“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?”
THIRTY
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.