Night Watch (27 page)

“I spend half my professional life trying to sort out lies people tell me—even the people who come to me for help. Now I feel like my personal life reeks of the same deceitfulness.”

“I’m not lying to you, darling. I never will.”

I broke away from him and pushed the stool out behind me. “Why are we here, anyway?” I asked. “Let’s go to my place.”

“We can’t, darling. At least I can’t, for now.”

“What do you mean, you can’t?”

“Look, Mike picked me up at the airport this morning and drove me to the detectives’ office in Brooklyn. They know all about Lisette, Alex. They’ve spoken with Belgarde in Mougins. The matchboxes, the skulls, the murders—they think there might be a connection.”

“To each other, yes—but to you, Luc?”

“Not to me.”

“And Mike?”

“They wouldn’t let him stay for the interviews. They said it’s not his case. So he came home to sleep for the day—he said he’d been working all night. Then at four o’clock this afternoon, when they had finished with me, Mike came back to pick me up.”

“Then let’s go,” I said.

Luc pulled me back to him and kissed me again. As good as it felt in the moment, I was seized up inside with doubt and dread of the days to come.

“I can’t stay with you tonight,” he said.

“But that’s crazy.”

“Mike convinced them to let us have dinner together—with him as the chaperone. But all the cops think it’s not wise for me to stay at your place. Not for me,” Luc said, drawing back with his hands on his chest. “But that there’s no need to drag you into this investigation right now.”

“I’m already there. Where are you staying?” I asked.

“The Plaza Athénée.”

The elegant boutique hotel on East 64th Street at which Luc always stayed. “Fine. Then I’ll just throw some things in a bag and go with you.”

“Darling, it’s the same problem. If there’s any negative media, neither the cops nor I want you drawn into it.”

I threw up my arms in despair. “I feel like I’m talking to a perp. If you didn’t do anything wrong, why is everyone worried about the possibility of negative press?”

“Be sensible, Alex. I’m well-known in my business—and someone is obviously trying to bring me down, on two continents. There could be news stories about this and they won’t be pretty.”

“Paul Battaglia’s getting so much bad publicity about Baby Mo that there won’t even be room for a footnote about us. I wouldn’t worry.”

“Come here, darling. This half hour of stolen time is Mike’s gift to us. He didn’t tell the cops he’d let me see you alone for a while at his apartment. He simply promised he wouldn’t let me go to yours. Just let me hold on to you, Alex. It may be the last chance we have for the next several days.”

I walked to Luc and put my arms around his neck. For the next three or four minutes, I got lost in his kisses, comforted by the expression in his soft blue-gray eyes.

I jumped at the sharp sound of a rap on the door.

Mike pushed it open and I stepped away from Luc.

“Break it up, you two. Think
Casablanca
—1942. This is just about the moment when Rick tells Ilsa, ‘We’ll always have Paris.’”

I could feel the color rising in my checks. I swiveled to the sink and ran some cold water to rinse my face.

“Thank you, Mike,” Luc said. “Thank you for giving us this time.”

“I got one question for you, Luc. Do I need to change the sheets?”

I used the bathroom to freshen up, and when I emerged, Mercer had joined us in the cramped apartment. Mike had summoned him to watch
Jeopardy!
before we left for dinner.

Trebek was just announcing the final answer. “The category, folks, is Popular Phrases. Popular Phrases. Are your wagers all in?”

The three contestants had scribbled their numbers, having been neck and neck with one another in the first two rounds of the show.

“Twenty bucks is our rule,” Mike said. “Double for foreigners.”

Luc smiled at Mike and put his arm around me. “Whatever you say.”

“And the answer is,” Trebek said, reading from the board, “This was the period of origin of ‘bootlegging’—the practice of concealing illegal liquor in the top of one’s boots. Bootlegging.”

“Got it?” Mike asked.

“I think we all got it,” Mercer said. “Prohibition.”

“The Roaring Twenties,” Luc said. “That always sounds so American.”

“Let me see your green,” Mike said, pointing at Mercer’s pocket. “You, blondie?”

“Same.”

“Then you three would be losers, just like those three,” Mike said, pointing to the screen. The contestants’ answers were displayed one at a time. “What is the Civil War? That’s the ticket, guys.”

