He went back to his office, pulled out the list and his pen, then picked up the phone. He started to sweat inside his coat, should have taken it off.
“Ruth?”
“Got ’em, Dave. Can you believe that? Got ’em all except a couple named Coombes. But I’ll get them on Monday unless they moved to Mars. The rest are wherever they used to be. Rice in Schenectady, Fuller in Sawyerville, Everett in—”
“Okay, okay... take it easy.”
But her excitement was infectious and he found his hand trembling as he went down Lydia Rodney’s list with her.
At eight, with a Xerox copy of confirmed addresses, he left the squad room and went down the worn stone steps to the lobby. Even the press was gone by now, leaving behind muddy footprints drying to dust in the hot air blowing out of the registers.
He pushed through the side door to the parking lot.
The rain had almost stopped; drizzle made shimmering clouds around the lights in the lot. The Olds hated wet weather and he prayed it would start. He would be late getting to the club; they must have served dinner by now.
He sloshed through puddles toward the car, was almost to it when a huge Ford, almost as old and beat up as the Olds, pulled in. The headlights caught him, the Ford’s brakes squealed, and Jim Riley yelled, “Stop, David. Goddamn it, stop right there.”
Latovsky stopped.
Riley leaped out of the Ford and raced toward him through the puddles.
He was a staff writer for the Albany Register. Latovsky had known him since grammar school and they had a kind of tacit pact as adults. Riley never went behind Latovsky’s back, never made the squad look bad unless they really screwed up, and Latovsky never lied to Riley or sent him chasing his own tail.
“Where the fuck have you been?” Riley snarled.
“What ever happened to ‘Hello, how are you?’”
“Hello, how are you? Where the fuck have you been?”
“Why?”
“Why?” Riley cried. “Why! We got five murders, fuck-all to write about, and you ask why!”
“You had a briefing,” Latovsky said mildly.
“That wasn’t a briefing, it was a hyperactive animal act.”
Latovsky looked down at the puddle around his feet; wind from the high peaks forty miles away riffled the surface. The temperature was starting to drop.
“I guess it was pretty bad,” he said.
“Bad! It was horrible. Your leader cleaned out his ears, picked his nose, scratched his ass, almost stuck his foot through the lectern and—get this, Dave—he farted.”
“Farted...” Latovsky swallowed a guffaw.
“That’s right, farted, in front of God and every stringer between Kingston and Albany.”
“Farted.” Latovsky’s voice shook.
“You got it. If he’d been sitting, I swear he’d’ve raised a cheek. Satellites must’ve picked up the titters... and the smell.”
“Sorry... I... missed... it.” Latovsky could barely talk. “No you ain’t. That fart had a liquid center.” Riley giggled and they broke up and laughed wildly and helplessly. Tears mixed with the drizzle on their faces and they rolled back against the fender of the Ford, clutched their ribs, rocked back and forth until their throats burned and their sides ached. They quieted down and Latovsky slumped against the car and wiped his face with his hand. Little snorts burst out of Riley for a moment, then he got control of himself. “C’mon, Dave. Let’s get a beer and you can tell me what Meers tried to.”
“Can’t,” Latovsky said.
“Got a date?”
“Just can’t.” Gotta save a friend from a dinner dance, he thought, and suddenly felt ridiculous.
“Tomorrow then?”
“Maybe,” Latovsky said evasively.
“Dave, it’s got to be tomorrow. I’ve got to have something if I’m going to even pretend not to knock you guys. Meers looked like a maniac, like he was the killer. Tomorrow.”
“Maybe,” Latovsky repeated and headed for the Olds. They must be clearing away the first course at the Glenvale Club by now: canned fruit salad with melting, flavorless red sherbet on top.
“I’ll be here at ten a.m.” Riley said. “You bring the Danish.” Latovsky climbed into the Olds without answering. He turned the key and held his breath. It started with a gurgling roar and he patted the steering wheel.
Riley called after him, “I’ll be here, Latovsky.”
The maitre d’ at the Glenvale Club looked like the Pillsbury Doughboy. The top of his head came to the knot in Latovsky’s tie; he was wearing white tie and tails and had a round compact paunch that pushed out the front of his white pique vest.
“I’d let you in there if it were up to me, Lieutenant,” the little man said, “I swear I would. But it’s members only—no exceptions. And if I make one for you, there’d be no end. Not to mention that I’d lose my job—unless you’ve got a warrant.” The maitre d’ looked pathetically hopeful. Latovsky raised empty hands, palms out.
“Oh, dear,” said the little man, “oh, dear.” Then he brightened a little. “I could bring Doctor Bunner a note if you think that will help.”
It might, Latovsky thought, and nodded. The little man hurried to a counter behind which a blonde with dark roots and three earrings per ear chewed gum and watched intently. Latovsky wondered if they let the receptionist at the Shinnecock Club in Southampton chew gum. The maitre d’ brought back a memo pad with Glenvale Club and a tennis racket and golf club crossed next to it. Latovsky took out his pen and used the counter to write on. The woman’s cologne was heavy and sweet; a couple of minutes of it would give him a headache.
He thought a second, then wrote, “Bunny, I’m out in the lobby tilting at the Pillsbury Doughboy. Rescue me. Steaks at The Loft—my treat. I’ll call Jeanne to come, too. Help! At least come out and talk. It matters.”
A little humor, a little pleading. He thought it would work.
He folded the note and handed it to the maitre d’, who carried it through double doors quilted in vinyl. As they swung open, Latovsky got a glimpse of the surprisingly beautiful room, with chandelier and candlelight shining on silver, crystal, the women’s hair and jewelry.
The door swung shut, and he tried to settle down to wait. It was very warm in the lobby; his coat started to steam, his shoes were stiffening up. He walked along a wall with pictures of club members playing golf or tennis or holding up trophies. One cutie in a tux was shaking hands with Cuomo and trying not to look thrilled.
The receptionist watched every move he made as if she expected him to pocket an ashtray. He sat on the banquette along the wall, then realized his coat would get the upholstery damp and stood up again. He was very edgy and sweat was running out of his hair by the time the maitre d’ came back, looking stricken. “He wouldn’t come, Lieutenant. I’m sorry, he just wouldn’t. He said to give you this.”
It was Latovsky’s note, refolded. On the bottom, Bunner had written in his M.D. scrawl, “I’m having a ball; no one’s tried to garrote me or get me to drop my pants in the men’s room, so get stuffed. See you tomorrow. Love, B.”
Latovsky looked up at the quilted doors. The maitre d’ dabbed his lips with a handkerchief and Latovsky mentally played a scene in which he smashed through the doors and dragged Bunner out, with Mary yelling furiously and Bunner fighting him every step of the way. It was almost as funny as Riley’s description of today’s news conference.
“Lieutenant?” the maitre d’ said faintly.
Latovsky looked at him, then at the doors again, and felt the urgency disengage. Eve had tried, he had tried; Bunner wasn’t buying and Bunner was a big boy.
He smiled at the maitre d’, said, “Thanks for trying,” and left the club.