, asking about his family. He beamed up at her.
    Few people knew that Ordorica was not really her nephew but her landlord. For a time, Dorothea Puente had rented just the top floor of 1426 F Street, with the Ordoricas downstairs, and they'd lived there almost as kin. The children loved her like a grandmother, for Dorothea baked them cakes, took them on trips, and surprised them with gifts.
    Now that the Ordoricas had moved into their new home, Dorothea was renting the entire house on F Street, and the children didn't see her as often. But she frequently came to see her "nephew" at the Clarion Hotel, and he regularly stopped by the house to see his tia.
    But more than friends, more than "family," they were business associates.
    Often when she saw him she would open her purse and, murmuring a few words, take out some checks and hand them to him. Ordorica would nod his head of black hair, fold the checks in his tiny hands, and put them into his pocket.
    Dorothea didn't drive, and if she were venturing many blocks from home she always called a cab. These days, her favorite cabbie was Patty Casey, a trusting woman who enjoyed Puente's company and was pleased to oblige whenever Dorothea called. Besides, Dorothea was a good tipper.
    When Casey pulled up in front, Dorothea was usually waiting. And, as she hurried out the gate, Casey noticed that she always dressed impeccably, her shoes and handbag matching.
    During the week, the landlady often called Patty Casey to take her on errands, to appointments, to the bank, or to shop at nurseries, where she indulged what Casey considered a "fanatical" love of gardening. The cabbie would drop her off at Lumberjack, a huge place, and pick her up when she called a couple of hours later, laden with landscaping supplies.
    Back at the house, Dorothea would insist, "Now, I don't want you lifting a thing, Patty, with that bad back of yours. Promise me you'll sit right there. I'll get Bert to come help me." And right away, Bert would come out to hoist the heavy stuff into the house or under the stairs, wherever Dorothea directed him.
    (Casey thought Bert such a sweet, likable person that, spying him in the neighborhood, she would sometimes pick him up and treat him to a short ride. She noticed that he loved to "watch the little digits go around" on her meter.)
    Casey thought it touching that Bert called Dorothea "Mama," and she considered it bighearted of Dorothea to take Bert in and care for him the way she did. In fact, Dorothea was one of the kindest, most considerate people Patty Casey had ever met.
    Dorothea also had a vain streak, Casey noticed, but whatever her faults, she was the anchor of 1426 F Street. A houseful of people relied on her, and week after week, Casey saw how hard Dorothea worked to run the household and care for her marginal boarders.
    All this despite Dorothea's own health problems.
    On the way to a doctor's appointment one day, Dorothea sadly revealed that she was battling cancer. "Imagine that," she sighed. "I don't even smoke, and I'll probably die of lung cancer."
    Casey clucked with genuine concern. With a personality as plain and sturdy as her build, Casey was becoming Dorothea's loyal confidante.
    One day early in March, the landlady invited her into the house to pick out a kitten. She carried the mewing little thing home, nursing it like a warm, fuzzy token of their friendship.
    On Sundays, dressed with her finest jewelry , Dorothea Puente would ride to the lovely old Catholic church, the Cathedral of the Blessed Sacrament, at Eleventh and K streets. But more often, whether or not she admitted it to Patty Casey, her destination would be a bar.
    Henry's Lounge, Joe's, 501, Round Corner—she was probably too old to be called a barfly even though she patronized several bars around town. They were simply part of her routine: up before dawn, breakfast at 5:30, housekeeping, errands, then a favorite bar before returning