Trebek and Chapman were on the same page. Mike started turning out the lamps on the two tables. “You’re thinking rum runners and stuff. I mean there were bootleggers in Prohibition, but the whole thing started with Confederate soldiers during the Civil War—sneaking moonshine into camp in the legs of their pants.”

“Let’s feed these people,” Mercer said, handing his money to Mike.

“I’m not hungry,” I said. “Can’t I just—can’t we just—maybe take Luc’s stuff over to the hotel and hang out for a while?”

“No can do, blondie,” Mike said. “I’m responsible for tailing you two, and that stop isn’t on the agenda. Besides, it’s a working dinner. A little something to get your mind off Baby Mo.”

“Working on what? Where?”

“My favorite saloon.”

“That leaves way too many choices,” I said.

“Top of the line, Coop,” Mike said, holding open the door. “Ladies first.”

I glanced back over my shoulder at Luc. He seemed remarkably calm under the circumstances. I was glad about that, although it unnerved me a bit as well. I couldn’t help but wonder why he wasn’t more stressed about the summons to New York by the Brooklyn detectives.

Mercer reversed direction and made his way to Fifth Avenue. Luc and I were in the backseat. It felt to me like the only things missing were two pairs of handcuffs.

“You want to tell me what’s going on?” I asked.

“The ‘21’ Club,” Mike said.

“We’re going to ‘21’?” I looked to Luc for an explanation. “Working?”

The classy restaurant that had attracted a tony crowd of society and business figures, celebrities and movie stars for close to ninety years had indeed started life as a saloon—a speakeasy in Greenwich Village opened by two cousins shortly after the passage of the Eighteenth Amendment in January 1919, which marked the beginning of Prohibition.

“Meeting some people there,” Mike said.

“My partners, Alex. My business partners. You need to understand what’s been going on, what’s involved in getting Lutèce off the ground. There must be something mixed up in all this that will help the police get their work done.”

“This is about as hiding-in-plain-sight as we can go,” I said.

“I planned it that way,” Mike said. “Can’t fault a guy for being transparent, out in the open. Luc’s got nothing to hide, let’s meet in public.”

‘21’ had been a fixture in the world of fine dining and fancy booze for as long as any New Yorker could remember. The upscale “speak”—quite different from low-down dives known as “blind pigs”—had bounced around from location to location, until it settled in at 21 West 52nd Street on New Year’s Day 1930.

While we were driving downtown, stories about the fabled restaurant raced through my head. Hemingway bragged about making love to the girlfriend of the notorious killer, Legs Diamond, in the kitchen one night, while the joint was being cleaned. Jack and Jackie Kennedy dined in the front room the night before his inauguration. The owners’ nephews flew to Havana with a million dollars in cash to buy Cuban cigars for the restaurant when news of the embargo was imminent. Babe Ruth, Joe DiMaggio, Prince Rainier of Monaco, Clark Gable, Greta Garbo, Bogart and Bacall—who became engaged there—and just about every foreign potentate and president of the United States had all found their way to ‘21.’

Mercer squared the block and parked behind the row of limousines that stacked up nightly to wait for the high-rolling clients inside. He, Mike, and I had managed our fair share of evenings in the
east room—known to regulars as Siberia—stopping in for a late-night burger or the divine steak tartare—always in the care of a bartender who knew a great pour, especially after all the well-dressed swells had headed to the theater or their homes.

“Can you imagine the consistency of a place like this, to be thriving after so many generations?” Luc said, as we got out of the car. “You offer good food and wine, and you make the customer feel like he’s a member of an exclusive club, and there’s your recipe for great success.”

The entrance of the building was as distinctive as its history. Still standing were the double-wide iron gates, as decorative now as they were useful during Prohibition—then the first line of defense to keep cops and agents from getting in to search for liquor. Down three steps to another iron-grilled door with a brass bell, from the days when patrons were admitted only if they were known to the owners.

Topping it all off, on the balcony over the door, on the front steps, and inside the entrance, was the vibrant array of more than twenty jockey statues, each dressed in the color of the stables he represented. As far back as the 1930s, many wealthy horse breeders were such loyal patrons of ‘21’—Vanderbilts, Mellons, and Phippses among them—that they donated jockeys as tokens of appreciation for their private tables and all the privileges that went with their status.

