“Sounds like more restrictions than they place on where a convicted sex offender can live when he gets out of jail,” Mercer said.
“Probably so. Then the building out of the restaurant takes another couple of million-all the flues and ductworks to create a kitchen that can serve hundreds of meals a day, keeping the food fresh and preserved. The decor and furniture, and the equipment, from refrigeration and professional ranges to what the table is set with. Fine dining is all about air and light and sound and comfort, before you even get to the food.”
“Tell them about the licensing, Luc,” Gina Varona added.
“C’est fou. The city regulations could make you crazy. The Department of Buildings has all these guidelines you have to pass, then it takes months to get a liquor license. The Fire Department has to check the equipment and installations. Worst of all is the Department of Health.”
“The new rating system that Mayor Bloomberg started in 2010?” I asked.
“Exactly. This-this ridiculous ABC grading of restaurants. I tell you, five or six years ago, the city collected about ten million dollars in fines. Last year, it was close to fifty million dollars.” Luc was red in the face, jabbing his finger at his chest. “You think I could kill someone, Mike? I tell you it would be a restaurant inspector.
“My friends are all telling me it’s killing business. These kids-these new inspectors-they walk into the best restaurants right in the middle of service. They see three drops of water on the kitchen floor in front of the sink, they announce it’s conducive to vermin, and they shut the place down for two weeks. You know how much that costs one of us?”
“What else?” Mike asked.
“Okay, so Gina mentioned the mob. You’ll never get them out of the food business. They still control all the linens in restaurants.”
“Table linens?”
“It’s a multimillion-dollar business for them,” Luc said, holding up his white napkin. “Every piece of table linen in this city runs through one company. Try to buy or rent from some place cheaper, you’ll be dead. And garbage is worst of all.”
“What about the good old City Department of Sanitation of New York? It’s free.”
“Don’t even think about it, Mike. You get a visit from one of the private carting companies when you’re setting up shop, and they tell you how much they’re going to charge you per week to take your garbage away. The price makes you want to gag, and all you can say to them when they hand you the bill is ‘Merci beaucoup.’ Roughly translated that means ‘Thanks so very much, because I’d rather pay you this outrageous sum than to have both my legs broken.’”
“It sounds like more tension in a restaurant than I’d ever stopped to think about,” Mike said.
“You haven’t even gotten to the staff yet,” Peter Danton said. “Front of the house versus back. Managers, captains, sommeliers, bartenders, and servers out in front. And then the guys who never touch the table-the sous chefs, line cooks, prep cooks, dishwashers, porters, all working behind the scenes. Think of how many people it takes to get all that exquisite food from the market onto the dinner plate. Don’t even try to imagine the rivalries between them.”
“You’re understating it if you describe it as tension, Mike,” Luc said, downing his drink. “The better word for it is rage.”
THIRTY-THREE
It was after ten o’clock when we left ‘21,’ Gina Varona and Peter Danton going their separate ways, and Mike and Mercer driving Luc to his hotel on their way to take me home.
“Don’t look so discouraged, darling,” he said, getting out of the car and kissing me on the top of my head. “There’s a lot to sort out here. We’ll get there, I promise. The detectives don’t need me tomorrow, so I’ll probably go up to the restaurant and do some work. Will I see you, Alex?”
“Better ask our keepers,” I said, slumped against the back door of the car.
“I’ll be in touch with you,” Mike said to Luc.
“Listen, Mike. I don’t know how to thank you for everything you’ve done for me these last two days,” Luc said, leaning into the front passenger window of the car.
“It seemed like the right thing to do-for you and for the blonde in the backseat,” Mike said. “She’ll figure out how to express her gratitude. Have a quiet night, Luc.”
We watched him enter the lobby before Mercer started up the car for the short ride to my apartment.
“So where’s your head, Coop?”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
“You’ve been hanging out with some high rollers. You got any vibes?”
“They’re not like the friends of Luc’s we’ve spent time with in Mougins. Truly. I mean I met Luc through Joan and her husband, who’s the most grounded guy I know. I’m as shocked as you are by the amounts of money involved.”
“Who’d you think was putting up the dough for the restaurant, Coop? The tooth fairy?”
“I knew his father was kicking in to help him, and that he was using a lot of his own money as well. Luc told me he was taking a big loan from a bank. He mentioned that he had silent partners, but I never asked who they were.”
“Any of your old man’s Cooper-Hoffman heart device money about to disappear into crab cakes à la Gina Varona? Maybe a Gowanus bi-valve? Bi-valve replacement surgery?”
“No. And I’m not amused.”
“Luc ever asked you for any dough?”
“No.”
“You really think it’s about love and not your money?”
“Ease off the girl,” Mercer said.
“You take all the pleasure out of a late night ride, m’man,” Mike said.
“What do you guys think?” I asked.
“About what?”
“Luc’s caught in the middle of these two murders. I’m heartsick about it. I know him well enough to believe he’s got nothing to do with either one, but I hate that all this deadly stuff is spinning around him, close enough to leave a permanent stain.”
Neither man spoke.
“I hear you. What did the Brooklyn detectives do with him today, Mike? How do you think that went?”
“Hey, Luc was great. Very forthright, answered all their questions, didn’t seem to have anything to hide.”
“They asked him about Luigi? I mean he identified the guy from the morgue photos?”
“He did.”
“I hope he told them how he knew Luigi. I mean, from his dinners at Tiro with the perfume queen,” I said, taking a swipe at Gina Varona.
“Luc actually told them he’d seen Luigi more recently.”
I picked my head up. “Really? When was that?”
“In Mougins last weekend. In fact, Luc was kind of surprised when I told him you hadn’t recognized Luigi when I showed you his photo. He said he’d been a guest at your dinner in white on Saturday.”
THIRTY-FOUR
The three of us were standing in a corner of the well-appointed lobby of my building. “No, you are not coming upstairs to discuss this with me tonight. What is it, Mike? Are you going to tell me that you don’t believe me? Because if you do, that’s all the crap I’m going to take from you ever again. If that’s what you want to say to me, do it right here in front of the doormen and my neighbors. Tell me right now why you don’t believe me.”
“I believe you.”
“Don’t sound so lame when you say it. What’s your problem? Do you think I’m lying to protect Luc?”
Mike was slow to answer. “That possibility crossed my mind.”
“Get out of here. Mercer, take him home. I’m not kidding, Mr. Chapman. Get out of my building. Get out of my personal life.”
“Alex, he’s just baiting you.”