“New decor,” Mike said. “The place used to look like half a pizzeria, with garish frescoes of the Bay of Naples and the Tower of Pisa.”
Now there were Roman columns throughout the room and a large wooden fireplace, topped by a bust of Leonardo da Vinci. After the odors of the canal, the divine smells of garlic and oregano were like the most precious perfumes in the world.
“This way, prego,” Sergio said, leading us to an exit at the far end of the room. We went down single file and through heavy double doors at the bottom of the steep row of steps.
Just as Sergio pushed the second door open, I recoiled at the sound of a gunshot, and flinched again when another followed immediately.
“Coop, it’s a rifle club,” Mike said, putting his hands on my shoulders to steady me. “You knew that coming in.”
“It’s a restaurant.” I was flustered, and upset for the second time today by the sound of gunfire. “I didn’t think there’d be shooting in the restaurant.”
“Forgive me, Ms. Cooper,” Sergio said. “I thought you knew about us.”
“Not really, no,” I said, as we walked along the back wall of the room.
Two men in business suits were standing together, each holding a rifle, one of them instructing the other how best to aim for the target.
“I thought it would be quiet down here, Mike,” Sergio said. “Sometimes the members come down to take a few shots between courses. I’m sure these gentlemen will be done in a few minutes.”
“What do they do with their guns during dinner?” I asked.
“I assure you that all the rifles are kept under lock and key. Our club is a very old one, signora. We used to have a hunting estate on Staten Island-stocked with pheasant-but that was sold off long ago. It’s all just target practice now, right here in this room. Our members enjoy excellent food, the best wines, their cigars-despite the mayor-and shooting.”
“And you never had a case out of here, Coop, so it’s less dangerous than any other joint in town.”
Sergio seated us at a table, and apparently our conversation spoiled the concentration of the marksmen. They headed off to an adjacent room to store their guns before going upstairs.
“Some wine, Mike?”
“We’ve had our cocktails.”
“Then I’ve ordered you some pasta, and that rack of veal you enjoy so much.”
“That’ll hold us.”
“Now tell me about Luigi. What happened to him?”
“I’m working midnights all week. Got a call last night that there was a body in Brooklyn. Emergency Services pulled the guy out of the water,” Mike said, deliberately leaving the exact location vague. “Dressed in a suit. No wallet, no money, no identification.”
“But you know it’s Luigi?”
“He’s got three distinctive tattoos. And because he was arrested once for possession of a handgun, things like tattoos and birthmarks and nicknames are all entered in the NYPD computer system. Once they had his name, the police report from the old case showed he called his brother from the station house. So the cops got in touch with the brother and he came to the morgue this evening to make the ID.”
“That’s too bad. I liked the kid. He’s only what? Thirty-four, thirty-five years old? Smart boy, nice looking,” Sergio said, giving Mike the most sincere expression he could muster.
“A real Adonis. Except for the gaping hole in his neck where his throat used to be. His brother says he worked here.”
“He did. For three, almost four years. Luigi was good. Very charming, very popular here.”
Then why did you fire him? I thought to myself. But Mike would go at his own pace.
“You two get along?” Mike asked.
“Very well.”
The double doors and ceiling were obviously soundproofed to keep the noise from the basement out of the dining room. I didn’t hear the waiter coming until the door creaked open and he appeared with a large tray topped with food and setups. Sergio waved him over to the table.
Mike was ready to put away everything served to him. Despite the spectacular aroma, with the combination of my nerves, my concern for Luc, and my overindulgence in Sunny’s peanuts, I had no interest in eating.
Sergio chatted about the eighth-century Italian bow-and-arrow marksmen groups that had been the first Tiros, until the waiter left the room. Mike was already twirling his Bolognese and devouring it.
“You hired Luigi?”
“Yes, yes I did.”
“You supervised him every night?”
“Exactly that. He was my best guy on the floor,” Sergio said emphatically.
“Did he have any problems?”
“Problems? Here at work? Not so. I take you upstairs and you ask any of the important people here-especially the ladies-they loved him. Worked well with everyone else, too.”
“No petty theft?”
Sergio dismissed Mike’s question. “We’re a club, not a restaurant. We don’t do anything with cash around here.”
“Drugs?”
“Why? You find drugs on him? We don’t tolerate that here,” Sergio said, shaking a finger at us.
“Story goes you and he fought about his drug habit.”
Sergio shrugged again. “That’s not true. Is this going to be in the newspapers?”
“I don’t write the headlines,” Mike said, before asking another dozen questions about possible sources of tension between Luigi and Sergio. They all drew negatives from the very cool, dignified manager.
“You found him in the water, you said?” Sergio asked. “At the beach?”
“Not exactly the beach, but close. You know where he lives?”
“In Brooklyn, with his girlfriend. She’s got a place there.”
“You know her name?”
“The other guys do-they’ll tell you. She’s a painter, you know? An artist.”
“Okay.” Mike was halfway through the rack of veal.
“That’s why I asked if you found Luigi at the beach. The girl lives on a boat somewhere out there.”
“That’s helpful. Give me more stuff like that, Sergio.” Mike said, pushing back from the table. “I’ll go a round with you while you think.”
The older man stood up and disappeared for three or four minutes.
“What’s the point, Mike? Am I supposed to be swooning over your manliness now?”
“Relax, Coop. Take a bite of proshutt and chew on it. I’m trying to bond with the guy. And I always like to see how my witnesses handle their weapons.”
Sergio returned with two rifles. He handed Mike some bullets, and I watched as they both loaded their guns-.22-calibers-then stepped to the line in front of the row of targets.
I hated guns. Mike had tried to get me to learn how to shoot at the police range in the Bronx after a few life-threatening situations, but I had less fear of a handgun being used against me than I saw value in trying to master its control.
“Why don’t you choose the target, Detective?”
There were six of them against the wall-two with the traditional multicolored bull’s-eyes, two depicting charging wild boars, and two with the ever-popular image of the late Osama Bin Laden.
“I’m old-fashioned. Let’s go for the bull’s-eye,” Mike said. “So if this guy wasn’t stealing and wasn’t snorting coke, why’d you fire him, Sergio?”
Mike squared his stance against the target, his left foot on the painted line and his right six inches behind it. The butt stock of the rifle was high up on his chest, his cheek pressed firmly against it. He looked through the open sight and fired, landing his shot four circles away from the bull’s-eye.
“Perhaps you winged your perpetrator, Detective, but I’d guess he’s still on the loose,” Sergio said, chuckling at Mike’s performance.
Mike ejected the shell casing and reloaded. Sergio took a bladed stance, his weaker shoulder turned to the target, like a baseball player in the batter’s box. He lifted his arms to raise the rifle, barely creasing the lines of his tux, then aimed and fired. The round landed only an inch from dead center.