“Welcome back, Monsieur Rouget,” the gentleman by the door said as we entered. “Always nice to have you with us.”

“Thank you, Shakur. Good to be here.”

We followed Luc to the maître d’s stand, where he was again met with a personal greeting. “Your guests are seated inside, Monsieur Rouget. They came a bit early.”

“Thank you, Joseph. But I was hoping for something very quiet when I reserved. We have some business to discuss.”

“Certainly, monsieur,” the man said, making notes on the side of the large paper on his podium—a layout of the main-floor rooms
with all the tabletops represented on it—as he nodded and winked at Luc. He held up a finger to ask for a minute’s time as he walked away. “I hope you don’t mind, sir, but I was just dressing the room with Ms. Varona until you arrived.”

“Dare I ask?” I said, controlling my instinctive dislike of the woman I’d not yet even met. “‘Dressing the room’?”

“Just an old trick of the trade, darling. You try to put the best-looking women at the most visible tables. It’s quite good for the restaurant’s image, and even better for the beverage orders from the men who can see them.”

“No wonder that big round table in the window at Michael’s is always filled with such fine-looking babes at lunchtime,” Mike said, referring to the media-hot restaurant on West 55th Street. “Window dressing.”

Joseph came back from the dining room. “I have the six of you at table two, sir. It was always your father’s favorite. But I’m afraid we’re so crowded tonight that I have couples close to you on both sides.”

“That won’t work,” Mike said. “I want you to be seen, Luc, but not heard.”

“We’ve got private rooms upstairs, of course. But they’re for very large parties.”

“How about the wine cellar, Joseph?” Luc asked. “Is it occupied tonight?”

“No, as a matter of fact. Would you be comfortable there?”

Luc turned to Mike. “That’s up to you.”

“I’m okay with it. We’ll let Joseph take the three of us downstairs. Why don’t you sit with Gina for a few minutes. Work the room, if either of you know anyone here. Then let Joseph bring you down. That way you get to show your face, but there are no ears listening to us in the cellar.”

“Warn me now if there are any hunting targets down there,” I said, still unsettled by last night’s experience.

“Just great wine, I expect,” Mike said. “We’ll take it.”

“Very well, then,” Joseph said, leading us through the main dining room.

If you could stop yourself from gawking at the swells on the banquettes here, it always paid to look up at the barroom ceiling. Starting with the first trophy given by a wealthy client—a model of British Airways’ “flying boat” from the 1940s—captains of corporate America gave for display their most identifiable products—football helmets, racing cars, sports trophies, Hyster forklifts, miniature blimps, and even a model of President Clinton’s Air Force One plane—all hanging overhead, claiming a place in this living museum of presidential perks and rich boys’ toys.

Mercer was directly in front of me as we walked toward the swinging doors that led to the kitchen, so I had no opportunity to turn my head to try to catch a glimpse of Gina Varona.

We passed completely through the working area of the kitchen—sous chefs and line workers never looking up from their stations as they prepped their dishes in the height of the dinner hour. Off to the right near the back was a narrow entry to a staircase. At that point, a waiter took over from the maître d’ and guided us down.

The corridor at the bottom was long and narrow. We came to a massive door, which the waiter stopped to unlock. He pointed to the entry of the wine cellar, advising us to watch our step over the wooden strip that protruded from the floor.

The room was cool and a bit damp. Straight ahead was a long banquet table that looked like it could seat twenty people. The waiter apologized that it had not been readied in advance, but I explained that we hadn’t booked the room earlier.

Around the table, from floor to ceiling, were bins and bins of wine, bottoms pointed out, with a brass plaque identifying each of the patrons who stored their supply within this storied vault, or a red-and-white label on the bottom of each bottle. The captions read
PRIVATE STOCK
, and many had, below that, the owner’s name.

“How big is this cellar?” I asked.

“There’s a series of rooms, madam. These were three brownstones put together when the restaurant was first built—we’re actually in the basement of nineteen right now, not twenty-one—and there are thousands and thousands of bottles here. If you’ll excuse me,” he said, “I’ll be back shortly with your setups. May I take a drink order?”