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?”
“That would be great.”
“Sparkling water all around,” Mike said.
The waiter excused himself.
“Business first,” Mike said, observing my frown. “Then cocktails.”
“Now that we’re alone, Detective, what have you found out about this Gina Varona broad, and why do I have to have dinner with her?” I asked. “I’m sure I’ll need a drink.”
“You’ll need whatever is best for Luc, and that’s to let him and his partners put everything on the table for us.”
“Have you talked to this woman yet?”
“Not a word. Cool your jets till they get down here, okay?”
Mercer was studying the labels on several of the bottles of wine. “Château Lafite Rothschild. 1908. Domaines Barons de Rothschilds. What would that one fetch?”
“Probably seven, eight thousand dollars,” I said. “The owners buy wine at one price then charge whatever the traffic will bear at a place this classy. It accounts for a lot of a restaurant’s profit when they can sell the high-end labels.”
Mike was quick to shoot back. “And you wouldn’t know it from swill.”
“You’re right about that. I think I can tell the difference between a five-dollar bottle and a thirty-dollar bottle, but after that, I wouldn’t have a clue.” I followed the passageway into the next room, staggered by the size of the collection.
The door creaked open again, and although I couldn’t see him, I recognized the waiter’s voice as he spoke to Mike and Mercer.
Mike said something, but I couldn’t hear him.
“Were you talking to me?”
“Yeah. I told you not to wander too far away.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to smuggle any Romanée-Conti out of here.”
“You’ll get lost, girl. This whole place is booby-trapped,” Mike said, coming in my direction.
“Right,” I said, laughing at him. “That’s my idea of ‘21.’ Danger everywhere.”
“Sealed up forever in a wine cellar with me.”
“Haven’t you had enough of Poe’s entombing to last you a lifetime?”
“I’m not kidding you, Coop. There’s contraptions all over the place,” Mike said. “It’s ingenious. And it’s the only reason there was never an arrest made at ‘21’ all throughout Prohibition, despite the fact they were serving the best hooch in town.”
Mike was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, with Mercer coming along behind him, still fixated on the labels and plaques. “It all started at the front door. The agents looking to raid the place were stopped first by the huge iron gates. If they got past those, the doorman was a lookout, using the peephole to see who was outside.”